Foreign Correspondent (1940)

Foreign Correspondent (1940) is an early American period Alfred Hitchcock wartime journalism and media political adventure anti-Nazi propaganda espionage romance thriller chase and assumed identity movie, not in any sufficiency of the term as film noir, but most importantly a spy noir, and an espionage adventure, made noir almost with the advent of the twentieth century's best known bad types, the Nazis.

Made in, for and about a morbid and bellicose hiatus period before the United States entered Word War II and when World War II had no name and is referred to as 'a general war', when Germany has invaded Poland but Russia is still in Alliance with Germany and Britain is at war of a sudden, while Holland is Nazified and occupied and makes up most of the set piece glory, most famously some windmill scene and scenery, amounting to some of the best and if not the best windmill film of the century.

Political Intrigue and Cinematic Brilliance combine for two magical hours in Hitchcock's Foreign Correspondent, replete with scene and action, capering and threat, a coat stuck in the cog of having your arm crushed to a pulp, and sweetened romance with a strong female lead.

Largescale set piece moments which Hitchcock handles so well and trademarks abound, alongside the typical and entertaining Hitchcock murder silliness, such as the attempted murder in the tower, the spies using their 1930s torture methods of gramophone and light, and the physical holding opening of the eyelids as the brain freezes.

Capersome, magnificent, bullish, earnest, almost predicting the victory of the United States in World War II before the United States had entered World War II.

Joel McCrea is in the mould of the Hitchcockian everyman, every bit of Robert Cummings and mindful of the essential slack and cheesy, cheery and cheeky-chappy chopped champion of ingenuity, peril and amusingly is given the assignment of American foreign correspondent because of his ignorance, it is amusingly his greatest asset at the start of the picture.

At the start in fact it is barely established if Jones has heard of Europe, but by the end he is propagandistically speaking its staunch ally and in fact saviour. There are strong notes of the 39 Steps, including another staple trope, the public speaking engagement, and there is the fact that on the climb, enjoying more peril, McCrea accidentally changes the neon signage on the hotel he is staying in from HOTEL EUROPE to HOT EUROPE by making a juducious high rise escape in what passes for Europe in these Hollywood imaginings.

On the eve of World War II, Alfred Hitchcock’s Foreign Correspondent (1940) emerged as a masterful spy thriller, blending political commentary, innovative filmmaking, and the director’s signature suspenseful storytelling.

This film, which centers and focuses, and revolves around, and turns on, and is hinged around and through the exploits of Johnny Jones, a crime reporter sent to Europe under the pseudonym Huntley Haverstock, showcases Hitchcock’s ability to create a narrative that is both timely and universal.

Against the backdrop of Europe’s descent into war, Foreign Correspondent explores themes of moral agency, political urgency, and the role of journalism, while also reflecting Hitchcock’s mastery of visual and narrative techniques.

The plot begins with Johnny Jones (Joel McCrea), a New York crime reporter, sent to Europe by his editor Powers (Harry Davenport) to gather more compelling stories about the impending war. Powers’ dissatisfaction with lackluster reporting drives him to appoint Johnny as a fresh, untainted observer, renaming him Huntley Haverstock to enhance his credibility.

Upon arriving in London, Johnny is introduced to Stephen Fisher (Herbert Marshall), leader of the Universal Peace Party, an organization ostensibly working to prevent war. Johnny’s task becomes more complex as he uncovers a web of espionage and deception, epitomized by the assassination of Dutch diplomat Van Meer (Albert Bassermann) and the discovery of a larger Nazi plot.

This narrative mirrors the political tensions of 1940. Alfred Hitchcock’s depiction of characters such as Fisher—a peace advocate with ulterior motives—illustrates the dangers of complacency and duplicity in the face of rising fascism.

The film’s climactic scenes, particularly Johnny’s impassioned radio broadcast as bombs fall on London, underscore the urgency of the conflict. This framing of individual action against the backdrop of global turmoil reflects Hitchcock’s understanding of war’s inevitability and the moral imperatives it demands.

