“Good evening,” Hitchcock says in the introduction. “Tonight’s narrative is about a private eye. A very private eye. A glass eye is a very interesting object. For one thing, I’ve always thought a glass eye would be better than the real article. It never gets bloodshot.
“And being made of glass, it will certainly be easier to see through.
“This evening, due to one of those delightful coincidences, our story happens to be about a glass eye. It is entitled, ‘The Glass Eye.’
“You see, everything fits in.”
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I recently watched the episode of “The Glass Eye” and my skin crawled well into what might have been a good night’s sleep.
Unable to get my mind off the final scene where the “working girl” Julia finally gets to meet Max Collodi — a famous ventriloquist she loved at first sight, and then pined for in the audience of every one of his performances and through a string of letters to him — I begin to ponder what it is that Hitchcock does that has always been able to do this to me.
Heebie-jeebie me to death.
And I decided it has to be in his mastery of taking minds with him through a build up of psychological twists from every angle leading to the final bizarre and terrifying but believable twist. Like when Julia, in the darkened room with Max reaches out to touch his hand as she leaves — and knocks the real dummy to the ground. Little Billy Barty whips off his dummy mask revealing a sad sinister face and springs from the table he was propped up on. As he waves his alligator arms wildly, Julia stoops down to take a souvenir from the floor. (the glass eye)
The dummy is the man! The man is the dummy!
Credible creepiness.
“That was a heart-warming little story,” Hitchcock signs off. “Wasn’t it? Obviously, heaven does protect the working girl.
“Now I have a confession. This is not a glass eye. We were unable to find one, but we got the next best thing. I hope you don’t mind. Good night.”
JULIE ANN STEVENS 