How Hitchcock’s Rear Window, about ethics of voyeurism, remains a winner 70 years on

In this period, besides war movies, there was also a shift towards the gritty and more psychologically complex films that explored the darker side of the American psyche. This was a time when filmmakers began to experiment in terms of narrative structure and visual vocabulary, pushing the boundaries of what cinema could achieve. It was in this backdrop that Hitchcock — the man with a portly profile and leery voice who had already established himself as a master of suspense preoccupied with crime, guilt and innocence — would embark on what would become one of the most creatively productive periods of his five-decades-long career that began with The Pleasure Garden (1925) and ended with Family Plot; the latter came out four years before his death in 1980.

Between 1925 and 1954, a period of nearly three decades, he’d directed almost 40 films. Barely a few months before Rear Window, Dial M for Murder — the story of a former tennis pro Tony Wendice (Ray Milland), who gets his wealthy wife, Margot (Grace Kelly), murdered with an eye on her inheritance — was released; Kelly would also act in Hitchcock’s film the following year, To Catch a Thief (1955). In the decade that followed, Hitchcock would go on to direct two of his most iconic films: Psycho (1960) and The Birds (1963). Dial M for Murder takes place almost entirely on the studio set of an English home. In Rear Window, Hitchcock does something similar.

A study in voyeurism

In the preceding decades, during the 1920s and ’30s, Hitchcock had made his mark in British cinema with films like The 39 Steps (1935, based on Scottish author John Buchan’s novel of the same name) and The Lady Vanishes (1938). When he transitioned to Hollywood, his penchant for suspense found a larger canvas. In the 1940s, his films like Rebecca (1940) and Shadow of a Doubt (1943) delved into psychological tension and the murky waters of human motivation. By the time he approached Rear Window — with the same thematic interests as his previous films centred on the obsession with voyeurism and the ambiguity of moral judgment — he was at the height of his powers as a director who had not only mastered the art of suspense but had also begun to explore its psychological underpinnings. He had also come to be a pro at working with the constraints of the studio system and using the limitations of a single set.

Like some of his films from the previous decades, Rear Window — written by John Michael Hayes and based on Cornell Woolrich’s 1942 short story — is a study in voyeurism, and a meditation on the act of looking and the ethical ambiguities that arise when observation turns into obsession. Having shot it within the claustrophobic confines of a single apartment, Hitchcock manages to expand it into a universe teeming with life, secrets, and imminent danger. The camera, restricted to the limited vantage point of an injured preeminent photographer, LB (‘Jeff’) Jeffries (James Stewart, Hollywood’s most reliable leading man of the time), invites us to share in his experience, to see as he sees, and to question the morality of such intimate intrusion.

Confined to a wheelchair, Jeff is deprived of the physical mobility that is often central to heroic figures in cinema. Instead, Stewart relies on subtle shifts in expression, minute gestures, and the intensity of his gaze to convey a man whose external paralysis belies the restlessness of his mind. We, the viewers, in turn, are drawn into Jeff’s predicament — not just as a passive observer but as an accomplice in his voyeuristic pursuit. The mundane turns into the sinister as Hitchcock orchestrates the everyday occurrences in the apartment complex across from Jeff’s window — each tenant’s life, at first glance, appears unremarkable, even banal. Yet, as the film progresses, these seemingly innocuous scenes take on a darker hue. The cheerful newlyweds, the lonely spinster, the struggling musician, the sculptress — all are woven into the tale of intrigue that reflects Jeff’s growing suspicion that something is amiss.

Window as a frame within a frame

This suspicion finds its ultimate expression in the main antagonist Lars Thorwald (Raymond Burr), the salesman whose wife’s sudden disappearance becomes the catalyst for the film’s escalating tension. We discover early on that it’s a film as much about what is unseen as what is visible. The use of off-screen space is particularly effective; it allows us to use our imagination to fill in the gaps, creating a sense of dread that is perhaps far more potent than any explicit depiction of violence. While mise-en-scène is unmistakable throughout this film, the aspects that you notice the most — besides the setting and the use of window as the frame within a frame — are composition (close-ups, wide shots, and zooms), lighting, and costumes/makeup.

