Remembering Hitchcock

The Master of Suspense's silent films maintain their dynamism.

Reels containing the first 30 minutes of the first film Hitchcock worked on- The White Shadow- have been discovered at the New Zealand Film Archive. They had been in the hands of Jack Murtagh, a keen collector who used to work as a projectionist. After he died, his private collection of nitrate film prints were sent to the national archives by his grandson, Tony Osborne.

The White Shadow 1923 is a silent film, in which American actor Betty Compson stars as a pair of twins. Copies of the melodramatic film are being made and will be sold in America.

Before the discovery was made, the BFI launched the "Rescue the Hitchcock 9" campaign, which aimed to restore what were Hitchcock's only nine surviving silent films. These date from 1925 to 1929 and include Downhill and The Manxman. Downhill is about a star student, Roddy, who is wrongly accused of getting a young woman pregnant. His reputation in tatters, Roddy takes on a lonely existence, becoming a paid companion to lonely rich women. Shot in a small Cornish fishing community, The Manxman tells the story of two childhood friends who fall in love with the same woman. This was Hitchcock's last silent film.

The BFI has announced that Hitchcock's silent films will be accompanied by newly commissioned orchestral scores as part of the London 2012 Festival - the finale of the Cultural Olympiad. One-off live performances across London will include esteemed British musicians Nitin Sawhney, Tansy Davies and Daniel Cohen.

Another effort helping to preserve Hitchcock's memory is The Alfred Hitchcock London Locations Walk, led by Sandra Shevey. The walking tour lasts 3 hours and includes segments of an interview with Hitchcock from 1972. Shevey uses period photos and storyboards to compare the current locations with Hitchcock's re-interpretations, used in for example, Frenzy and The Man Who Knew Too Much.

Photo: Hunter Skipworth / Moment
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Cones and cocaine: the ice cream van's links with organised crime

A cold war is brewing to the tinkling of "Greensleeves".

Anyone who has spent a summer in this country will be familiar with the Pavlovian thrill the first tinny notes of “Greensleeves” stir within the stolid British breast.

The arrival of the ice cream van – usually at least two decades older than any other vehicle on the road, often painted with crude approximations of long-forgotten cartoon characters and always, without fail, exhorting fellow motorists to “Mind that child!” – still feels like a simple pleasure of the most innocent kind.

The mobile ice cream trade, though, has historical links with organised crime.

Not only have the best routes been the subject of many, often violent turf wars, but more than once lollies have served as cover for goods of a more illicit nature, most notoriously during the Glasgow “Ice Cream Wars” of the early 1980s, in which vans were used as a front for fencing stolen goods and dealing drugs, culminating in an arson attack that left six people dead.

Although the task force set up to tackle the problem was jokingly nicknamed the “Serious Chimes Squad” by the press, the reality was somewhat less amusing. According to Thomas “T C” Campbell, who served almost 20 years for the 1984 murders before having his conviction overturned in 2004, “A lot of my friends were killed . . . I’ve been caught with axes, I’ve been caught with swords, open razors, every conceivable weapon . . . meat cleavers . . . and it was all for nothing, no gain, nothing to it, just absolute madness.”

Tales of vans being robbed at gunpoint and smashed up with rocks abounded in the local media of the time and continue to pop up – a search for “ice cream van” on Google News throws up the story of a Limerick man convicted last month of supplying “wholesale quantities” of cocaine along with ice cream. There are also reports of the Mob shifting more than 40,000 oxycodone pills through a Lickety Split ice cream van on Staten Island between 2009 and 2010.

Even for those pushing nothing more sinister than a Strawberry Split, the ice cream business isn’t always light-hearted. BBC Radio 4 devoted an entire programme last year to the battle for supremacy between a local man who had been selling ice creams in Newbiggin-by-the-Sea since 1969 and an immigrant couple – variously described in the tabloids as Polish and Iraqi but who turned out to be Greek – who outbid him when the council put the contract out to tender. The word “outsiders” cropped up more than once.

This being Britain, the hostilities in Northumberland centred around some rather passive-aggressive parking – unlike in Salem, Oregon, where the rivalry from 2009 between an established local business and a new arrival from Mexico ended in a highish-speed chase (for an ice cream van) and a showdown in a car park next to a children’s playground. (“There’s no room for hate in ice cream,” one of the protagonists claimed after the event.) A Hollywood production company has since picked up the rights to the story – which, aptly, will be co-produced by the man behind American Sniper.

Thanks to competition from supermarkets (which effortlessly undercut Mister Softee and friends), stricter emission laws in big cities that have hit the UK’s ageing fleet particularly hard, and tighter regulations aimed at combating childhood obesity, the trade isn’t what it used to be. With margins under pressure and a customer base in decline, could this summer mark the start of a new cold war?

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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