For many film fans (aficionados, snobs, jerks, insert your descriptor of choice here,) Alfred Hitchcock ceased being a person decades ago, and instead became a cinematic religion, his silhouette as important as the shape of the cross or Superman’s emblem. Consensus on his best film is almost never reached among that zealous flock, but they can agree which film lays bare the man behind the icon: Vertigo, an icy, immaculate depiction of the fetishistic mess that was Hitchcock’s brain, which he might as well have just simply poured into a projector. by Bobby Roberts