Academic Writing

Just because they are fun to re-read, and because I would not trade having been an English major for all the world. Could I do it all over again, I’d choose the same, 100/100 times. More to come here, still lots I want to transcribe and add.

The Divine Tragedy: Edgar Allan Poe's "The Conqueror Worm"

With "The Conqueror Worm," Edgar Allan Poe fastens upon what purports to be an obvious metaphor for the bleak arc of human existence: a tragedy. From the fundamental features of a theatrical experience (actors, audience), to supplemental details such as scenery and soundtrack, every element lends itself neatly to the comparison: man's life is a play, with one inevitable conclusion. And true to form, Poe plants his five-act poem firmly in gothic territory; despair and desolation sink us ever deeper until we reach the macabre melee of the finale. 

There is, however, a gleam behind the gloom--a grotesque delight in the setting of this melancholic melodrama. For surfacing alongside the pure horror of this production is an insistence on entertainment value, and on the value of entertainment. From the stylized, almost vaudevillian performance of the "mimes" and the hyperbolic reactions of the heavens to the overall emphasis on the stagy exhibitionism of the scene, this tragedy models the very essence of theatricality. The poem also indulges in a sort of gleeful sadism: the plight of man provides convenient cathartic release for God and His angels. Pain, suffering, and death are predetermined features on the playbill of mortal life; those at a remove, however, are free to identify this helplessness as so much sport. And since the reader is (by virtue of her humanity) among the cast of victims of this "Conqueror Worm," this celestial audience serves as a vicarious form of enjoyment. Ironically, it is one that makes the reader forget it is indeed she providing the original source of spectacle. We are thus implicated in Poe's poem by way of our morbid fascination with the drama of our own lives.

Indeed, we are summarily summoned to this pageant with the call, "Lo! 'tis a gala night." The speaker is like an emcee ushering us in, beckoning us to bear witness to what promises to be an exposition of great import. This is a singular event among the "lonesome latter years," a sort of swan song which every man must enact, must endure as the now-past course of his life plays out before (and through) him. The mood established by these first lines if one of, if not mirth (as the ironic "gala" would imply), then hushed solemnity, achieved in part by the forced slowing down of the alliterative "I" sound. We are being gently paced by the speaker, placed within a steady rhythm further reflected in the emerging ABABCBCB rhyme scheme. This uncomplicated rhyme, set within the bounds of both short lines and regular, eight-line stanzas, draws the reader in as if to the chanting of a lullaby. Of course, being a Poe lullaby, death will usurp sleep in the final, crucial moment.

For now though, we have been invited to join the attendant "angel throng" as they sit and watch this drama unfold. A curiously circular voyeurism surfaces: the (human) reader watches the angels who watch, in turn, humankind. In other words, the audience is the lens through which the reader views (and judges) herself. What is viewed is both the "play of hopes and fears" or, the performance of these desires and impulses, and the playing upon them--the perversion and disabusing of them. The dichotomy of "hopes" and "fears" in a thespian vein invokes the tragedy masks, a touch of costume--and of masquerade--first anticipated by the "bewinged, bedight," veiled angels of a few lines prior. That these angels are indeed "drowned" in tears captures the histrionic tension of the scene; the spectators are here themselves the spectacle. There is even a musical accompaniment to this life-recital: an "orchestra" which "breathes fitfully." These staccato orchestral movements are the movements of existence--the lesser and greater events of a human life. Like the swelling and fading of musical orchestration, these chapters are the experiences upon which Man rises, crests, and falls in the course of his lifetime. And the "music of the spheres" is the cosmic score to which this life is set. The spheres of heaven have conceived and penned these harmonies (and discords) long before they were staged on this "gala night."

