Vertigo (1958)

I loved that this film shows San Francisco’s true self—beautiful, yes, but also confusing and eerie.

If you had given me a thousand chances to guess this film’s plot, I wouldn’t have come close. It kept me engaged from start to finish—a modern-feeling film that still feels deeply rooted in the era in which it was made. Any awkward, lingering scene is more than compensated for by sharp performances and stunning cinematography.

Admittedly, my interest waned in the second act, where the film veers into predictability and drags its feet. But just when I thought it had lost momentum, it delivered a jolt of adrenaline, launching into a finale that is as gripping as it is unsettling. As more is revealed, the unease settles in—a testament to the film’s craftsmanship. This is a concept that could have easily crumbled in the wrong hands, but with the precision of Hitchcock, it is handled masterfully. Every shot is lush; every frame, deliberate.

This is a film I had put off watching for years—one that loomed over me when I first began approaching movies with real intentionality. Now that I’ve finally seen it, I know one viewing won’t be enough. To fully grasp its layers, I’ll have to watch it again—probably several times. And even then, I’ll still convince myself I’m missing something. The balance of grandeur and restraint creates a film that lingers in the mind—one that I clearly do not understand in just one viewing.