Foreign Correspondent shares thematic and structural similarities with Hitchcock’s earlier work, The Lady Vanishes (1938). Both films deal with the rise of Nazism and the naïveté of those who underestimate its threat. In Foreign Correspondent, a woman aboard a plane dismisses the danger posed by Nazis, only to be shot shortly thereafter, echoing the perilous train journey in The Lady Vanishes where characters face escalating threats.

Both narratives employ confined settings—a train in one and an airplane in the other—to heighten tension and showcase Hitchcock’s talent for crafting suspenseful, claustrophobic environments.

Alfred Hitchcock’s heroines often embody a transformation in political awareness, and Foreign Correspondent continues this tradition. Carol Fisher (Laraine Day), unlike the protagonist in The Lady Vanishes, begins the film as a committed activist. Her speeches and actions throughout the story advocate for moral courage and personal responsibility.

Her denunciation of fatalism—her insistence that people have choices and can act to promote peace—positions her as a symbol of political agency. This parallels other Hitchcock heroines, such as those in Rear Window, who challenge societal norms and assert their convictions.

It is not all outré caper comedy and safe takes on the politics and thrills as demonstrated by the deathly earnest of Herbert Marshall's character so heroically played, and of a serious suggestion made about the world at war, his is the sober face of the moment, he is Europe's option, he is the option of failure.

Walter Wanger has a political and pressing newspapery feel to impress and Hitchcock has a more abstract scenic and adventurous feel to convey, it is a brilliant combination.

Foreign Correspondent is a brilliant example of the early adoption of the journalism and media noir, and the role of journalism in the saving of the day, thematically as a popular Hollywood trope.

This is a most popular trope, far more so than people imaging, because it is Hollywood's own imagining, and most esepcially in the face of war, that journalists save the day, it is incredinbly delightful a concept to the entire industry, an we will note, they (being 'them') do often award Academy Awards to the films in which the journalists are the situation savers.

Like much of the later and the now in fact this picture exalts journalism as a force for truth and social progress. Johnny’s transformation from a sceptical kind of a bum lying and lazy and even a bit violent and lousy, with his crap paper cuttings kind of a crime reporter to an impassioned advocate for justice underscores the importance of media in shaping public perception.

The film’s recurring motif of notes—from the luncheon scene where Johnny passes messages to Carol, to the assassination plot—highlights the written word’s power to expose deceit. Hitchcock’s cameo, where he is seen engrossed in a newspaper, further emphasizes the medium’s centrality to the narrative.

The film also references the famous journalist Richard Harding Davis, a nod to the era’s idealized view of the press as a bulwark against tyranny. In this context, Johnny’s climactic broadcast, conducted amid falling bombs, symbolizes the resilience of truth in the face of authoritarianism.

Hitchcock’s use of rotary motion is a recurring visual motif in Foreign Correspondent, reflecting the chaos and mechanical precision of war. The spinning globe in the opening credits, revolving windmill vanes, and airplane propellers are all examples of this theme.

The windmill sequence, in particular, showcases Hitchcock’s fascination with machinery and its cinematic potential. The windmill’s sails turning the wrong way serve as a subtle clue, requiring the audience to adopt Johnny’s sharp observational skills.

The film’s elaborate set pieces also exemplify Hitchcock’s ingenuity. The assassination scene outside an embassy during a rainstorm, with its dramatic interplay of umbrellas and sudden violence, is a masterclass in visual storytelling. Similarly, the climactic airplane crash, executed with stunning realism for its time, foreshadows Hitchcock’s later work in Lifeboat (1944) and remains a technical marvel.

While Foreign Correspondent navigates the line between pro- and anti-war sentiments, its primary focus is on the inevitability of conflict by 1940. Characters present compelling arguments on both sides, but their personal motives often complicate their stances. For instance, Fisher’s outward advocacy for peace masks his collaboration with the enemy. This moral ambiguity challenges the audience to consider the complexity of political decisions during wartime.

The film’s concluding scene, where Johnny broadcasts a plea for American intervention, encapsulates its propagandistic undertones. The urgency of his message—delivered as bombs fall around him—underscores the film’s role as a rallying cry for unity against fascism. This scene, though criticized for being somewhat tacked on, reflects Hitchcock’s willingness to contribute to Britain’s wartime efforts, aligning with his public commitment to support his homeland.

