- Despite the grisly murder scenes for which it is rightly remembered, Frenzy is nothing less than a love letter from Alfred Hitchcock to the city of London. From the opening shot that slowly sweeps along the Thames to the bustling scenes in the Covent Garden market, the director demonstrates an abundance of nostalgic affection for his hometown. The citizens of London, too, are portrayed with considerable tenderness, even if many of them are broadly humorous British stereotypes. But because this particular love letter is from The Master of Suspense, one of those beloved citizens happens to be a serial killer known as the "Necktie Murderer."
- The most obvious suspect is a former RAF officer named Dick Blaney (Jon Finch), a prickly individual who is probably alcoholic, nearly indigent, and definitely rude. In fact, Blaney's sole virtue may be that he is not a serial killer, as we discover when we see the real murderer attacks Blaney's ex-wife, Brenda (Barbara Leigh-Hunt). The true Necktie Murderer, Bob Rusk (Barry Foster), is a well-liked local grocer who has none of Blaney's obvious personality flaws. Rusk's problems dwell primarily below the surface, only occasionally erupting in the form of a murderous sex mania that culminates in brutal strangulation by necktie. As the dutiful Inspector Oxford (Alec McCowen) delves with equal enthusiasm into both the case and his hearty English breakfast, Blaney and his barmaid girlfriend, Babs (Anna Massey), strive their best to keep Blaney out of custody. Unfortunately, Babs makes the mistake of approaching Rusk for help, and the grocer decides that she is exactly his "type of woman." Now two of Blaney's female acquaintances are dead, and it appears that Rusk is the only person who can clear Blaney's name.
- I was amused to realize that, of all the films Hitchcock made, it is Frenzy, his penultimate film, that bears the strongest resemblance to his first suspense picture, The Lodger. In the 45 years that separates these two, filmmaking may have changed considerably (with the introduction of sound and color, for example), but the director's interests apparently never strayed very far. His methods, however, are something else entirely. Instead of the faceless killer from The Lodger, we are now treated to Bob Rusk, who is an absolutely charming fellow when he's not committing despicable sex murders. In presenting Rusk, Hitchcock echoes his approach to Norman Bates by slyly encouraging the audience to identify with an absolute villain. Admittedly, it's tough not to root for Rusk when he's flailing about in the back of a moving potato truck, even if he is trying to pry an incriminating lapel pin out of his latest victim's hands (you'll never snap breadsticks again). Fortunately, it is a pleasure being manipulated by such skillful direction, and Hitchcock weaves enough humor into the story (often at the expense of Inspector Oxford's diet) that the film's occasional forays into violent madness feel more like bawdy jokes than real acts of terror. The result is alternately amusing and grotesque, but always, to borrow a term, "lovely."
- I spotted Hitchcock in the crowd near the beginning.
- Based on a novel by Arthur La Bern. Interestingly, La Bern intensely disliked the adaptation, going so far as to write a letter to the editor of The Times to complain.
