The following is Hitchcock speaking about his directional debut (The Pleasure Garden) years later while being interview by Francois Traffaut (in his journalistic days). I would want you to read it for yourself. Also to refresh your memory on Hitchcock’s presence, I would request you to watch this video first: What’s my line?

AH: Melodramatic. But there were several interesting scenes in it. I want to tell you something about the shooting, because that was the very first picture I directed, and it was natural for me, I suppose, to have a sense of drama. So, at twenty minutes to eight on Saturday evening, I’m at the station in Munich, ready to leave for the location shooting in Italy. In the station, waiting for the train to start, I’m saying to myself, “This is your first picture.” Nowadays, when I leave a location, I have to go with a crew of a hundred and forty people. But then it was only the leading man, Miles Mander; cameraman, Baron Vintigmilia; and a young girl who was supposed to playa native woman who is drowned. There was also a news-reel cameraman, because we were going to do a ship-departure scene in Genoa. We were going to shoot the ship’s departure with one camera on the shore and another on the ship’s deck. And the ship was going to stop outside the harborto allow us to get the actors and the newsreelcameraman back to the dock to photographthe characters as they waved their farewells.The next scene was to be shot in San Remo. This scene has the native girl wading out to sea to commit suicide, and Levett, the villain in the story, is to rush out and make sure the girl is dead, by holding her head underwater. Thenhe’s to bring the body back to shore, saying, “1did my best to save her.”The following scenes take place at Lake Como,in the hotel of the Villa d’Este. Honeymoon,love scenes on the lake, beautiful romance, etc.My wife-to-be is there on the platform at Munichthat evening and we are talking together.She’s not coming with us. Her job-you know,she’s only as tall as that; she was twenty-fourthen-was to go to Cherbourg by herself to pickup the leading lady, who was coming in fromHollywood. She was Virginia Valli, a very bigstar at the time, Universal’s biggest-and whoplayed Patsy. My fiancee is to pick her up fromthe Aquitania at Cherbourg, take her to Paris,buy her a wardrobe there and then meet us atthe Villa d’Este. That’s all.The train is scheduled to leave at eight o’clock. It is now two minutes to eight. The actor, Miles Mander, says to me, “My God, I’ve left my makeup case in the taxi,” and he runs off.I shout out after him, “We’l! be at the Hotel Bristol, in Genoa. Take the train tomorrow night, because we’re shooting on Tuesday.” I should remind you that this was on Saturday evening, and we were to arrive in Genoa on Sunday morning to get ready for the shooting. It’s now eight, but the train hasn’t left. A few minutes go by. Eight-ten. The train begins to move. And suddenly there’s a great row at the barrier and 1 see Miles Mander leaping over the gate, with three railway officials chasing him down the platform. He had found his make-up case and just manages to hop into the last car. The first bit of film drama is over, but this is only the beginning! The train is now on its way. We have no one to handle the accounts and 1 must take care of them myself. The accounting is more important than the directing. I’m terribly concerned over the money. We are in sleepmg cars. As we reach the Austro-Italian border, Vintigmilia says, “Be very careful. We’re not to declare the camera. Otherwise, they will cbarge duty on every lens.” “What do you mean?”

