When we think of our attitudes toward horror movies changing as we get older, we usually think of growing out of them. Things that scared us as children often don’t hold the same weight and terror when we’re adults. A far more interesting question to me is what kind of horror we grow into as we get older. Sometimes this happens just because of the nature of aging: films that explore the terror of facing our own mortality feel more immediate the older we get. Other times, traumatic experiences can bring new meaning to films that formerly held little menace for us. This is definitely true for me, though I’m sure that my trauma will elicit giggles rather than sympathy: I gained a deeper understanding of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds after I incurred the wrath of several barn swallows.
I lived for about a decade in rural Tennessee. One night I came home and started digging through my bag for my house key. As I searched for the key, I glanced up and saw a bird sitting on a nest on my porch staring at me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was staring at me with all the hatred in the universe. I still remember those cold black eyes burning a hole through my soul. Quint’s monologue about “the devil’s eyes” in Jaws applies just as much to birds as it does to sharks: they have no warmth or love in them, just rage and contempt.
I didn’t know that at the time, though, so I made eye contact with the bird (mistake #1) and spoke to it in what I thought were soothing tones (mistake #2). When I finally found my keys and walked into the house, I thought I had calmed the bird down, but in reality, I had just made a lifelong enemy. An enemy that had decided to turn my life into a reenactment of Tippi Hedren’s fate in The Birds. The next day when I walked out the front door to go to my car, two birds swarmed me. They dive-bombed my head and chased me back into the house. Terrified, I tried again, running from the screeching birds all the way to my car. Once I made it to safety I sped off, checking the rearview mirror and wondering if they would follow me. They didn’t. They just stayed behind and waited.
The birds continued to dive-bomb me every time I left the house, and their numbers soon grew. Two birds became five; five became twelve. I had to carry an umbrella at all times just to give myself an iota of protection against the feathered demons. The birds never forgot me, either. Long after the chicks in that nest had grown up and flown away, the neighborhood birds kept tabs on me and swooped down at my head to let me know that I would forever be their mortal enemy. I would never be safe from the birds unless I moved away. Luckily, I soon did just that (for non-avian reasons, but I was glad to say goodbye to the birds all the same).
Before all this misfortune, I had a vague recollection of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds as a goofy creature feature. I had only seen it once, probably when I was about ten years old, and at the time I had laughed at how silly and decidedly un-scary it was. “Why would anybody be afraid of birds?” I remember asking my mom and my great-aunt. Perhaps that’s when all this was set in motion. It wasn’t my poor decision to make eye contact and engage in conversation that set off the territorial papa bird; it was my hubris decades prior that made the birds decide to teach me a lesson later in life.
As a result of my barn swallow encounter, I’m terrified to this day of birds. I get nervous if I hear even the most “beautiful” of birdsong, and seeing one flying overhead makes me run for the nearest shelter. So when I rewatched The Birds recently, it evoked a deeply uncomfortable, visceral horror inside me. The opening of the film — with its squawking, flapping chaos — caused all the atoms in my body to vibrate with the urge to flee and cover my head. Each gull, sparrow, and corvid attack set my sympathetic nervous system aflame. I was nauseated and torn between wanting to freeze or run as far away as I could.
The most famous set piece is the most relatable and harrowing part of the film for me. Melanie (Hedren) is sitting outside a schoolhouse. A huge black bird settles on a large set of monkey bars behind her. By this point, the audience is keenly aware of just how dangerous even one bird can be, having seen seagulls and sparrows attack people out of nothing but pure malice. Hitchcock ratchets up the tension cruelly and masterfully, cutting back and forth between Melanie and the monkey bars as the birds slowly grow in number. Soon there are eight birds where before there was just one. Then in a final devastating reveal, as Melanie tracks a single bird flying toward the playground, she turns to see that there are hundreds of birds behind her. They are watching, waiting, and plotting. They want blood.
That’s all any bird wants. They are foul-tempered velociraptors of the sky, just waiting to bring feathery evil into the lives of unsuspecting people. Of course, intellectually speaking, I know this isn’t true. The birds were trying to scare me out of their territory to protect their young. It wasn’t personal, but it sure as hell felt personal when I was hauling ass to my car with only an umbrella to protect me.
The birds’ behavior in the film feels deeply personal as well. They only seem agitated when Melanie is around; their rage follows her from San Francisco to Bodega Bay and wreaks havoc in the once-peaceful town (At one point a man actually explodes!). Hitchcock’s misogyny, abuse, and unsettling obsession with Tippi Hedren are well-documented. This knowledge makes watching the film that much more uncomfortable when you realize that the birds are in fact targeting Melanie due to her free-spirited sexual energy.
I can’t say that I relate to Tippi Hedren’s sexual charisma, but I do relate to Melanie’s terror at realizing that the birds have it out for her specifically. If an animal doesn’t like you, you feel like it’s picking up on some inner failing. As far as I knew, I was the only person in my neighborhood who had to endure bird attacks, and it made me wonder if there was something horribly wrong with me at a cellular level. It’s an awful feeling when Mother Nature herself decides that she hates you.
There is far more to unpack in The Birds than just my relatively newfound terror of anything with wings and feathers. However, the ecological implications and troubling psychosexual elements are topics for another day. For now, it’s more than enough for me to reflect on the fear and revulsion I felt when revisiting this classic suspense film. Contrary to what my younger self believed, birds are terrifying. They are composed of sharp beaks, merciless eyes, wings that flutter much too quickly and chaotically, and boundless hatred. When birds are around — and they are always, always around — the air itself feels charged with danger. At the end of the film, Melanie and her companions leave Bodega Bay forever as the birds screech and watch them go. I’m content to do the same; the birds can have whatever they want as long as they leave me the hell alone.