The globe-trotting narrative of Foreign Correspondent, with its car chases, windmill intrigue, and daring escapes, has been likened to a proto-Indiana Jones adventure. The film’s blend of action, romance, and political drama creates a dynamic and engaging experience.

The sortay-sexual man-and-woman funky-touching style of chemistry between McCrea and Day adds a human dimension to the larger geopolitical stakes, while supporting characters like Scott ffolliott (George Sanders) provide wit and resourcefulness.

Foreign Correspondent stands as a testament to Hitchcock’s adaptability and creative vision. The film’s lavish sets, innovative cinematography by Rudolph Maté, and intricate narrative structure reflect the director’s transition to Hollywood and his increasing artistic confidence. While it may not achieve the same critical acclaim as Rebecca (1940), Foreign Correspondent offers a more direct engagement with the political realities of its time, making it an essential work in Hitchcock’s oeuvre.

Foreign Correspondent is a splendid and endless and rolling almost road-movie rich location thriller richly layered with politics and cliche, and to beat it all, of course has one of the best Nazi actors who was of course not a Nazi, but played many. many Nazis, our man Martin Kosleck. This is an early role for the man that went on to create and bury and crate and bury again, refinements on the Nazi ropes he did, because he hated them as much as the good guys did.

So then the film, it must be said, before more is said, is a film that combines political commentary, thrilling set pieces, and Hitchcock’s unparalleled storytelling. Its exploration of moral agency, the role of journalism, and the inevitability of war remains relevant today, offering a powerful reminder of cinema’s ability to engage with pressing societal issues while delivering unforgettable entertainment.

Yes cinema has that ability, but we knew that, it's no secret in film studies that film has these abilities, if filmed and displayed.

To engage with Alfred Hitchcock's Foreign Correspondent (1940) is to step into a cinematic labyrinth, a work that invites dissection and discourse not merely for its narrative dexterity—a complex tale of pre-war espionage and intrigue—but for the multifaceted dialogues it provokes within the sphere of Hitchcockian scholarship, which is itself a dense and at times contradictory constellation of auteurist admiration and theoretical critique.

This black-and-white spy thriller, featuring Joel McCrea as an intrepid American reporter navigating the stormy waters of European conspiracy, finds itself positioned at a peculiar nexus: a film born of the collaborative tensions between Hitchcock and producer David O. Selznick, yet a work that—by virtue of its thematic resonances and stylistic flourishes—serves as fertile ground for examining the director's preoccupations with voyeurism, narrative manipulation, and the cinematic gaze.

The film, adapted loosely from Vincent Sheean's Personal History, emerges from the volatile alchemy of Hollywood's golden age, bearing the fingerprints of numerous scribes, among them Robert Benchley and Charles Bennett. Its narrative scaffolding—anchored in the prelude to World War II—follows the fictional Huntley Haverstock, who, under the guise of journalistic inquiry, stumbles into a vortex of political machinations, murder, and romance.

Yet, beneath the surface of this ostensibly straightforward thriller lies a structure so laden with artifice, irony, and intertextual play that it becomes a paradigmatic text for exploring the ideological and aesthetic contradictions inherent in Hitchcock's oeuvre, his whole oeuvre, the oeuvre as we know it, that of the ouevrier Alfred.

Indeed, the academic interrogation of Hitchcock’s work—a discourse ignited with Laura Mulvey's seminal 1975 essay "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema"—casts Foreign Correspondent in an illuminating yet unsettling light. Mulvey's critique, positing the "voyeuristic male gaze" as central to Hitchcock's cinematic language, opened a theoretical Pandora’s box, one that subsequent scholars, from Modleski to Zižek, have raided with varying degrees of reverence and subversion.

What Mulvey identified as a site of patriarchal dominance and fetishistic scopophilia, subsequent feminist and psychoanalytic theorists have reframed as both a critique of and a complicity in cinematic perversion. Herein lies the fascinating tension of Hitchcock studies: whether his gaze is murderous and authoritarian, or self-reflexive and destabilizing, or indeed both, often simultaneously.

