In a late neorealist film like L'Avventura (1961), nothing halts the perception of eternity and possible madness in the absence of the face of another. . . except the face itself. No cliches of movement or retrieval fill up the anxiety of a lost face. . . except those of the face. Indeed, the lost face is not even mourned upon--it is potentially replaceable, however tragically it was lost. One would have to ask the question that Deleuze posits for images in general in terms of the face: how break from the cliche of the face (a cliche which includes the incontrovertibles of not only star power and glamour, but also of typage), and find what it hides? Somewhere between L'Avventura and My Fair Lady, lies the cinema of Hitchcock, who not only concerned himself more with the brains of glamorous women than their faces, but who also was the poet of their hair-dos.