Indeed, the idea of predestination seems a very ballast to the poem. Though exactly what master agency bears responsibility is unclear. Poe implicates both God and Fate, but there is also some question as to whether Man himself has a hand in his own Tarot deck. For certainly, Man's actions must determine the changing background "scenery" of his own life. Moving from decision "a" to to decision "b" will, regardless of puppet strings, affect the course of his life. Or, are men blindly following some pre-scripted, five-act program written by destiny and directed by God? Are "a," "b," and everything through to "z" just unavoidable stops on a pre-charted map? Whether Man can justifiably claim victimization hinges on the interpretation of "vast formless things." If these "things" are the forces of Fortune and Fate, then yes: men, the "mimes," are nothing more than "mere puppets" cast in God's image (and cast in this tragic production). In keeping with this argument, they are but a collection of marionettes, as tethered to the whims of destiny as the scenery that shifts "to and fro" behind them. 

Such a reading suggests a capriciousness so strong it borders on malice. If however, the "vast formless things" doing the "bidding" are in fact Man's own impulses and desires which he chases "hither and thither" in his dogged, if naive, assertion of self-determination...then mankind is victim to no one but himself. The "invisible woe" stands alone as its own line, like a solitary and impulsive curse. It is dispersed like poison from the flapping "condor wings" which themselves present a similar conundrum. If these wings belong to Fate, then the woe must be the noisome by-products of that agency: the ineluctable intangibles of pain and suffering. If, however, Poe is insinuating a more active role for Man, then the "invisible woe" is the despair and desolation born of self-induced failure and disappointment. In either cases, the visualization of the massive animal provides both an apt and grandly realized anti-hero to that character yet to make its entrance: the "Conqueror Worm." For of course, birds in general feast on worms, and condors feast on carrion--on death itself (which is what the Conqueror Worm is). 

Launching us wildly into the next stanza is the expository declaration, "That motley drama--oh be sure / It shall not be forgot!" Framed within the tragedy metaphor, the line suggests the speaker as a sort of chorus figure, pronouncing on events within the dramaturgical narrative. Indeed, the line feels like the speaker is verbalizing, what with this dramatic pause (the dash) and his emphatic flourish (the exclamation point). This third "act" depicts the "motley drama" for what it is: pure chaos. Indeed, the very word "motley" mirrors the vivid and varied visuals to follow: "phantom," "crowd," "circle," "madness," "sin," and "horror." With these images,  Poe has created a terrifying and thrilling Dante-esque mood of confusion. This turbulence of tone is followed quickly by violent action itself. The "phantom" of life--unreachable, untenable ghost of immortality--it is chased by a crowd that can never catch it. In the reality of mortal life, it is an unreality, a teasing presence the pursuit of which will be forever fruitless. "Through a circle that ever returneth in / To the selfsame spot" invokes a bewildering, centrifugal force--a vacuum which Man is helpless to escape. And at the epicenter of this vortex lies nothing but "much...madness" and "more...sin," the only sure companions in the tragedy of life. "And horror the soul of the plot" invites a number of readings, thanks both to auditory rhyme and the double entendre: horror is the essence of this play, horror is the essence of man's lot in life, horror is the only ("soul" = "sole") element of this play (or Man's lot in life), and finally (and that which best anticipates the coming lines), horror is the essence (and only element of the grave. 

And just when things seem like they couldn't get any cheerier, enter stage right, the four-act (non) surprise: the "crawling shape" of a "blood-red thing." This is the yet-to-be-formally-introduced Conqueror Worm: literally, the corpse-eating maggot to which all men must eventually succumb. Abstractedly, it is death itself; it "intrudes" most unwelcome upon Man, and rends his livelihood in its "vermin fangs." The "mortal pangs" and "human gore" are both the literal death-throes and tangible decay of a man, as well as the generalized grief and desolation left in death's wake. Poe now brings the melodrama of the play-within-a-poem to a fever pitch. The repetitive "It writhes!--it writhes!" ratchets up the tension and seems to suggest that the speaker has a greater proximity to the action than a typical poetic narrative allows for. We can almost see him, just offstage, recoiling in horror as the blood splashes his coattails. Also suddenly present again are the (still) sobbing seraphs, who have been notably absent (or at least, significantly quiet) for several lines. The angels make a seventh-inning reappearance, just in time to catch the climax and finale of Man's life. Presumably, this is to provide a timely escort for the miserable "soul of the plot." But the seraphs are also there to bear witness to the greater tragedy: The Fall of Man, the macrocosm to this play's microcosm, and that which made it possible (read: necessary) in the first place. In other words, the angels are there to ratify God's treaty with man, again, and again, and again...

