Although remakes of earlier films by later directors are far from uncommon, it is a very rare thing for a director to remake one of his or her own movies; and there is just a handful of examples in the realm of vintage film. One of the best known is Cecil B. DeMille’s 1956 remake of his 1923 silent The Ten Commandments. Japanese master Yasujirō Ozu also remade one of his silent films, 1934’s A Story of Floating Weeds, as simply Floating Weeds, likewise in 1956. Frank Capra remade Lady for a Day (1933) as Pocketful of Miracles (his last feature) in 1961; and John Ford brought the story of his 1934 Judge Priest back to screens in 1953 as The Sun Shines Bright.
But the most discussed and argued about remake is undoubtedly Alfred Hitchcock’s 1956 revisiting of the premise of his first big international hit, 1934’s The Man Who Knew Too Much. For 69 years, critics and movie lovers have been divided over whether the remake improves on the original, or is a disappointment compared with it. On its release, it received many positive reviews; but those who were critical of it often cited the 1934 original as the better film. Leonard Maltin’s Movie Guide, in its capsule review of the British version, says, “Film buffs argue which version of exciting story is better. We vote this one,” and awards it 3 stars, vs. 2½ for the “disappointing” remake. But 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die honours the remake but not the original.
And how did the director himself feel about 1956 vs. 1934? In response to François Truffaut’s statement (during his famous multi-day interview with Hitchcock) that “the remake is by far superior to the original”, Hitch made the oft-quoted reply: “Let’s say that the first version is the work of a talented amateur and the second was made by a professional.” What’s rarely pointed out, though, is that Truffaut’s comment referred only to the Albert Hall sequence—not to the entire movie. Which of them Hitchcock’s response referred to isn’t clear. And we’re also left to guess whether or not he felt that the work of a “professional” was superior to that of a “talented amateur”.
Clearly there are pro’s and con’s to both takes on the story which make it hard to deliver a confident verdict in the case of 1934 vs. 1956. Here are some points of comparison to consider. (And be warned that the following includes plot spoilers.)
Pace and runtime: The British Man Who Knew Too Much clocks in at a tight, well-paced hour and a quarter; the American remake, with a runtime of a full two hours, is much longer and, too often, feels long. Of course, a long movie doesn’t have to feel long, and certainly not a Hitchcock movie: we don’t look at our watches during North by Northwest (1959) despite its 2¼-hour runtime. But, in our 1956 film, Hitch takes his time over the introduction of Dr. and Mrs. McKenna (James Stewart and Doris Day) and their son as the first reel begins, over their bus’s arrival in Marrakech and their trip to their hotel, over their awkward Moroccan meal, over their observation of acrobats, a storyteller and others in the marketplace. Even some of the critics who liked the movie on its release liked it despite its length and pace; and many of those who didn’t care for it called out its leisureliness as one of its negatives. But Jean-Luc Godard said of it, “Let us love Hitchcock when, weary of passing simply for a master of taut style, he takes us the longest way around.”
The Albert Hall sequence: This is one exception to the above comments: in this case, longer is better. In 1956, Hitchcock spent longer establishing Doris Day’s position in the auditorium and her view of the ambassador and his entourage in a box to her left and the assassin and his “date” in one to her right. We see her growing anxiety as the assassin softly rises from his seat and steps back into the darkness of his box, where we then see suspicious movement of the drapery at its side and, finally, the long gun barrel emerging from behind it (a shot practically identical to 1934’s). Intercut with this, we see James Stewart repeatedly trying—in vain—to persuade the police guard that he needs to get an urgent warning to the ambassador, and then running around to the other side of the Hall and opening the doors of each of the boxes looking for the assassin. And, during this same sequence, Hitch repeatedly cuts to the orchestra performing the cantata where the cymbal player softly rises from his seat (just as the assassin has done), picks up his cymbals, consults his score (a humorous touch: it comprises measures and measures of rests leading up to a single “note”) and prepares to deliver the fatal crash—just before which Doris Day screams, and it is a real good scream—and then the slightly inaccurate shot, James Stewart meets the assassin hastily leaving his box, chases him back in, and the fleeing assassin accidentally falls to his death.
In contrast, in 1934, Edna Best as the mother never sees the assassin sitting in his box: just an empty seeming box, but with the gun barrel eventually appearing from behind the curtain, just as in 1956. There’s no parallel action with her husband: he (Leslie Banks) is a prisoner of the anarchists. The buildup to the cymbal crash is not on a par with 1956’s. Edna Best’s scream is more of a squeak. And, after firing his shot, the assassin simply exits the hall and catches a cab. The whole sequence is much shorter than it would be in 1956; and, whereas many things are happening during the remake’s Albert Hall sequence, 1934 is all about the buildup to the scream, the cymbal crash and the shot, which is just not as effectively filmed. No wonder Truffaut liked it better in the remake.
Efficiency and symmetry: 1934’s Man Who Knew Too Much is a marvel of cinematic efficiency. In the first five or ten minutes of the action, we are introduced to a charming but faintly creepy Peter Lorre (who will prove to be the villain) and his chiming pocket watch; we learn that both Edna Best and Frank Vosper (who will prove to be the assassin) are champion sharpshooters; and we see Banks and Best’s teenage daughter (Nova Pilbeam) being given a little skier pin as a gift. Both Vosper and Best get to demonstrate their marksmanship later in the film: he at the Albert Hall, she at the movie’s climax. The chiming watch reappears more than once, including, critically, in the film’s final moments. And, when Vosper and Best happen to encounter each other in the Albert Hall’s lobby before the concert, he wordlessly places the skier pin in her hand to remind her why she should do and say nothing. Later, in the auditorium, we see Best look again at the pin in her hand as she struggles with her predicament. (This is one element of the 1934 Albert Hall sequence where it scores over 1956’s, in which the ghoulish-looking assassin just makes an ominous remark to Doris Day about her daughter: a cliché, instead of effective visual storytelling.)
Villains: Peter Lorre’s first English-language film performance is a triumph; and the villain he plays is fascinatingly multi-dimensional. The pair of “English intellectuals” who are 1956’s co-villains are simply not as interesting or as dangerous, and Brenda de Banzie and Bernard Miles, who play them, can’t make them seem that way—all of which weakens the movie. As for the assassins, Reggie Nalder in 1956 looks and acts creepy but is a one-dimensional character; 1934’s Frank Vosper is, on the contrary, good-looking (but with “too much Brilliantine”), and arguably a little more rounded.
Humour: The original Man Who Knew is a typical example of British Hitchcock for the way in which humour is subtly integrated into the film throughout: think for example of the gag with the knitting in the opening scene, the bantering exchanges between Leslie Banks and his friend, the flinging of chairs around the chapel while the organist continues to play. The remake has its humorous scenes too, but they are heavy-handed and sometimes seem arbitrarily inserted (like that tiresome Moroccan dinner sequence).
It is interesting, in this context, to compare 1934’s dentist’s office scene with 1956’s equivalent taxidermy shop scene. The former has humorous notes but is also an effective scene of suspense; and it plays a key role in the advancement of the plot. The comic bits in the latter are too contrived, and they come only after we realize that the whole scene has been an annoying red herring.
The verdict? Apart from the Albert Hall scene, the points made above seem to come down on the side of the original; but—in spite of having the same essential plot—they are two very different films in terms of their writing, their cinematic style, their overall feel. Watch them both, and then cast your own vote!