#48 ‘Rear Window’
Voyeurism, Gaslighting, and the Glamorous Woman Who Should’ve Let Him Rot
Rear Window (1954) is Alfred Hitchcock’s glossy little peep show about one man’s paranoia, one woman’s devotion, and a murder that somehow becomes the least troubling thing in the film. It’s hailed as a masterpiece of suspense—and it is, if by suspense you mean “watching a man in a wheelchair ignore his fabulous girlfriend while spying on his neighbors and blaming women for wanting commitment.”
James Stewart plays L.B. Jefferies, a photojournalist laid up with a broken leg, stuck in his apartment and bored out of his mind—so naturally, he points a telephoto lens out the window and starts assigning narratives to everyone in his courtyard like he’s running a one-man surveillance state. He doesn’t just watch—he judges. The lonely dancer is slutty. The composer is tragic. The spinster is desperate. The married couple? Well, one of them ends up dead, which conveniently gives Jeff something to do besides dismiss his girlfriend’s entire personality.
Enter Grace Kelly as Lisa Fremont, walking Dior gown and embodiment of 1950s feminine perfection. She brings him dinner. She flirts. She tries to seduce him with poise and pastries. And what does Jeff do? He whines that she’s “too perfect,” too “upper-class,” too much woman. He calls her “not the girl for a hard-boiled guy with a suitcase.” Translation: she makes him feel emasculated, and therefore she must be punished by plot.
And punished she is. She risks her life sneaking into the suspected murderer’s apartment—wearing pearls, no less—while Jeff sits back in his wheelchair and plays general. Her bravery? Downplayed. Her style? Mocked. Her reward? A smile and the implication that maybe now, maybe, she’s earned the right to be considered “serious” enough for a man who literally cannot move.
Meanwhile, the entire film is a voyeuristic fantasy masquerading as a morality tale. Jeff is constantly warned by his nurse (the no-nonsense Thelma Ritter, who deserves her own film) that he’s pushing boundaries, but the movie sides with him anyway. He’s right about the murder. He gets the girl. He gets his cast signed with moral vindication. The fact that he violated everyone's privacy and nearly got Lisa killed? Glossed over in favor of one more smug grin from the guy who solved a crime from a chair.
Hitchcock frames it all with precision, of course—his camera movements are surgical, the suspense masterfully orchestrated. But let’s not mistake craft for conscience. Rear Window doesn’t challenge voyeurism—it celebrates it. It says: as long as you’re right, it doesn’t matter who you watch, what you risk, or who pays the price.
3.5 out of 5 telephoto lenses
(One for Grace Kelly’s wardrobe. One for Thelma Ritter’s blunt wisdom. One for Hitchcock’s technical genius. Half a star for the brutal clarity of its message—just not the one it thinks it’s sending. The missing star? Left on the windowsill, along with Lisa’s wasted potential and a warning about trusting men who prefer you in silhouette.)