So now it is done. Our speaker, again assuming the role of chorus figure, steps forward and cries, "Out--out are the lights--out all!"--a performative utterance in this, a performative setting. He calls for darkness ("Out!") and hereby is darkness manifest ("out are the lights--out all!"). It is an inversion of God's original call for light. Mankind dies, dropping in a "quivering" heap as his last energies are spent. A curtain to each player "comes down with the rush of a storm," simultaneously hiding and washing away the madness, the sin--the horror that is the life of Man. The angels, "pallid and wan" with the effort of compassion and pity, are free to arise and unveil. They no longer need to shield themselves from the taint of mortality--of human imperfection. The can now "affirm" the ritual of what they've seen; they will return to the heaves and assure God that just as this scenario has played out for time unfold, so it continues to. This affirmation--that all is right in the relation of Man to God--should be the most sacred of moments. But for Poe, it is the blackest of moments; it is curtain call for the Conqueror Worm. Death, destruction, decay, and despair trump all; theirs is the ultimate reality, and thus are they privileged with the tragedy's final bow. 

Reading Poe is like looking at humanity under the harshest of bright lights; every imperfection otherwise hidden by the mercy of obscurity comes suddenly, blazingly into view. Darkness itself comes to light. But just as a too-bright beam produces a glare that may result in an inaccurate picture, so does the heavy-handed gothic-ness of Poe's work sometimes overshadow--or at least complicate--a full reading. There are, if not explicit comical elements, glimmers of something else. Call it a wicked, winking smile. Poe engages and terrifies, but he never fails to entertain. And that tipping of the hate never seems more pronounced than in the intensely macabre and melodramatic "The Conqueror Worm." For while the tragedy that is Man's life is certainly a hellish spectacle, it is also the greatest show on earth. And if "circus" finds its root in the Greek "kirkos," or ring, it would seem that Poe has created a circus ring worthy of appending to the circles of The Inferno. A divine comedy, after all. 

 Rapture and Release: The Delirium of Desire in Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"

Beginning at a point nearly halfway through Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself," the speaker, having been established as the consummate passive observer (leaning and loafing at his ease), reorients himself towards an experience that constitutes a substantial shift of focus: the eye which has been trained for some time upon the surrounding world turns suddenly in on himself. Interestingly, this passage manages to maintain a sense of passivity in what is otherwise difficult to read as a passive experience: a sexual union. 

The section designated as chant twenty-eight in the 1855 edition of the poem sees the speaker succumbing to an ecstasy that is both welcome and unwelcome; while it is clearly a moment of rapture, it is a rapture mindful of its etymology. Indeed, the passage bears the assignation of a term like "rape" not only for the physical violation depicted, but also for the turbulent manner in which the speaker's mental and spiritual serenity is upset. At the same time, however, there exists within the lines a sense of euphoria repressed—of bliss anticipated and ultimately realized. Throughout, the line between passion and violence is blurred. Whitman captures this chaotic ambivalence by creating a dreamlike scene in which reality and fictive elements intermingle, echoing the inherent equivocality of the sexual act.

The sense of ambivalence that suffuses the passage is anticipated in the very first few words. "Is this then a touch?" asks both. Oh, is that what is happening to me—a touch? and: So, is this what a touch consists of? We feel the speaker's sense of wonderment and discovery, and the softness of the moment is visually transmitted by a gently trailing ellipsis; the punctuated pause allows us to vicariously enjoy that magical first caress as we wait for the speaker to register it. The manner in which the line is constructed seems to suggest that the remainder of the text forms a sort of response—as if the entire section is a question, answered. In other words, yes, this is what a touch is—all the confusion, delirium, and ecstasy detailed below. Here, then, the whole of the sexual union is contained and compressed within this brief moment of contact—magical, indeed. The ellipsis also momentarily suspends our progress as readers; we hover over the page, anticipating a continuation of this tender tone.

