When teasing out the meaning of The Birds, many critics take their lead from the hysterical woman who links the attacks to Daniels' arrival ("I think you're the cause of all of this"). This implies that the birds are a manifestation of sex, some galvanic hormonal storm that whisks sleepy Bodega Bay into a great communal lather.
Alternatively, they might be viewed as an eruption of rage. The film's first act, after all, is an uncomfortable buildup of tension (both sexual and social), an ongoing joust of loaded glances and teasing evasions. Its characters are so guarded, so gamey, so disconnected from their own emotions, that something's got to give. The moment when Daniels has her hair knocked over her eyes is the moment when the mask slips and the pressure cooker explodes. When the pie is opened, the birds begin to sing. Except that in this case they don't sing so much as scream.
The Birds is generally regarded as the last great Hitchcock movie (it was shot in 1963, when the director's reputation was at its peak). Might it also stand as the essential Hitchcock movie, the purest and most confident, a brilliant distillation of the themes that had fuelled him ever since he sent the lodger creeping to his upstairs room? Every time I watch it, I find myself more impressed with its daring, audacity and command of its material. I love the way Hitchcock juggles shrill B-movie histrionics with chill arthouse gloss. I love the formal precision of his camerawork, the deft economy of Evan Hunter's dialogue and a sense of location so sharp and assured that I feel that I've been there, stood on that jetty and made the walk around the headland.