[8.1/10] *The Birds* didn’t have to be a horror movie. For the first half, it isn’t really. There’s a few unnerving elements. A canary flutters around a pet shop in San Francisco. A seagull draws blood from our protagonist on her boat ride back to Bodega Bay. Flocks of our fine feathered friends gather ominously in the sky. The signs are there, especially if you know what to look for.

But in the initial forty-five minutes or so, the film is a down-to-earth character drama. There isn’t much in the way of threats or stakes. Instead, there is only the interpersonal tangle of a sly, well-heeled prankster pulling a fast one on a lawyer who sees through her tricks, of a local schoolteacher who still mourns the one who got away, of a widow in pain whose lost her husband and fears losing her husband along with it.

This is an Alfred Hitchcock film, so of course there is still that air of tension, that sense that something is amiss, the fear that whatever tranquility exists among these domestic squabbles will soon be punctured by something larger than life. And it will, of course.

Yet, what’s so striking about *The Birds* is that you can imagine another version of it, one that omits the avian terror, and instead leans into the complex web of attachments and concerns that emerges between newspaper heiress, Melanie Daniels; coastal schoolteacher, Annie Hayworth, her ex, San Fran criminal defense attorney, Mitch Brenner; his widowed and empty nest-fearing mother, Lydial and his bold but eventually traumatized little sister, Cathy. And it would be none the lesser.

I think that’s what gets forgotten about Hitchcock’s filmography. He is, indeed, a master of suspense. But those terrifying happenings have so much power because the characters at the center of them feel so real. The way they bounce off one another, while stylized, carries the element of truth. So while Melanie bluffs her way into a game of oneupsmanship with Mitch, the way Mitch sees through her fibs and knows how to give as good as he gets, the way Annie sees Melanie walking down the same path she did, the way Lydia fears this gossip column regular stealing her son away from her, the way Cathy takes a nigh-instant shine to this self-possessed potential sister-in-law, all add a lived-in human element to the proceedings, so that when the birds start attacking, they’re attacking three-dimensional characters whose loves and losses are worth caring about, not just cardboard cutouts there to be torn apart in the next big set piece.

I’m a particular fan of the back-and-forth between Melanie and Mitch. Melanie is clever, manipulative even, but has a quiet heart of gold despite the pranks that earn her some opprobrium from Mitch’s mom. And Mitch knows how to return fire, goading her into fibbing mistakes that expose her harmless minor attempted cons. Their banter is engaging; their chemistry off the charts, which helps sell a romance that goes from five miles per hour to forty-five MPH in about twenty minutes.

It helps that Annie is a force to be reckoned with in her own right. In a lesser film, she would merely be a Baxter, some superficial impediment to Mitch and Melanie getting together. Instead, she has a knowing disposition when it comes to the family dynamics of the Brenners, a genuine devotion to Cathy, and a selfless, resourceful air in managing her pupils in the midst of an attack that no one knows how to handle.

The secret star of the show, however, is Jessica Tandy as Lydia, the matriarch of the Brenner family. She has the biggest arc of anyone in the picture, going from a skeptical mother figure, doubtful of her son’s apparent choice in romantic partners, to one who comes to see the value, sincerity, and even love within and for her prospective daughter-in-law. From the subtle expressions of dismay as Melanie is welcomed (or inadvertently insinuates herself) into the Brenners life, to the frantic horror after she discovers a neighbor pecked to death by the malevolent birds, to the wordless terror she conveys when trapped in a home with their feathered antagonists on a tear, no one is asked to do more than her, and she hits every note with flying colors.

To that end, in a film full of trademark Hitchcock suspense, disturbing spectacle, and plenty of sequences to chill the viewer, the most disquieting scene in the whole movie may very well be a quiet, dialogue-heavy moment where Lydia admits how hard it is to go on without her partner. The notion of being robbed of the person who gave you strength, of finding the gumption to get out of bed each morning, only to remember, to your horror, that the reason behind it is long gone, is harrowing in a way even the most fearsome of airborne invaders cannot match.

In short, there is a profound, gripping, human element to this story, one I didn’t expect in a film whose legacy lies in its feathery frights rather than its kitchen sink drama.

Those frights are good though! Part of what makes the film work is the way Hitchcock lets those down-to-earth scenes breathe, while something unnerving builds and builds in the background. *The Birds* engages with the quotidian parts of life, from extended discussions with post office clerks to the mundanities of placing telephone calls. As these normal parts of life proceed unabated, something sinister builds in the background, of creatures unmoored from the usual rhythms of life who start getting bolder and scarier as the film progresses. The movie has a clear and steady sense of escalation, one that makes the ultimate attacks from these possessed flocks as cathartic as it is terrifying.