Hitchcock is at his most controlled, manipulating our emotions with a precision that borders on the surgical. Kelly, cast as Lisa Fremont, is globetrotting Jeff’s high-society girlfriend, a fashion consultant for Harper’s Bazar, is the prototype of an independent (and indulgent) woman who defies the stereotypes often associated with Hitchcock’s so-called ‘cool blondes.’ While she is undoubtedly glamorous, her beauty is not her defining characteristic. Instead, Lisa is portrayed as resourceful, intelligent, and courageous — qualities that come to the fore as she becomes increasingly involved when Jeff becomes convinced that one of his neighbours he has been spying on is a murderer and launches a criminal investigation of his own.

The relationship between Jeff and Lisa is fraught with tension, rooted in their different views on life and commitment. Jeff, cynical and disillusioned, is wary of marriage, while Lisa yearns for a deeper connection. Hitchcock uses this dynamic to explore broader themes of gender roles, independence, and the fear of entrapment — both physical and emotional. The apartment becomes a metaphor for Jeff’s own fears, and Lisa’s intrusion into this space mirrors her desire to break down the barriers he has erected. The set, a replica of a Greenwich Village courtyard, is done exceptionally well by production designer Hal Pereira and cinematographer Robert Burks. The attention to detail in the design of the apartments, each tailored to reflect the personality of its occupant, enhances the film’s realism by several notches. Burks’ use of lighting and colour builds the mood, with the gradual shift from the bright, sunlit days to the shadowy, ominous nights meant to betray the dark twists.

Seeing vs being seen

Rear Window eschews a traditional musical score in favour of a diegetic soundscape — the noise of the city, the fragments of conversations, the clatter of daily life — all of which serve to ground the story in a tangible reality. Composer Franz Waxman reserves scores for key moments, heightening the tension without overwhelming the naturalistic sound design. This helps create a sense of immediacy, placing us within the same auditory environment as Jeff. Hitchcock, who was remarkably aware of the mechanics of his medium, plays with the central idea — the act of watching, of scrutinising the lives of others from a distance — to blur the lines between spectator and participant.

Jeff’s apartment becomes a theatre of sorts — his window a screen through which he (and, by extension, we the viewer) consume the unfolding drama. The ethical implications of this voyeurism are left deliberately ambiguous; Hitchcock does not pass judgment on Jeff’s actions, instead he allows us to grapple with our own complicity in the act as voyeurs. The film’s climax, especially the last 15-20 minutes, is a culmination of all the elements Hitchcock has so carefully put in place throughout the film. As Jeff’s suspicions are confirmed and the danger becomes palpable, the tension that has been simmering beneath the surface explodes into action. The confrontation between Jeff and Thorwald is not just a physical struggle but a battle of wills, with Jeff’s vulnerability — his immobilisation — heightening the stakes. The resolution, while satisfying in its closure of the central mystery, leaves lingering questions in our minds about the morality of Jeff’s actions and the consequences of his voyeuristic pursuit.

In the years since its release, Rear Window has been extensively analysed and interpreted; its themes have resonated with generations of filmmakers. The film’s influence can be seen in countless thrillers by, for example, Brian De Palma, who turns 84 on September 11, or David Lynch (78), who sinisterizes the suburban paranoia like few other. Rear Window, however, remains singular in its execution as a gripping mystery and a suspenseful nerve-shredding tale of murder and intrigue. And, of course, as a commentary on the ethics of surveillance, and the voyeuristic impulse that resides within all of us — an impulse that has acquired dangerous levels in the digital age. On the nature of seeing and being seen, on the boundaries between public and private, and of the dangers that lie in crossing these boundaries.