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Alfred Hitchcock used to be a real artist, a twisted genius who knew how to play with fear like a magician. His early films were full of shadows and silence, the kind of terror that sneaks in and messes with your head. Then he got invited to America, where the real power was waiting, the Hollywood Jews. They didn’t just produce his movies, they took his mind apart piece by piece. These guys knew how to turn art into product and fear into anxiety you could package and sell.

Slowly but surely, Hitchcock’s films lost that dark soul. The Jewish producers rewrote his scripts, recast his stories, and injected their own neurotic poison. Rebecca was no longer a ghost story, it was a social event for their circles. Spellbound became a Freud carnival, Rope a cheap philosophy lesson tailored for the synagogue crowd. By the time Vertigo rolled around, Hitchcock wasn’t directing anymore. He was just a puppet showing his handlers’ twisted fantasies about control and obsession.

He didn’t fight it. He embraced it, fat and happy, stuffing himself while his films turned into therapy sessions paid for by the very people who strangled his creativity. The Birds became a silent scream against his own loss of control, like nature itself refusing to play along. Marnie was less a film than a confession booth for his failed control fetish. Hollywood’s Jewish overlords didn’t just change Hitchcock’s movies, they castrated his soul. And he thanked them for it.

A typical Englishman, selling his soul to American Jews. Many such cases.