In truth, some of those attack scenes fall flat. It’s incumbent upon any audience member to take classic films as we find them. Situating them in the appropriate era, with the right context, the right limitations, is key to appreciating films of earlier eras for what they are, rather than slating them for what they aren’t. But to modern eyes, it’s hard not to chuckle at some conspicuous green-screening, especially in the scenes where the schoolchildren are assaulted by their avian attackers, which seems that much more obvious with modern high definition screens. Likewise, while likely groundbreaking for its time, the electronic bird screeches sound more comical than disturbing when it comes to *The Birds*’ sound design.

Despite those gripes, some parts of the movie remain as terrifying as ever. The scene where a group of sparrows swarms into the Brenners’ house through the chimney is panic-inducing in the best way. The set piece captures a sense of chaos amid this primal force exerting its will.

In similar terms, the diner debate turned avian apocalypse is masterful. As with the earlier scenes, Hitchcock and screenwriter Evan Hunter aren't afraid to go slice of life in an elevated horror film. The questions of whether Melanie is telling the truth about the ornithological air raid, the number and nature of birds, the end of the world, the scared children eating their supper and their protective mom, all crumple in the face of a swooping seagull strike that gives way to a gasoline explosion that turns into the utter tumult of a simultaneous swarm from above. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a more terrifying bout of chaos on celluloid than the telescoping terror of man’s security running aground on mother nature’s children reasserting themselves in dramatic form.

The zenith of the film’s gloriously horrific spectacle, however, comes in the birds’ attack on the Brenner home. Part of me wants to credit *The Birds* as one of the greatest zombie movies of all time. The film anticipates *Night of the Living Dead*, with its sense of determined and/or petrified human beings straining to keep themselves safe from a lurking and penetrating enemy, while holed up in a humble home for protection. The simple threats, of birds bloodying hands meant to seal shutters, of pecks through doors meant to be barriers, of wordless terror as a found family huddles together amid an unfathomable and unbelievable danger, all chill the audience as much as the players.

Hitchcock and director of photography Robert Burks do their usual best. A power outage prompts unnerving lighting in the midst of this grave threat. Low angled shots underscore the sense of something off and wrong about the situation. And various tableaus and sharp shifts in the camera give the viewer a clear sense of the geography of the situation, and where the main characters stand in relation to one another, literally and figuratively. At the same time, editor George Tomasini knows how to let long dialogue-heavy scenes breathe without interrupting them, while creating the tense of terrible energy and chaotic danger via increasingly sharp cuts when the birds are attacking. As you expect with a Hitchcock production, the craft on display is impeccable.

And yet, while much of the second half of the film gives way toward the horrific spectacle, as the audience might have suspected, what stands out in *The Birds*’ final reel is the human element. In a writerly but revealing scene at Cathy’s birthday party, Melanie softly laments having been abandoned by her mother as child, missing that maternal love that others take for granted. And in multiple scenes, the film illustrates how Lydia fears her son marrying, out of a concern that it will mean losing him, not gaining another daughter.

Only, through this crisis, the two are forged together. Melanie goes the extra mile, and faces considerable risk, to protect young Cathy. Lydia confides in Melanie, witnessing how she faces a bone-chilling risk to defend this family against an unimaginable threat. Mitch is a fine and necessary part of the movie, bonding with Melanie in playful terms and acting as the first line of defense against the titular terrors in the movie’s big sequences. But in some ways, he’s besides the point.

It is, in the closing moments, a soft and meaningful embrace between Melanie and Lydia, that really stirs the drink in *The Birds*. These two women, who regard one another as impediments or even threats, find themselves graciously bound to one another through seeing who one another really is in the throes of horrific hardship. The film delivers on the tension and spectacle that Hitchcock was known for. But even to the end, it doesn’t forget that achingly human element, that always elevated the legend’s best works beyond mere suspense, into heartrending drama.

Terrific horror film! Terrific film! But my impression is that The Birds is not really about the birds. To me this movie is all about the characters, their stories and finding something they didn't expect to find in each others. They felt real to me, they evolved and changed alongside their relationship with each others. In the end, even though they are going through hell, they managed to find some closure.

Birds of a different feather do indeed flock together.

The Birds is directed by Alfred Hitchcock and adapted to screenplay by Evan Hunter from the story of the same name written by Daphne du Maurier. It stars Rod Taylor, Tippi Hedren, Suzanne Pleshette, Jessica Tandy, Veronica Cartwright and Ethel Griffies. Cinematography is by Robert Burks and editing by George Tomasini.

Mother's love? Better to be ditched or loved?

When animals attack! The only outright horror movie that Alfred Hitchcock ever directed, The Birds sees the great man get the utmost terror from something so amiable in our lives; Birds! Modern day critics can hark on about it being dated all they like, it still doesn't detract from what a frenzied experience The Birds can still be; never mind what it did for cinema goers in 1963! Though undeniably it isn't a small screen film, too much is missed or under enhanced, sadly.

