Weeknights of Hitchcock are won-
derful escapes from news of Dav-
os, although St Moritz is peril-
ously close in his first Man Who
Knew Too Much. Not the heaviest
burden for our Davos spokesman,
this particular week, of course,
but lamentations from gymnastics
have also weighed upon the mind.
compelling from someone else's
point of view, is just the thing
to drive a fellow down the road,
to pick up an entertainment, in
Graham Greene's term of art, for
another dive into the vortex of,
may one say, credible blondness.
Detestable as a genetically hide-
bound aesthetic must be, there's
only so much escape one can ask,
from the molestations of a pair
of living headlines. On the fair
assumption, that an evening of
self-defensive homicide with a
blonde might square that circle,
I see no reason not to Dial M
for Murder, a remedy to pull
focus for any Saturday commute.
Lately, however, I notice a
persistence of a leading la-
dy's image at this page, for
which I would not wish her to
be held responsible, although
it would be Presidentially ne-
farious, to deny that she is.
Still, to mitigate damages to
her fame, I expect to pick up
a copy, too, of Vertigo, for
which she was not accountable,
for all the likelihood that
one might have looked for her
at Ernie's, or living at the
Brocklebank off Mason Street.
But one can't be shopping so
swell as San Francisco, for
anything less than impeachment.
iii William Gedney
untitled photograph
undated