Foreign Correspondent exemplifies this paradox. Consider its use of the "phallic thing that sticks out," as Zižek terms it, the reversed windmill—a symbol that, within Lacanian psychoanalytic frameworks, functions as the point de caption, stitching together fragmented subjective and social realities.

Hitchcock's camera lingers on this motif with an almost fetishistic, yes that is the word, no maybe not, all this sexuality rammed into these innocent spy films, I don't know, yet it is an insistence, transforming a banal object into a site of narrative and ideological convergence. The windmill is no mere plot device; it is the locus where Hitchcock's mastery of suspense converges with his penchant for disorienting the viewer, inviting an engagement with the cinematic apparatus that is at once complicit and critical.

This dialectic extends to the film’s climax, a Menzies-designed plane crash that careens between realism and artifice, its meticulous staging belying its overtly propagandistic intent. Released in the shadow of the Battle of Britain, Foreign Correspondent is a work of thinly veiled advocacy, a call to arms for an America still grappling with its isolationist impulses.

Yet, even as it beats the drum of interventionism, the film’s conclusion, with its poignant radio broadcast amidst the bombing of London, achieves a poetic ambiguity, oscillating between hope and despair, darkness and light—a duality emblematic of Hitchcock’s enduring ability to craft narratives that are as ideologically charged as they are aesthetically transcendent.

The performances, particularly those of Joel McCrea and the venerable Albert Bassermann, lend the film a gravitas that belies its ostensibly populist ambitions. Bassermann, nominated for an Academy Award, delivers his lines phonetically, a testament to both the multilingual exigencies of wartime cinema and the transnational dimensions of Hitchcock’s artistry.

Laraine Day, George Sanders, and Herbert Marshall round out a cast that imbues the film with a cosmopolitan allure, further underscored by Hitchcock’s own fleeting cameo—a meta-textual nod to the auteur’s omnipresence within his constructed worlds.

The historical context of Foreign Correspondent’s production reveals a different narrative of constraint and ingenuity. Loaned out by Selznick to Walter Wanger, Hitchcock found himself navigating the complexities of Hollywood’s studio system, a system that both stifled his creative autonomy and provided the technical resources necessary for his experimentation with visual and narrative form.

This tension between control and compromise is etched into every frame of Foreign Correspondent, a work that simultaneously consolidates and critiques Hitchcock’s evolving aesthetic.

To situate Foreign Correspondent within the broader trajectory of Hitchcock’s Hollywood years is to recognize its role as both precursor and anomaly. While it shares thematic and structural DNA with later masterpieces such as Notorious and North by Northwest, its status as an early wartime film imbues it with a rawness, a sense of urgency that speaks to the precarious geopolitical moment of its release.

And yet, its aesthetic sophistication—its interplay of light and shadow, its rhythmic editing, its calibrated performances—renders it timeless, a film that transcends its historical moment even as it is indelibly shaped by it.

Thusly and unfussily, Foreign Correspondent stands as a testament to Hitchcock’s unparalleled ability to weave narrative complexity and thematic depth into the fabric of mainstream cinema. It is a film that resists easy categorization, embodying the very contradictions that make Hitchcock a perennial subject of academic fascination.

To watch Foreign Correspondent is not merely to witness a story but to engage with a cinematic text that, like the windmill at its heart, turns perpetually, its meanings refracted anew with every viewing. In its shadows and silences, its flights and falls, it offers a mirror to the viewer—a gaze that both exposes and implicates, thrills and unsettles, beckoning us to look closer and, perhaps, to see ourselves.

In 1940, amidst the seismic shifts of global unrest and Hollywood's glittering ascent, Alfred Hitchcock transplanted his genius from Britain to America, delivering not one but two cinematic jewels—Rebecca and Foreign Correspondent—the former securing Oscar glory, the latter a neglected marvel whose brisk wit and breathtaking suspense make it, dare I say, the truer Hitchcockian delight, dripping with intrigue, humor, and a relentless pace that foreshadowed the genre-defining brilliance of North by Northwest.

