Torn Curtain is scarcely ten minutes into its tale of espionage derring-do in darkest Europe when Alfred Hitchcock stamps the film with his inevitable monogram: there in the lobby of a Copenhagen hotel sits the familiar Buddha-like figure, dandling a little girl on his knee as the sound track noodles a few bars of Hitch's television theme tune, the Funeral March of a Marionette. The audience chuckles in recognition. Ah, yes. The master is at work again.
Well, no. Curtain is Hitchcock's 50th film, but this time he must have been thinking back to his 49th, or ahead to his 51st, or...
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