Whitman, however, has other plans for us...and for his speaker, who is suddenly set to trembling, "quivering" like a tuning fork. We feel this vibration as it ripples outward from his veins to his (unavoidably phallic) "treacherous tip." If there is treachery taking place, it is because he has long been enjoying a stance of easy repose, loafing and observing the world at his leisure. But now his own body is (rather loudly and abruptly) demanding his attentions. Indeed, the speaker is about to experience something new: a conspiracy of the body's needs against the contemplative complacency of the soul. His "new identity," the role of lover, is unexpected and somewhat fearsome: he feels himself assaulted, and by elements (the "flames and ether" of his latent passion, his own "flesh and blood") which are within him. The speaker's passivity is clear. He seems to be drawn, set, and launched, with "quivering" setting up an arrow metaphor continued in "tip" and "strike" (Cupid is on the loose). Whitman further establishes in this first section (of four divisions within the chant) a series of helplessness by way of a pattern of transitive verb/passive object repetition. Things keep happening to the speaker; witness the "prurient provokers" which are "behaving licentious towards" him, then "depriving" him, then "unbuttoning [his] clothes." It is as if a scene is unfolding that the speaker himself is cognizant of, but also somehow detached from. One can almost see him gazing down at his body in genuine amazement. Even his own hand in the matter—his own ineluctable tumescence (the "reaching and crowding" of his "treacherous tip" and the "stiffening of his limbs") strikes him as an act of complicity with forces beyond his control—forces that brook "no denial."

At the same time, however, there is an interplay between the energies which are localizing (truly) in the speaker's own body and for those which the blame is elsewhere—both of which are unclearly realized. Do the "flames and ether" make a rush towards his veins (in the spirit of an attack) or for them (as to facilitate an imminent erotic release)? Who are the "prurient provokers" the speaker envisions, and are they armed with malice or pleasure? Whitman has curiously chosen this particular phrase as the place to turn a poetic device; the deliberate alliteration reads playfully, a la "Keystone cops" or even "masked marauders." This it would seem the speaker needn't worry about them...though from their list of increasingly invasive and violative tasks, one cannot be so sure. Indeed, these "provokers" have quite a job to do: stiffening, behaving, depriving, unbuttoning, deluding, sliding, bribing, fetching, and finally, uniting. They are, if nothing else, an effective means of passing the buck; thanks to them, the speaker needn't take responsibility for The Act, or for the concomitant disruption to his mind/body/soul harmony. This is a good thing, since this disruption is apparently a matter of crisis to him, perceiving it as he does as treachery—as a betrayal of the calm self-awareness he is reluctant to abandon. And to step "outside the box" momentarily, the "prurient provokers" also provide a nice negative to the picture previously formed in "Song of Myself" of the speaker as watcher. When they gather round to "stand on a headland and worry" him, the tables are truly turned.

It seems plausible (if not simply easier) to read these provokers as figurative figures in an otherwise literal event. Their provocation contains neither danger nor rancor; it is solicitous, meant to arouse and incite the speaker's desire so that he, too, may begin "behaving licentious" as we well suspect he might want to. The prurient provokers seem to symbolize a dreamlike vision of the natural world: the trees, grass, leaves, an animals of earlier meditations, personified and observing this, the most natural of acts. At the same time, though, someone quite real is engaging the speaker in this meeting of bodies—holding him "by the bare waist" (our first glimpse of human-to-human interaction, and a first intimation of anything resembling intimacy). By this point, details actual and imagined are becoming considerably conflated: "sunlight and pasture fields" are tangible backdrops to a scene where the "fellow senses" are "bribed to swap off with touch." These other senses (sigh, sound, and perhaps even taste) are of a far less urgent cast than all-consuming touch, and cast as players in this scene, they are relegated to "go and graze at the edges" of the speaker, such that they might not interfere with this primarily visceral experience.