With Joel McCrea’s charmingly irreverent reporter, who dances on the tightrope of crime and romance while sparring verbally with Laraine Day’s delightfully sharp heroine, the film conjures a Preston Sturges-esque buoyancy in its opening act . . .

Martin Kosleck in Foreign Correspondent (1940)

. . . only to pivot sharply when a diplomat vanishes and bullets fly, plunging us into a kaleidoscopic whirl of espionage, windmills, faux-assassinations, and that unmistakable Hitchcockian mastery of tension punctuated by sardonic humour—consider, if you will, the transformation of "HOTEL" into "HOT," the parade of cars blocking a crossing, or George Sanders forsaking his rumba lessons mid-crisis.

As Hitchcock’s lens swoops from London streets to Dutch countrysides, then ascends to the skies for a harrowing plane crash rendered with William Cameron Menzies' visual ingenuity and Alfred Newman’s underscoring flair, the film enshrines its villain—Herbert Marshall’s deceptively affable Stephen Fisher—as a portrait of moral complexity, a pacifist-turned-betrayer . . .

. . . whose death evokes both narrative closure and a pang of sympathy rare for Hollywood antagonists, while McCrea’s everyman crusader embodies the audacity of American innocence thrust into European chaos, a thematic thread Hitchcock would weave more tightly in later classics.

Foreign Correspondent (1940) arrived and was announced with the eager captions stated below corresponding to the huge excitement of the caper and the vicarious peril it offered as follows:

MYSTERY IN WHISPERS that cracks like THUNDER!
A PICTURE THAT'S ENTIRELY DIFFERENT! Here's something new in movie entertainment...not a war story...but an exciting tale of the men who gather the news you read...colorful, thrilling, exciting...a picture you won't soon forget!
HIS Assignment Was DEATH!
READ EVERY AD ON THIS PAGE CAREFULLY and you'll say..."First Let's See Foreign Correspondent"
He...wanted his story! She..wanted love!
The thrill spectacle of the year!

If Rebecca was Hitchcock’s velvet-gloved debut in Hollywood, then Foreign Correspondent was the brass-knuckled handshake—less polished, maybe, but undeniably more American in its swagger, a sinewy thriller greased with intrigue and cynicism that bridged the Atlantic like a smuggler’s ship slicing through fog.

The plot, a convoluted yarn about Johnny Jones—a square-jawed ink-stained wretch rechristened Huntley Haverstock—unfurls with the same blunt precision as McCrea’s punches: a globetrotting romp where windmills aren’t just windmills, and even a cab ride crackles with the static of impending doom. Hitchcock, still shaking off the dust of the British studio system, wanted Gary Cooper and Barbara Stanwyck for the leads . . .

. . . but Hollywood’s Byzantine pecking order slapped his hand, leaving him with Joel McCrea—an All-American bruiser with a face made for trust and a soul that could sell sincerity to a snake—and Laraine Day, whose no-nonsense Girl Friday vibe gave the film its spine, steel tempered by wit.

McCrea anchors the flick with the kind of wholesome gumption that made W.R. Hearst call him “the All-American Boy,” even if Hollywood pigeonholed him as a budget Cary Grant, while Day proves no damsel, delivering a performance as sharp as a knife’s edge, more brains than beauty, though she’s got plenty of both.

Their chemistry, yes it is chemistry we talk of once again, the chemists of sex, jah, is electric but unforced, a battle of wits that hums beneath the bigger picture—a shadow-soaked world teetering on the brink of war, where alliances are as slippery as a greased eel and every smile hides a knife.

And then there’s George Sanders, whose sardonic smirk usually signaled trouble, but here twists the knife in a different direction, playing a noble correspondent with the kind of debonair charm that makes you second-guess his every move. Hitchcock, always the puppet master, weaponized Sanders’ public reputation as a cad, turning audience assumptions into ammunition for suspense.

