A superbly controlled chase, with Cary Grant making panic funny without taking away the danger. The plotting needs indulgence, but Alfred Hitchcock makes that a small price for an evening this entertaining.
North by Northwest is a splendid chase thriller, provided we stop asking the plot to withstand cross-examination. Alfred Hitchcock directs it with a confidence that makes the absurdities part of the pleasure. Cary Grant’s Roger Thornhill, an advertising man caught in a case of mistaken identity, is an excellent person to put through this ordeal: he looks capable of handling ordinary trouble, which makes extraordinary trouble much funnier. Ernest Lehman’s screenplay gives the pursuit enough wit to keep panic from becoming monotonous. At 137 minutes, the film has room to enjoy itself.
Grant does the difficult work. His composure is funny because the danger keeps making it harder to maintain, and he lets us enjoy the effort without asking us to believe Thornhill is fearless. We laughed at the drunken drive, then found ourselves properly frightened. Grant’s comic helplessness at the wheel does it: a situation that invites a laugh also makes him horribly vulnerable. Hitchcock allows both responses without letting the comedy make the danger seem harmless.
Eva Marie Saint, as Eve Kendall, gives Grant someone worth paying attention to when he is not attending to his own survival. Her poise keeps the film’s sophistication from resting entirely on him. James Mason’s Phillip Vandamm is an equally useful presence: Mason can make a measured delivery feel more troublesome than a raised voice. These performances suit a thriller in which manners remain important even when circumstances have become ridiculous.
Robert Burks’s cinematography makes the American locations inviting without letting the scenery take over the chase. The eye has somewhere to settle, and a person to follow, even when the film is enjoying the scale of its surroundings. Robert F. Boyle’s production design helps establish the polished, comfortable world against which Grant’s distress looks so conspicuous. We can enjoy the surfaces, but Hitchcock keeps making us watch the man who is having such a bad time among them.
George Tomasini’s editing gives the drunken drive its awkward double effect: there is time to register Grant’s comic helplessness, but not to settle into enjoying it. The timing lets a joke become alarming without a clumsy announcement that the mood has changed. Bernard Herrmann’s restless score supplies much of the urgency that Thornhill would prefer not to acknowledge. Its force is useful alongside a performance so concerned with maintaining composure.
The reservation is Lehman’s plotting, which sometimes requires more goodwill than the performances ought to have to supply. There are connections in this story that we accept because Hitchcock has already promised us something more enjoyable than an explanation. Anyone who needs the business of espionage to add up neatly may find the film too pleased with its own inventions. Nor does every stretch have the comic danger of the drunken drive. The charm can carry us through, but it cannot make every turn equally persuasive.
As an adventure thriller, it understands the value of being frightened for someone whose company we enjoy. We want Thornhill to get out of trouble partly because we want to see how he will behave afterwards. That is enough to carry a good deal of improbable espionage. Watch it for Grant, and allow Hitchcock a few liberties with common sense.