Further complicating the realism of the erotic experience is Whitman's somewhat baffling use of cow/bull imagery: "the udder of my heart," "pasture," "graze," and "herd." One possible reading relies on the poet's tendency to celebrate the mystical but entirely knowable sanctity of the natural world, and to emphasize the equalization of genders--even species. In other words, man = woman = cow = bull. All are one and the same in that they all experience sexual union; all couple and reproduce. Indeed, line 621 sees the speaker moved to "strike what is hardly different from myself." Man or woman—in the philosophy expressed here, it does not matter what he "strikes"--whom he connects with. Whitman's is a gender-oblivious world, at least concerning which of life's pleasures can be shared...they all can. This complicity of existence is therefore never clearer than in physical (and concurrently, spiritual) intercourse. Thus in "uniting to stand on a headland," the mysterious provokers are expressing a solidarity with the speaker; their consolidation neatly parallels the consolidation of his erotic energies. This "headland" is the stage that's been set. Now, with the prologue enacted and main conflict established, all that remains are climax and denouement.

And at line 633, we are finally permitted a breath to prepare for these final movements: after fifteen lines of commas, we hit a short, three-line section ending with a full stop. While the preceding continuous string of actions serves to build momentum, here there is a palpable pause in the action. But the speaker himself is not quite relaxed. He is guarded. Or rather, unguarded, as “the sentries” of his other senses (which would warn and protect him against this dangerous encounter) have deserted “every other part” of him. So we have around again to a sense of violation. The enrapture moved towards earlier vanishes, and the shadow of rape looms again. For the speaker is “helpless to the red marauder”—another dreamlike manifestation of passion—invading his body like an armada of overwhelming sensations. “They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me” seems to layer the spectacle—one has the impression that the speaker is at once in the middle of and at a remove from the episode, watching himself being watched. Moreover, the fact that the sentries are bearing “witness” to the event suggests ritualization, which in turn implies that this is a sacred (read: celebratory) moment, in spite of the undertones of aggression.

The third section of the chant is undeniably hallucinatory; several ellipses make the speaker sound dreamy and far-off. His own admission of mania (“I talk wildly”) explicitly expresses what has been rhetorically implied: he feels wildly, as one truly does when approaching orgasm. The erotic rapture he’s been drifting towards (and has been pulled to) is thrilling, even as it is terrifying. Likewise, the antilogy of “I am given up by traitors” and “I and nobody else am the greatest traitor” reflects the uncertainty of the moment: Did they do this? Did I do this? The statements seem to come from two disembodied speakers—a schism of one narrative voice. They compete in the confusion, ratcheting up the tension much like the stichomythia between lovers in classical drama. Indeed, the speaker and his seen-but-unseen, real-but-unreal lover of the passage are now on the cusp of consummation, and the ecstasy underlining his trepidation (and undermining his calm) comes through in the speaker’s acknowledgment, “I went myself first to the headland…my own hands carried me there.” Or, I brought this on. I instigated this event. This is an intense moment of self-realization—apt, since it is coupled with the intense (and literal) self-actualization of climax.

And yet, just as it seems that some sort of erotic détente might have been reached, and that the speaker will melt with sensuous abandon into his hard-won (hard-fought?) release, “You villain touch!” sends us careening back to the violent mood of earlier lines. This shift in narrative voice to a direct address of the speaker’s lover/assailant captures his sense of hysteria and reflects the tumultuous final moments of sexual intercourse. The second question of the chant, “what are you doing?” mirrors the opening inquiry of “Is this then a touch?”However, where once there was quiet curiosity, there is now vehement resistance. This resistance, nevertheless, is ultimately futile, the speaker is in the iron grip of climax just as his “breath is tight in its throat.” Read one way, (his breath is tight in his breath’s throat), his very life is in someone else’s hands…truly a kiss of death (of petit-mort, as well). In either case, the feeling is “chokingly” rapturous. And finally, delicious defeat as the speaker gives in. “Unclench your floodgates!” he commands his own body (with euphemism so hyperbolic it might be comic did it not portend a cataclysm so disturbing)…”you are too much for me.”