But the real masterstroke, the cigarette burn on the pristine celluloid, is Herbert Marshall as Stephen Fisher, the genteel mastermind whose treachery lands like a sucker punch in the dark. Marshall’s urbane demeanor—a cocktail of war-hero cred and unflappable charm—turns his betrayal into something chilling, a reminder that the real villains don’t cackle in shadows; they sip tea in broad daylight, their hands clean but their intentions soaked in blood.

Even Edmund Gwenn, as the amiable assassin Rowley, delivers menace with a wink, a sinister teddy bear whose Cockney accent hides a dagger.

With set pieces that hit like gunshots—the rain-slicked assassination, the creaking windmill, the spectacular plane crash—Foreign Correspondent isn’t just a movie; it’s a bullet in a velvet casing, a lesson in how to make espionage feel like an art form. Hitchcock didn’t just make a thriller; he made a statement: trust no one, not even the director, because he’s already a step ahead, pulling the strings while you’re left chasing shadows.

The genius of Foreign Correspondent lies not only in its dizzying fizzing box-office superfun construction and destruction splash and blow, step and umbrellas, windmill and ocean, super tower and street hassle set pieces—rain-soaked assassinations, claustrophobic windmill interiors, and that plane shattering into the Atlantic—but also in its seamless interweaving of romance and wit amidst impending global calamity; a testament to Hitchcock’s faith in cinema’s capacity to entertain, provoke, and reassure, as exemplified by Robert Benchley’s ad-libbed quips and a narrative climax so prescient it anticipates Edward R. Murrow’s wartime broadcasts by months, all while the looming specter of war casts a long shadow over every sprightly frame.

And yet, as forgotten as it often seems in the pantheon of Hitchcock’s thrillers, Foreign Correspondent deserves its rightful place alongside The 39 Steps and North by Northwest, its virtuoso blend of comedy, tension, and visual audacity serving as an irrefutable argument for the alchemy of escapism and urgency in wartime filmmaking —

— a film that, like its eponymous protagonist, exposes the conspiracy of neglect surrounding its brilliance and demands, with all the cheek and gravitas of Hitchcock himself, that we keep its lights burning.

In the labyrinthine corridors of Hitchcock’s Foreign Correspondent (1940), nothing is ever as it seems, and yet everything clicks into place with the precision of a bullet in a revolver’s chamber. Who better to play a suave traitor than Herbert Marshall, the dignified ambassador of English civility in Hollywood?

His clipped tones and genteel demeanor turn suspicion into a foggy abstraction, ensuring the audience, and by extension our beleaguered heroes, never see the knife in his gloved hand until it’s too late. Alongside him is George Sanders, that droll cad with a smile sharper than a switchblade, this time cast improbably as the noble journalist, flipping his typical villainous typecasting on its head—Hitchcock weaponized the audience's expectations with the subtlety of a razor hidden in a handshake.

But it’s not just the actors who deal in doubles and shadows. Alfred Newman’s score opens with a jaunty, almost whimsical tune, a melodic sleight of hand that whispers promises of adventure while concealing the storm of suspense just over the horizon.

As the plot tightens like a noose, Newman’s music retreats into the shadows, emerging only to punctuate the drama, never guiding the audience’s emotions but enhancing them—a deft touch of cinematic prestidigitation. This contrast, this dance between light-hearted comedy and high-stakes tension, is Hitchcock’s signature: the sugarcoated cyanide that keeps you watching even as the trap snaps shut.

Yet, Foreign Correspondent isn’t just a thriller—it’s propaganda with a razor-sharp edge, a grenade lobbed at neutrality and apathy in the lead-up to America’s entry into World War II. Hitchcock’s plea to “keep those lights burning” is as subtle as a sap to the back of the head, a rallying cry to a nation teetering on isolationism.

Even Joseph Goebbels, that Nazi maestro of manipulation, couldn’t help but tip his hat, calling the film “a first-class production.” That Hitchcock, the showman par excellence, could wrap a political message in such a spellbinding package undoubtedly made more than a few politicians grind their teeth—cinema, after all, can spark revolutions while their speeches collect dust.

The cast itself feels like a rogues’ gallery of brilliance. Joel McCrea, earnest as a bloodhound on the scent, brings the kind of sincerity that could sell fire to a devil, while Laraine Day is no wilting flower, holding her ground with a brainy charm that makes her more equal partner than damsel in distress.

