(photo left: Hitchcock standing in front of his Bel Air home, where he lived from 1942 until his death in 1980.)
Halloween was a passion from my youth. It was Christmas with cooler special effects. I made haunted houses in my garage, applied my own monster makeup, designed customized costumes, and was always late for dinner every October 31, because I was still putting the finishing touches on my latest Halloween ensemble.
Fast-forward to October 31, 1972, UCLA, Westwood, California. They were going to have a party on our fifth floor public/TV room in Hedrick Hall. My friend Danny and I agreed that it was going to be a dull affair in spite of the promise of free beer. We were looking for something more. Danny was a Theater Arts major, and I was an aspiring filmmaker. We shared a view that “all the world’s a stage,” as if life was an ongoing tableau of impromptu scenes that were never the same twice.
But what could we do? Neither of us had a car, so where could we go? Danny had an idea: “Let’s go trick-or-treating in Bel Air.” Interesting, I thought. Bel Air was a well-known neighborhood of the rich and famous that included film celebrities and recording stars. And it sat right up against the UCLA campus within easy walking distance. It sounded like a great idea.
I told Danny, “If we’re going to do this, we gotta to do it right.” We went back to my dorm room and I pulled out a small overnight suitcase from my closet. It was filled with assorted masquerade paraphernalia: a couple of rubber masks, a wig, some face disguises, and some large rubber hands. (I’d had the foresight to include my costume accessories among my going-away-to-college essentials. I knew they’d come in handy sooner or later.)
Now, fully equipped with Halloween apparel, we crossed Sunset Boulevard and made our way up Belagio Road. Choosing at random, we arrived at our first house, a typical luxurious Bel Air home. We put on our rubber masks and rang the doorbell.
The porch light came on and we heard a woman’s voice, “Who’s there?”
We shouted in unison, “Trick or treat!” She opened the door, just a crack, and I think it suddenly occurred to us that we should probably remove our masks. It was starting to look like the opening scene from some Halloween horror movie—not the effect we were going for. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.
The woman, noticing our age, asked suspiciously, “What are you boys doing out here trick-or-treating?”
As a Theater Arts person, Danny could think quickly on his feet to come up with the perfect line. He answered, “Oh, don’t worry. This is just a fraternity initiation. They’re making us go door to door as trick-or-treaters.”
Relieved by Danny’s improvised explanation, the door opened and a middle-aged lady emerged. Her demeanor instantly changed, as she now saw two all-American boys merely engaging in traditional college hijinks.
The lady smiled, and said, “Well, I don’t have any treats to give you.”
“That’s OK,” we said, then wished her a happy Halloween, and went on our way.
Unruffled by our first encounter, we moved on to a house further up the street. After deciding to lose the masks for good, we rang the doorbell.
A moment passed, and then a man yelled out from a second-story window. “Who goes there?”
I recognized the voice right away. It was Mister Magoo! Never mind Thurston Howell III, I would always remember Jim Backus as the voice of that cantankerous, nearsighted cartoon character.
We shouted upward, “Trick or treat!”
“Do it the hard way!” he replied. What did he mean?
Then we heard a splat. Two bags of store-bought candy had landed in the middle of the driveway. We picked them up and shouted, “Thank you!” as we scampered off.
This was turning into an intriguing and unexpected outing. What could be next? We came to a house with all of its outdoor lights turned on. Maybe someone was expecting visitors. It looked inviting.
We rang the doorbell, and a man promptly answered. (We might have been the first guests to arrive.) The door opened and there he was wearing some kind of red velvet robe, not quite a smoking jacket, not quite evening sleepwear. But without a doubt, it was Alfred Hitchcock. He stood there, not saying a word, and looked at us with calm serenity, neither surprised nor impressed.
What could we say? What should we say? It didn’t feel at all like your typical celebrity encounter. We were standing on the front porch of a man’s home and had been cordially received. We weren’t intruders, we were guests. We did the only polite thing we could do: “Trick or treat.” It was Halloween, after all—a well-recognized American tradition in any neighborhood, even Bel Air.
Mr. Hitchcock then spoke in that slow, calm, dignified way that was practically his trademark. “Halloween isn’t until tomorrow.”
Danny and I looked at each other, not sure what to say next. I thought Mr. Hitchcock was just joking around, trying to get a rise out of us.
“I’ll play along,” I thought. So I quipped, “Well if this isn’t Halloween, all the papers and the TV news must have gotten it wrong.”
Mr. Hitchcock proceeded to explain: “Tonight is All Hallow’s Eve. Tomorrow is All Hallow’s Day. So Halloween doesn’t actually arrive until tomorrow.” He continued briefly about “All Saints’ Day,” a Christian tradition that would eventually become part of the Halloween celebration that we know today.
“Oh, yeah,” we nodded intently as if we were listening to a classroom lecture. If anyone was an expert on Halloween, Professor Hitchcock was certainly a reputable source. There was nothing we could say after that. If Alfred Hitchcock tells you that Halloween isn’t until tomorrow, that’s that.
Our gracious host then reached into his robe pockets, and produced four Hershey chocolate bars, and handed them to each of us. It was the perfect conclusion to the coolest trick-or-treat visit anyone could ever imagine. Danny and I thanked him for the chocolate bars and told him we really liked the Halloween lesson. We said our goodnights and waved goodbye.
In that brief moment, the world had indeed become a stage, with Alfred Hitchcock, Danny, and me in a surreal one-of-a-kind performance that could never be repeated. Life as it should be. And I’d like to think that Mr. Hitchcock enjoyed the exchange almost as much as we did.
There was no question that we’d reached the end of our Halloween adventure. There was nowhere else to go except back to Hedrick Hall. Danny and I had successfully pulled off an amazing stunt and got an unbelievable story to go along with it—an anecdote in three acts in which we were all merely players. It couldn’t have been written any better.
What a fun story!
Thanks for setting up this Class of ‘72 blog.