Naturally, any explication of Whitman's "Song of Myself" will produce myriad reactions. This is a good thing, since one can only conjecture so much about the poet's intended meanings—the risk of being "overanalytical" is balanced by the equally undesirable risk of being too facile. If either of those points is reached, Whitman's poetry supports (and encourages) a second and third and fourth reading. The twenty-eighth chant, however, remains decidedly stubborn in at least certain aspects: there is something dreamy about the sexual experience, something mystical and wonderfully non-literal. And yet, while remaining enraptured by (and rapt with attention to) this strange and novel encounter, the speaker clearly keys in on a sense of the sinister—on the undercurrent of violence in the human sexual act. 

The Woman Who Drank Too Much: Visual Metaphor in "Notorious"

In Alfred Hitchcock's Notorious (1946), the use of objects contributes significantly to how the narrative structures the presentation of events. These objects are manipulated by camera work to make them complex reflections of character dynamics. Since virtually every scene shows one or more characters drinking, bottles and glasses become simple props which hold great significance. In particular, the drinking of Alicia Huberman is a visual metaphor that changes in meaning throughout the film. At first it is emblematic of her promiscuity, then of her relationship with Devlin, and finally, of the poisonous influence of the Nazi ring. In effect, drinking vessels, along with the act of drinking itself, are mise-en-scene representations of Alicia's political and sexual purification.

Even before the glass motif is introduced, the element of voyeurism is established by two camera shots: a close up on a detective whose been told to watch and make sure Alicia doesn't leave town, and a dissolve into the interior of her home. Making us voyeurs like this has the effect of suggesting that Alicia is an object of curiosity and intrigue. But the objectification of Alicia as a sexual being is especially apparent when she is shot from behind Devlin's back, casting him in the role of male viewer and critic. And it is important to note that during this rather long take, she is engaged in the business of fixing guests drinks, only pausing to drop flirtatious comments on Devlin. For Alicia, sharing liquor is linked to sharing sexual desire. Immediately, then, the film implies the insatiability of her appetites. In other words, she thirsts for physical gratification; both from Devlin and the bottle. She is notorious both as a female and an alcoholic.

On the other hand, Devlin sees Alicia first and foremost as an instrument of the law. He is a federal agent whose primary interest in her concerns patriotism and espionage. Through Alicia, Devlin seeks to punish aberration--political and sexual. Love is not a priority to  him, as demonstrated by his prideful willingness to subject Alicia to danger despite his feelings of desire. As representative of both American ideals and masculine power, Devlin is the normalizing influence in the film. It is he who must purge Alicia of her impurities: the taint of being a traitor's daughter as well as the impropriety of her overt sexuality. This is accomplished partially through the act of drinking.

After Alicia's night of overindulgence and drunk driving, the scene opens with a close-up of her face, hidden behind a tall glass of cloudy liquid. It is immediately followed by an upside down point of view shot showing Devlin looming large in shadow, sternly instructing her to "Drink it." This mystery substance is as unclear as his intentions, since he has yet to announce the impending spy mission. And waht appears to be a cure for a hangover is really much more. It is the symbolic acceptance of Devlin's correctional authority and control, and the abandonment of her unconventional (and therefore unacceptable) promiscuity. Alicia's aversion to the sobering effects of the potion is evident in her sour face and groans. Devlin is cleansing her of her sins, but there is also something twisted about this act of repression. Indeed, he is wittingly being ironice in asking her, "Feel better?" since she is obviously in physical and emotional distress. The viewer cannot help but intensely identify with Alicia when Devlin so thoroughly enjoys his sadistic, sardonic treatment of her. 