Then there’s then there's oh yes, we have mentioned him before, but look out look out, film noir fans, it is your man Edmund Gwenn, the jovial hitman Rowley, whose Cockney charm hides a dagger’s edge, and Robert Benchley’s melancholy funnyman, playing a hack reporter so convincingly it, well hang on, Benchley was a major American wit and you may hear him speak in the script, absolutely to the edge and from the off, he stings like a punch to the gut, his quips laced with a bitter aftertaste.

For all its shadows and switchbacks, Foreign Correspondent is a masterstroke of balance, where thrills, wit, and gravitas intermingle like smoke and bourbon in a dimly lit bar. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a loaded deck—every frame is stacked, every moment designed to keep you guessing, gasping, and coming back for more. H

itchcock didn’t just make a movie; he pulled a fast one on Hollywood and the world, leaving us wondering where the lie ends and the truth begins.

In 1940, as Nazi boots stomped across Europe and Britain braced for the storm, Alfred Hitchcock, stung by accusations of unpatriotic desertion, crafted Foreign Correspondent—a cinematic bullet aimed squarely at American isolationism, wrapping its propaganda in a taut thriller about an earnest reporter navigating a shadowy labyrinth of intrigue, betrayal, and the sinister machinations of a suave Nazi spy masquerading as a pacifist leader. . .

Joel McCrea’s no-nonsense charm as the titular correspondent anchors the narrative with the integrity of Vermont granite, while Herbert Marshall’s urbane menace and George Sanders’ dry wit offer a masterclass in casting against type, creating a gallery of characters as layered as a cigarette-smoke-filled barroom.

The technical artistry of Hitchcock shines like a flick knife under neon light, from the murder staged amidst a sea of umbrellas to the nerve-jangling windmill chase and the breathtaking plane crash shot with water tanks and a single take, each sequence a visceral reminder of the director’s uncanny ability to weaponize suspense and spectacle. . .

Alfred Newman’s deceptively jaunty score lures the audience into a false sense of ease, contrasting sharply with the grim realities of a world on the brink, while the climactic radio broadcast—an electrifying plea for vigilance delivered with McCrea’s earnest gravitas—punctuates the film with a potent call to arms that resonated far beyond the silver screen.

Even Josef Goebbels, the twisted maestro of Nazi propaganda, begrudgingly hailed it as a "masterpiece," but it is Sheridan Morley’s observation that best encapsulates Hitchcock’s achievement: with one film, the master of suspense proved that cinema could be more than mere entertainment—it could be a weapon, wielded with the precision of a stiletto, cutting through apathy and ignorance to rally hearts and minds against the creeping shadow of tyranny.

[last lines]
[radio broadcast from London]
John Jones: Hello, America. I've been watching a part of the world being blown to pieces. A part of the world as nice as Vermont, and Ohio
[siren sounds]
John Jones: , and Virginia, and California, and Illinois lies ripped up and bleeding like a steer in a slaughterhouse, and I've seen things that make the history of the savages read like Pollyanna legends. I've seen women...
[bombs begin exploding]
English Announcer: It's a raid; we shall have to postpone the broadcast.
John Jones: Oh, postpone, nothing! Let's go on as long as we can.
English Announcer: Madam, we have a shelter downstairs.
John Jones: How about it, Carol?
Carol Fisher: They're listening in America, Johnny.
John Jones: Okay, we'll tell 'em, then. I can't read the rest of the speech I had, because the lights have gone out, so I'll just have to talk off the cuff. All that noise you hear isn't static - it's death, coming to London. Yes, they're coming here now. You can hear the bombs falling on the streets and the homes. Don't tune me out, hang on a while - this is a big story, and you're part of it. It's too late to do anything here now except stand in the dark and let them come... as if the lights were all out everywhere, except in America. Keep those lights burning, cover them with steel, ring them with guns, build a canopy of battleships and bombing planes around them. Hello, America, hang on to your lights: they're the only lights left in the world!

Foreign Correspondent (1940)

directed by Alfred Hitchcock