But it isn't dark Annie! It's a full moon.

Plotting is simple in trajectory terms. Hip socialite Melanie Daniels (Hedren) has a friendly vocal joust in a pet shop with handsome Mitch Brenner (Taylor), the result of which sees Melanie, on a mischievous whim, buy a couple of lovebirds and set off for Mitch's weekend retreat out in Bodega Bay to deliver them as a show of devilish womanhood . Upon arrival in Bodega Bay though, Melanie seems to be the spark for the birds in the area to start attacking humans, and pretty soon the attacks escalate and intensify...

Hitchcock and Hunter offer up no reasons or answers for what occurs in Bodega Bay (to keep it murky we learn late on via radio that other towns become affected), and famously the ending is open ended as well, forcing the audience to unravel ideas themselves. There's no musical score in the film, thus Hitchcock gets the terror and tension out of editing, bird effects and unholy sounds. The pacing is also a key area, it's a good hour before things go decidedly nasty, the wait keeps the viewer on edge, we seriously get to know the principal characters (the actors worked well by Hitch) and then the terror is unleashed. Perfect.

Hitchcock's skill at staging a memorable scene is well evident in The Birds. The climbing frame that sees one crow arrive, cutaway as Melanie smokes on a bench, back to the frame and now it's four crows, cutaway, back, and five crows – eight – then a "murder of crows". The birds first attack at the birthday party, the telephone kiosk, gas station mayhem, the birds swooping into view above the school roof and the POV viewpoint as we join a bird hovering above a town under siege, all great scenes, as is the crowning glory that is the eerie silence that accompanies the edge of your seat finale…

Motifs are plentiful, from Mothers to sexuality, from broken crockery - to glass - to abandonment fears, Hitch has fun, especially with the human interactions, or lack of in certain scenes. It's a film that cries out for analysis, such is the director's want, in turn it's a riveting horror picture and a crafty enigma. It sounded daft as a basic idea for a film, and some must have thought Hitchcock had missed the boat of the creature feature boom of the 50s. Yet The Birds stands tall and proud as a damn fine piece of film from the maestro, one of his last true classics and still today, over 50 years after its release, the film provokes theory discussion and visual terror in equal measure. 9/10

The title pretty much says it all in this distinctly Hitchcockian mix of petty social gamesmanship and an abrupt, all-encompassing existential threat. That being the killer birds, obviously, which dive in from nowhere to ruthlessly head-hunt the poor denizens of a sleepy marine village in northern California.

It sounds like an odd mix, but it in practice... well, okay, it is an odd mix. The film's sudden about-face, from a slow moving game of flirty pranks to a breakneck avian assault, is disruptive and awkward, its pace a whiplashed tug-of-war between monotonous waits and unannounced bursts of frenzy. I like the metaphorical idea behind it, a pontification on natural catastrophes and how quickly they lead polite society to break down, but didn't enjoy much of the experience itself.

In many ways, it's a precursor to the glut of disaster movies that flooded cinemas in the following decade: one central menace, easy enough to boil down to a single word, which sends everybody scurrying in a desperate, improvised bid for survival. The effects are glaringly bad, too, bad enough to, more than once, completely pull me out of the moment with a snicker or a snort. The last big scare scene, however, is all sound and tension, and works so much better for its restraint and subtlety, putting the more garish, visceral preceding shots to shame by leaning on a few wild-eyed close-ups. I can see what Hitchcock was shooting for, but I don't think he got there.

Despite the simple concept, "The Birds" is one of Hitch's most complex and experimental films. The first half is a rather dull and frivolous romantic comedy, but once nature suddenly starts to turn against mankind, it becomes a whole different film. The special effects look a bit cheesy now, but they still managed to creep me out except maybe the school evacuation scene. The last thirty minutes, when the threat reaches apocalyptic levels, have some of the most disturbing and lingering "natural" horror scenes ever made. When the birds start attacking the house, I couldn't help feeling as sick as Cathy. The uncanny atmosphere that can be felt from the beginning also comes from the fact that the film uses no music at all. The silence is always broke by the piercing cries of the birds.

It must be said that it's an incomplete film under too many aspects, though. I didn't expect to get an explanation of what happened or the menace to go away, but the ending feels rushed as if it was the first episode of a TV show. It was so anti-climatic to see them getting away a few times as the birds deliberately chose not to attack anymore. I would have preferred to see all of them die instead. The love story in the first half is also too slow-paced and eventually disposable. The relationship with the jealous mother could have spiced things up a little, but that side of the plot as well is eventually left hanging there underdeveloped.