Tipu’s Tiger (c. 1790)

Between 1767 and 1799 there was a series of wars fought between the British East India Com­pa­ny and the King­dom of Mysore, all part of the ongo­ing strug­gle of the British to con­sol­i­date domin­ion in the Indi­an sub­con­ti­nent and lay the ground for what would become the British Empire. The Fourth, and last, Anglo-Mysore War cul­mi­nat­ed in 1799 with the deci­sive defeat and death of Tipu Sul­tan, the ruler of the Mysore­ans, at the siege of his cap­i­tal, Seringa­p­atam.

Dur­ing the sub­se­quent plun­der of Tipu’s palace, East India Com­pa­ny troops came across an unusu­al and intrigu­ing mechan­i­cal toy in a room giv­en over to musi­cal instru­ments. It was a carved and paint­ed wood­en tiger sav­aging a near life-size Euro­pean man. Con­cealed inside the tiger’s body, behind a hinged flap, was an organ which could be oper­at­ed by the turn­ing of a han­dle next to it. This simul­ta­ne­ous­ly made the man’s arm lift up and down and pro­duced nois­es intend­ed to imi­tate his dying moans and the growls of the tiger. A piece more emblem­at­ic of the Sultan’s antipa­thy towards the British would be hard to find!

The Gov­er­nors of the East India Com­pa­ny sent the inter­est­ing object back to Lon­don, where, after a few years in stor­age, it was dis­played in the read­ing-room of the East India Com­pa­ny Muse­um and Library at East India House in Lead­en­hall Street. It proved to be a very pop­u­lar exhib­it and the pub­lic could not only view Tipu’s Tiger, but crank its han­dle and oper­ate its machin­ery at will. This they did on a reg­u­lar basis, appar­ent­ly, to the deep annoy­ance of stu­dents try­ing to study there. No sur­prise then, that at some point the han­dle dis­ap­peared, and the peri­od­i­cal The Athenaeum report­ed that:

“Luck­i­ly, a kind fate has deprived him of his han­dle… and we do sin­cere­ly hope he will remain so, to be seen and admired but to be heard no more”

In 1880, the Vic­to­ria and Albert Muse­um acquired the piece, and it remains there to this day (the han­dle has of course been replaced, though not for the pub­lic to crank). Tipu was big into his tigers: he had jew­elled, gold­en tiger heads as finials on his throne, tiger stripes stamped onto his coinage, and tigers incor­po­rat­ed into the Mysore­an swords, guns, and mor­tars. How­ev­er, this won­der­ful­ly paint­ed piece is cer­tain­ly the most unusu­al! Do call into the V&A if you get the oppor­tu­ni­ty.

 
Tipu’s Tiger

The Shower Scene in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960)

In Novem­ber 1957, police in Plain­field, Wis­con­sin, inves­ti­gat­ing the dis­ap­pear­ance of store own­er Ber­nice Wor­den, arrest­ed one Edward Gein. Upon search­ing his house, they found Bernice’s decap­i­tat­ed body hang­ing upside down by her legs and “dressed out like a deer”. In addi­tion, they found a cat­a­logue of gris­ly tro­phies and keep­sakes made from human skin and bones. Gein con­fessed to mur­der­ing two women and, even more shock­ing­ly, exhum­ing up to nine corpses of recent­ly-buried mid­dle-aged women from local grave­yards. The Butch­er of Plain­field, as he became known, would pro­vide inspi­ra­tion for the future mak­ers of the Texas Chain­saw Mas­sacre, The Silence of the Lambs, and – thanks to the 1959 Robert Bloch nov­el of the same name – Alfred Hitchcock’s Psy­cho.

Besides mak­ing peo­ple for­ev­er wary of motel-room show­ers, Hitch­cock­’s Psy­cho con­tin­ues to have an incal­cu­la­ble influ­ence on pop­u­lar cul­ture. It was a clear mark­er in the his­to­ry of cin­e­ma, par­tic­u­lar­ly the psy­cho­log­i­cal thriller, of which Hitch­cock was a mas­ter. It may not have been the first “slash­er movie” (that cred­it has been giv­en to British movie Peep­ing Tom, released just three months pri­or to Psy­cho, or even 1932’s Thir­teen Women) but it was cer­tain­ly the most dra­mat­ic and impact­ful in the pub­lic con­scious­ness.

It is of course the sto­ry of Nor­man Bates (Antho­ny Perkins), the obses­sion­al, split-per­son­al­i­ty psy­chopath of the title, and Mar­i­on Crane (Janet Leigh), the sin­gle female find­ing her­self in very much the wrong place at the wrong time, name­ly Bates Motel. The noto­ri­ous show­er scene, in which Mar­i­on is mur­dered in a fren­zied knife attack, is the piv­otal scene and one of the most stud­ied mon­tages of film edit­ing ever made. It was shot over one week in Decem­ber 1959. The fin­ished scene runs for three min­utes, includes sev­en­ty sev­en dif­fer­ent cam­era angles, main­ly extreme close-ups and fifty cuts.

For Leigh’s blood, which swirled down the show­er drain, Hitch­cock used Bosco choco­late syrup. To cre­ate the sound effect of the knife stab­bing flesh, he sent prop man Bob Bone out to fetch a vari­ety of mel­ons. The direc­tor then closed his eyes as Bone took turns stab­bing water­mel­ons, casabas, can­taloupes and hon­ey­dews (he chose casa­ba). The sound­track of screech­ing string instru­ments was an orig­i­nal and high­ly effec­tive piece by com­pos­er Bernard Her­rmann.

Para­mount had con­sid­ered the movie a high­ly risky project, so Hitch­cock deferred his salary in exchange for 60 per­cent of the net prof­it. The film cost just $800,000 to make, grossed $40 mil­lion and Hitch­cock pock­et­ed some $15 million…so not a bad deci­sion!

Alfred Hitch­cock