In 2026, film and mystery lovers have a double anniversary to look forward to: 70 and 60 years since the release of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) and Torn Curtain (1966). The fact that these landmark thrillers bookend the Master of Suspense’s most popular and creative decade can be linked to a key artistic figure who worked in his orbit: the composer Bernard Herrmann. How did the two geniuses meet, collaborate and create together – and what was the faux pas that eventually ended it all?
An accidental film music composer
Born in 1911 into New York’s Jewish upper middle class, Herrmann was encouraged to pursue music from an early age by his family. In his teens, he starts dabbling in composition and winning prizes, which eventually lands him a place at the prestigious Julliard School, where he promptly creates his own ensemble. For all his talent in musical performance and writing, young Bernard’s true dream is in fact to become a conductor. Barely twenty, Herrmann gets his foot in the door (or rather, on the podium) through the most revolutionary technology of his day: the radio. Employed by the Columbia Broadcasting System, he frequently conducts the CBS Symphony and gradually becomes a household name on airwaves.
In 1938, bumping into Orson Welles in the corridors of CBS’ studios proves decisive. The visionary actor-director entrusts the young maestro with the soundtrack of his very first feature film, Citizen Kane – a new experience for Herrmann who had never written for cinema before. The rest is history: Citizen Kane wins one Oscar and is nominated for nine more – including Best Original Score – at the 1942 Academy Awards, thus launching Bernard Herrmann into a composing career in Hollywood. A world away from the classical stages he had pictured himself thriving on, baton in hand and tailcoat on his back…
As for Alfred Hitchcock, the 1930s and 40s see him rise in the cinema world and patiently hone his unique approach to filmmaking, where nothing – not a single camera shot, line of script or music note – is left to chance. But although some of his films’ soundtracks are critically acclaimed, the ambitious director is still looking for his musical alter ego.
Trouble with Harry, trigger with Hitchcock
In 1955, the up-and-coming «Master of Suspense» decides to turn to Bernard Herrmann to «spice up» his latest project, a dark-humoured crime comedy called The Trouble with Harry. Marketed as «an unexpected sidestep by Hitchcock», the storyline calls for a fresh, bold score to match. Herrmann does not disappoint. According to the film music specialist Steve Vertlieb, «Hitchcock was delighted with Herrmann’s score for Harry, and regarded it as his favorite of their frequent collaborations». He goes on concluding that
« on the screen, Bernard Herrmann became the musical voice the director had sought for years . . . Rarely in film has there existed as pure an artistic umbilical chord. »
A decade of co-creation
The Man Who Knew Too Much, Vertigo, The Wrong Man… From one film to the other, Herrmann’s artistic identity as Alfred Hitchcock’s «official» composer takes shape. And though he is now firmly rooted in Hollywood, his style remains classical to the core: Herrmann’s sources of inspiration range in fact from German Romanticism to French Impressionism and the Great American Songbook. As Steven C. Smith sums up in his 1991 biography, A Heart at Fire’s Centre, «Perhaps Herrmann’s greatest achievement was his remarkable use of orchestration to reinforce theme and character psychology». Indeed, the former maestro never forgot his first love and systematically turned to the orchestra for his soundtracks. Each project also provided an opportunity for him to refine his «doctrine» as to what constitutes good film music. To Herrmann, its role is not so much to accompany the action or to artificially amplify the emotions displayed on screen as to become an active part of the storytelling process – be it to portray a character, shape a landscape or conjure an atmosphere. Think of the infamous «shower scene» in Psycho (1960), where high-pitched strings convey both the murderer’s determination and his victim’s terror, while also inducing a chilling sense of claustrophobia in the viewer.
1966: Torn friendship
While Psycho certainly marks a peak in both Herrmann and Hitchcock’s careers, it also opens a decade during which the tide sadly turns. As societal values evolve in the wake of the Radical Sixties, so do musical preferences. Film music gradually aligns with the standards of the nascent – yet already ebullient – pop industry: «catchy» melodies and short, memorable tunes that can be turned into LPs. Henry Mancini’s soundtrack for Breakfast at Tiffany’s and Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Sound of Music are prime examples of that new, commercially successful style of film music.
Needless to say, this does not do for Bernard Herrmann, who shows no intention of giving up his identity as a classical composer or the approach he skilfully developed over his 25-year career in cinema. In a 2025 article for the specialist media Bachtrack, the American musician Jacob Slattery reflects on his compatriot’s reluctance:
« Herrmann didn’t want the audience to leave the theatre whistling a pretty melody; he wanted the audience to leave the theatre having experienced a prescribed sentiment. »
Alfred Hitchcock on the other hand does not mind adapting and asks «his» composer for a score in line with the new codes of Hollywood film music for his upcoming project, Torn Curtain. Herrmann defies him and is immediately dismissed – full stop. The British director and the American composer never resumed their working relationship or their friendship.
Was it Hitchcock’s loss? Undeniably so, according to Steve Vertlieb, who argues that Herrmann was a man of irreplaceable acumen and integrity: «Bernard Herrmann believed that music for the cinema carried the same significance as music written for the concert hall . . . He gave unsparingly of his talent to films, television, radio, opera and the concert stage». If he «abhorred the term ‘film composer’», it was only because to him, the worlds of cinema and classical music; the screen and the stage, were one and the same thing. This perspective is perhaps best illustrated in this iconic scene from Herrmann’s second venture with Alfred Hitchcock, the 1956 blockbuster The Man Who Knew Too Much. Inside a Royal Albert Hall filled to the rafters, the London Symphony Orchestra and its choir perform a score of such epic scale that the viewer almost forgets they are watching a thriller movie – and that somewhere around the upper gallery, a killer prepares to point a loaded gun at the stage…