Such brutal treatment continues when the two are drinking at a cafe in Rio. Here, glasses and a large bottle appear throughout the entire sequence of shot/reverse shots. The beginning of their conversation concerns the arrangements for Alicia's apartment, and sharing a drink becomes a seal to their business contract. But when Alicia (at first) refuses a second drink, she is demonstrating her new found purity--at least, eight days' worth--and a desire to "change her spots." Then the dialogue turns to the topic of their relationship, and whether Alicia can quit her wild ways in favor of "daisies and buttercups." But Alicia's advances are answered only by Devlin's biting sarcasm, and she orders a whiskey and soda to ease her hurt feelings. Apparently, alcohol is her release--a part of her emotionality. Drinking and desiring are coupled in Alicia's mind, and if she she can't have Devlin, at least she can have a double. And when she pleads with him to have faith in her ("Why won't you believe in me? Just a little?"), he only responds by eyeing her suspiciously and sipping his own drink. It is as if by refusing to swallow heavily, he is refusing to "swallow" her claims of self-renewal and purity.

Despite Devlin's initial coolness, he soon becomes equally enamored of Alicia. When he asks whether he should bring anything back for dinner, she responds, "How about a nice bottle of wine? To celebrate." Here again, Alicia is investing her emotional energies in alcohol. Only now, though, does the bottle itself become an icon of their new love. Before Devlin reciprocated Alicia's desire, there was no such concrete symbol, only scattered glasses here and there. The implication, of course, is that the proper, masculine figure now approves of Alicia's appetite(s), so only now is it appropriate to celebrate with champagne. Moreover, the very phallic-shaped bottle is quite telling--the perfect representation of male sexual desire.

Further evidence for this interpretation can be found in the scene following Alicia and Devlin's balcony kiss. It begins with a close-up of the bottle, as if to remind us that Notorious is really a love story, though of course it is primarily a spy story. After all, the scene takes place at the American embassy; the dialogue is strictly business. And the scene ends with an eyeline match: the chief agent looking at Devlin's forgotten champagne, realizing that Devlin has become more than professionally involved. This is the ultimate MacGuffin, suggesting that the film is about domestic desire, not international politics. We are left with the image of the bottle (the potential celebration of their relationship) and thus shown that the relationship has failed.

The next scene begins with a dissolve from the champagne to Devlin himself, walking back into Alicia's apartment after the meeting at headquarters. At this point, he has learned of the exact nature of Alicia's assignment--that she must seduce Sebastian to infiltrate the German group. Jealous and angry, he is no completely disenamored of her, having been reminded of precisely why she is notorious. In such a context, then, the bottle-Devlin dissolve which introduces the scene is highly significant. It suggests that he is no longer playing the role of the lover, having left behind both the bottle and any feelings of passion. Instead, he is once again the no-nonsense cop, with his attention focused solely on Alicia's mission. And despite it being visually absent, the champagne still plays a part in the scene. Devlin refers to it as the scene closes, saying, "I must have left it somewhere," With this, he is essentially admits having forgotten all about his feelings of love for Alicia. the possibility of making liquid the emblem of their desire has totally slipped away.

In the second half of the film, objects such as bottles and glasses become even more consequential. On her very first visit to the Sebastian household, a bungling display by the Germans provides Alicia with an essential clue. At this point, HItchcock's visual techniques are especially insightful. An eyeline match from Alicia followed by a tracking shot onto a trio of bottles accomplishes two things: it hints at the love triangle that is Alicia, Alex, and Devlin. It also shows, wordlessly, that Alicia realizes the bottle may contain something besides wind. Here, then, is the point in Notorious at which the visual metaphor of drinking changes dramatically. In effect, the imagery of bottles has turned sinister, hinting that the act of drinking could be dangerous, even deadly. In the hands of Devlin, a bottle was benign depiction of his desire, and one Alicia was eager to drink down. Not it is malignant poison that, like Alex, she must ingest before she can be free of it and return purified to Devlin.

A bit later in the film, Alicia (now Mrs. Sebastian) hosts a party at which bottles and glasses are immensely important. The scene is wrought with suspense as she and Devlin try to calculate how long before the champagne is gone, and Alex sends Joseph to the wine cellar to get more. Alicia and Devlin must get into the Sebastian basement to the investigate the mysterious bottles before either the liquor runs out, or Alex discovers his key is missing. Several brief low-angle shots are filmed from beneath the tiny champagne glasses, to emphasize their magnitude in spite of their diminutive size. And every few moments, a close-up of the stock of bottles imparts the viewer with a sense of dread, and impending doom. Indeed, the audience forgets about everything going on in the film and concentrates on the bottles alone, willing Alicia and Devlin to hurry.