“The German company told us to smuggle the camera through,” he tells me. When I ask him where the camera is, he tells me it’s under my bunk. As ‘lOll know, I’ve always been afraid of policemen and I begin to sweat. And now I am also informed that the ten thousand feet of unexposed stock in our baggage is not to be declared either. The customs men come into our compartment. Big suspense for me. They don’t find the camera, but they discover the film. And since we haven’t declared it, they confiscate it. So we land in Genoa the following morning with no film. And we spend the whole day trying to buy some. On Monday morning I decide to send the newsreel man to Milan to buy some raw stock from Kodak. And I’m still busy with the bookkeeping: lire to marks, marks to pounds -it’s all terribly confusing. The cameraman returns at noon, bringing with him twenty pounds’ worth of film. And now we are advised that the ten thousand feet of unexpos.ed film that had been confiscated at the border has arrived and I must pay the duty. So I’ve wasted twenty pounds, a very large amount in our small budget! We have barely enough money left for the shooting of the location scenes. On Tuesday the boat is scheduled to leave the dock at noon. It’s the Lloyd Prestino, a large ship that is on its way to South America. We have to rent a tugboat to go out of the harbor. That’s another ten pounds. Well, everything is finally settled. But at ten-thirty, when I take out my vvallet to tip the tugboat man, I find it’s empty. There isn’t a sou! Ten thousand lire gone! I run back to the hotel, look under the bed, everywhere. No sign of the money. I go to the police to report that someone must have entered my room while I was asleep. “It’s a good thing I didn’t wake up, or I might have been stabbed,” I think. I’m very miserable, but the work must go on. And in the excitement of directing my very first scene, I forget all about the loss of the money. But when the shooting’s over, I’m very depressed again. I borrow ten pounds from the cameraman and fifteen from the actor. Since this doesn’t cover our needs, I write a letter to London requesting an advance on my salary. I also compose another letter to the German company, in Munich, saying, “I may need a little more money.” But I don’t dare to mail this request, because they might say, “How do you know you may need more money so early?” So I only mail the letter to London. Then we go back to the Hotel Bristol, where we’re to have lunch before setting out for San Remo. After the meal, I go out in the street. And there is my cameraman, Vintigmilia, with the German girl who is to play the native who throws herself into the sea. With them is the newsreel operator, who has now completed his work and is about to return to Munich. The three of them are standing there, with their heads together, talking very solemnly. I go up to them and say, “Is anything wrong?” “Yes,” they answer. “The girl. She can’t go into the water.” I ask, “What do you mean, she can’t go into the water?” And they insist, saying, “That’s right, she can’t go into the water. You know …” Bewildered, I reply, “No, what do you mean?” So then and there, on the sidewalk, with people walking back and forth, the two cameramen tell me all about menstruation. I’ve never heard of it in my life! They go into great detail, and I listen very carefully to what they have to say. When they’re through with their explanation, I’m still cross. All I can think about is the money I’ve wasted in bringing the girl with us, all those lire and marks. Very irritated, I mutter, “Well, why couldn’t she have told us about it in Munich, three days ago?” Anyvvay, we ship her back with the cameraman and we proceed to Alassio. We manage to find another girl, but this one was somewhat plumper than her ailing predecessor and my leading man was unable to lift her. At each attempt to haul her out of the water, he lets her drop, to the delight of a hundred onlookers, who are howling with laughter. And just as he finally succeeds in carrying her out, a little old lady, who had been quietly gathering sea shells nearby, saunters right across our scene, staring straight into the camera!ext, we board the train, on our way to the Villa d’Este. And I’m very nervous because Virginia Valli, the Hollywood star, has just arrived. I can’t let her know that this is my first picture.

The first thing I say to my fiancee is, “Have you any money?” “No!” “But you had enough,” I point out. “Yes, but she brought another actress, Carmelita Geraghty. I tried to take them to the Hotel Westminster on the Rue de la Paix, but they insisted on the Claridge.” So I tell my fiancee all about my troubles. Eventually, we start the shooting and everything works out all right. In those days, of course, we shot moonlight scenes in the sun and we tinted the film blue. After each shot I’d turn back to my fiancee, asking, “Was it all right?” Only now do I work up the courage to send a cable to Munich saying that we need more money. Meanwhile, I have received the advance on my salary from London. The actor, being a very mean fellow, demands his money back. When I ask him why, he tells me that his tailor insists on being paid. Which wasn’t true,you know! And the suspense continues. I get some money from Munich, but am still fretting over the hotel bill, the rental of motorboats, and all sorts of incidentals. On the night before we’re to leave for Munich, I’m terribly nervous. You see, not only don’t I want the film star to know it’s my first picture, but I don’t want her to know that we’re short of money either-that we’re a very impoverished unit. So I do a really mean thing. I manage to twist the facts and put the whole blame on my fiancee, for bringing the extra girl. “Therefore,” I say, “you’ve got to borrow two hundred dollars from the star.” She tells the star some story and returns with the money, enabling me to pay the hotel bill and buy tickets for our sleepers. We are to change trains at Zurich, in Switzerland, to arrive in Munich the following day. At the station they make me pay for excess baggage because the two American girls have trunks this high! By now we’ve almost run out of money. I must begin my scheming again-always those damned accounts! And, as you know, I always make my fiancee do all the dirty work. I tell her to go and ask the two Americans whether they want to have dinner. And to our relief they reply that they won’t eat the food on these foreign trains; they have brought sand’wiches from the hotel. This means that the rest of us can afford to have dinner. I go back to my calculations and notice that in transferring lire into Swiss francs there is a loss of a few pennies. The train is late and there is a connection to make in Zurich. At nine P.M. we see a train moving out of the station: it’s our train! This means that we will haveto spend the night in Zurich. But there’s so littlemoney! Just then the train comes to a stop. Thesuspense is almost more than I can bear. Theporters rush up but I wave them away-too expensive-and I start to haul the bags myself. OnSwiss trains, as you know, the windows have noframes. The bottom of one of the suitcases hitsa window, and there is the loudest noise of fallingglass I’ve ever heard in my life!A railway official dashes up to us, saying, “Monsieur,this way please.”I’m taken to the office of the stationmaster,where I’m informed that the broken window willcost me thirty-five Swiss francs. So after payingfor that I landed in Munich with one pfennig.That was my first location shooting.