In this scene, then, the dozens of bottles represent so many hour glasses. Each drop of liquid is a grain of sand working against Alicia and Devlin. Time is of the essence, and what once seemed plentiful is sleeping quickly through their fingers. In an ironic cameo, Hitchcock helps along this tension-filled scenario. He appears as a guest happily tossing back a glass of champagne--exactly the sort of guest Alicia doesn't need at her party. Bottles are now an essential part of the plot rather than a reflection of the psychology of Devlin and Alicia.

A few minutes later, the two sneak into a wine cellar. Devlin accidentally knocks off of the bottles on the shelf, and they finally discover the secret ingredient: uranium ore. In terms of the use of objects, this is perhaps the most climactic part of the film. It is here that the lighthearted liquids of earlier scenes (whiskey, wine, champagne) have been replaced by a much more somber spirit--a deadly one, in fact. Alicia is now forced to recognize the gravity of the situation, ultimately stemming from a seemingly simple bottle. No longer the laughing, drunk, and promiscuous Alicia Huberman, she is undergoing an extremely dangerous (and sobering) act of purification. And the bottle has become the vehicle of this purification. Furthermore, since breaking glass is traditionally an act of celebration (consider weddings and the christening of ships), the smashed bottle becomes a perversion of a typically auspicious image. It is instead a foreboding omen that anticipates the dangers to come.

As Devlin scoops the evidence into a tiny envelope, he directs Alicia to find a matching bottle to replace the missing one. She responds with, "They all look alike to me." Literally, she is speaking of the wine bottles. But as we've already seen how bottles in the film represent male sexuality, it seems that she is saying something much more noteworthy. Namely that all men seem alike to her. For every man in Alicia's life has disappointed her in some way: her father, Alex, and now Devlin. Thus, bottles have become the vehicle of her frustration; they contain all that is distasteful about male emotionality. And, like the granules of "vintage sand" that escape down the cellar's drain, this, too, will slip away. The poisonous, "improper" masculinity she's been exposed to will disappear and Devlin will become the "proper" source of masculinity in her life.

The final part of Notorious sees yet another change in the visual representation of drinking vessels. Having discovered the true identity of his wife, Alex teams up with his mother to punish Alicia. Their method, of course, is to poison her coffee. That coffee be the liquid of choice is an interesting metaphorical twist. Typically the cure to a hangover, coffee is more or less an antidote to the toxic effects of alcohol; in this instance, though, it is a poison far more potent than liquor. What is most significant, however, is how basic props such as cups and saucers are depicted as if through special effects. Low-angle shots make the cups appear massive, and larger than Alicia herself. Another take has the camera tracking from Alex to Alicia drinking, and finally to Mrs. Sebastian--the deadly trail of treachery spelled out with a single shot.

Perhaps most noticeable, however, is the manipulation of mise-en-scene in this sequence. Ornately engraved chairs resemble the highly detailed silver of the tea pots, and are oversized to dwarf the characters, Alice In Wonderland style. Indeed, Alicia is in a wonderland here, complete with a tea party and drug-induced hallucinations. All of these are intimidating camera effects intensely our identification with Alicia, and visually capture the "Bluebeard" myth of the film. Having married under false pretenses--and become the object of transference--she has rightly so, to fear harm from her husband.

Ultimately, of course, this is exactly the course of events that must occur before Alicia can be with Devlin. She must be purged of both her and her father's sins, and purified of promiscuity, alcoholism, and Nazism before she can be embraced by the correct man. Drinking is essentially the vehicle for this progression to purity. Hitchcock is truly masterful at manipulating this metaphor with the use of simple objects such as glasses, bottles, and cups. It is through his directorial eye that we see Alicia's path to righteousness in society and love.