Psycho
I spent most of my early life avoiding Psycho like the plague. As I have mentioned before, I'm too scared to watch most horror movies, and Psycho had a reputation as the movie that would make me never shower again. I don't remember exactly when my first viewing of the film was, but I'm pretty sure it was a surprise in-class screening in college (the first of many in my college and graduate school career, I would come to realize). After seeing the film for the first time, I kicked myself for avoiding the film for so long, as it is one of my all-time favorite movies (at the very least, in my top 200). I realize now that my preconceived notion of Psycho, as a film that was out for cheap scares, may have been what early audiences, and Paramount Pictures, expected of Hitchcock's supposed departure from his norm: polished spy thrillers and stories of ordinary men in dire straits. In truth, Psycho is an ingenious experiment in viewership, with performances, visuals, and writing that not only exceeding the 'B-movie' trappings (which in my opinion, only come from the marketing strategy and the choice to film in black and white), but also has some exceptionally subtle attitudes that are astonishingly ahead of their time. By now, I've studied Psycho through too many lenses to mention (auteurism, film music, psychoanalysis, voyeurism, etc.). Many avenues have been explored in depth by academics and critics alike. I want to focus on the little things that continue to impress me about the film, especially in the writing and performances.
What blows me away the most, time and time again, about Psycho isn't the camerawork, the big twist midway through the story, or the frightening visuals in the shower scene. It's the way that performance interacts with dialogue. This movie (with one notable exception) uses dialogue so adeptly to establish character, further the plot, and make statements about the world. It's mesmerizing. Just think of how much you learn and feel about Marion's coworker, Caroline (Pat Hitchcock), in one line: "He was flirting with you! He must have seen my wedding ring." This scene set in Marion's office is the best example of how Hitchcock marries the visuals and dialogue in such a delicate manner, despite the presence of the brash and bawdy Tom Cassidy (Frank Albertson). It's all about Marion: the complexity of her responses to Cassidy; simultaneously professional, pleasant, subservient, sarcastic, and scheming. She's all-too-familiar with this sort of interaction. This scene pays off massively later as Marion becomes a screenwriter herself, imagining how events will unfold in the office as they gradually realize she has run off with Cassidy's money. She even goes so far as to draft Cassidy's misogynistic response, all the while wearing that creepy, possessed, wide-eyed smile of smug victory, as she stares at the road ahead, later mirrored by 'Mrs. Bates' final closeup’ of the film. I can't speak for every female viewer of this film, but I can't deny my sense of satisfaction at this moment. These moments are some of the earliest examples I can think of that directly address in the workplace, and to such a degree, you desperately want Marion to get away with the theft. It's a bit of a conflicting feeling, noting the hints of feminism of these moments created by Hitchcock, a director by no means innocent of objectifying women in his films.
In addition to the cleverness in the scripts' dramatic moments, this 'suspense/horror' movie contains some truly humorous comedic moments. I always laugh at the wordplay between Caroline and Cassidy at the sight of his wad of cash: "I declare!" / "I don't. That's how I get to keep it." There are darker moments of humor, too, such as Marion's car pausing its descent into the swamp, just long enough for , at a loss as to how to proceed, until the car resumes sinking and puts him at ease. These little moments, in which the tension is broken just for a moment, gives the audience just the break they need to recalibrate their expectations and fall prey to the next unexpected moment.
I love how the viewer must form and change alliances as the film progresses. Our moral judgments of our two main characters are not so black and white as the images on the screen. We sympathize with Marion even before she absconds with the money. The worst she is doing is stealing from a pompous, rich, jerk who not only demonstrates an abuse of power and objectification of her, but who also himself admits to being a criminal in his own right via not declaring his income... Later, when the story suddenly shifts to Norman's side and supports him as he attempts to cover up 'his mother's' murders, the audience is similarly on his side. On first viewing, the audience assumes (if they are as ‘in the dark’ as Hitchcock desired) that Mrs. Bates is the murderer in the story, not Norman, and in later viewings, the audience understands that, though he is the killer, he still believes he is merely covering up the murders. It's incredible that the audience so quickly falls in line, supporting whichever 'wrongdoer' Hitchcock desires. The suspense comes not from what these people will do, but instead, if they will get away with what they've done. This suspense increases because both Marion and Norman are terrible at what they are doing, with misstep after misstep along their ways that make the audience all the more concerned that they will fail at any moment.
Janet Leigh as Marion Crane, Psycho (1960).
As far as the performances go, I've already mentioned how impressively Janet Leigh portrays the complexities of Marion Crane. The other lead performer, Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates, has an equally daunting task in playing both Norman and Mrs. Bates while attempting to fool the audience about the latter character until the last possible second. The small hints Perkins brings to Norman, such as his hips reservedly swaying a bit as he ascends the staircase in his home, serve as clues to the resolution of the mystery. Apart from these subtleties, his more overt performance is also fascinating to watch. He is so adorable, innocent, charming, and friendly in his introductory scene, it's impossible to resist falling in love with him, at least a little bit (or, in my case, a lot...). Nevertheless, as charming as Norman can be, when he feels threatened, and we begin to see his 'spider' side come out to his 'fly' in the 'parlor,' his abrupt change in tone is nothing short of disturbing. In a single moment, he becomes an unstable, fearsome presence that, in ten minutes or so, we will be rooting for, regardless of how he makes us feel in this moment.
Now that I've discussed all of the things I love about Psycho, I'll briefly mention a few of the film elements that keep it from being a perfect movie in my eyes. The first problem that I saw was a casting decision. While I love the main and supporting cast almost in its entirety, John Gavin as Marion's boyfriend and eventual investigator of the mystery, is about as dull as they come, especially when acting against Leigh, Perkins, and Vera Miles as Marion's sister. He's the most cardboard cutout 'pretty face' I've ever seen, who seems to read the script while bringing absolutely nothing but the bare minimum to the table. He's quite a disappointment when you consider how great the rest of the cast is. Well, with one other exception that I'll discuss later...
Visually, I think Psycho is nearly perfect, except for one single shot. It's a contentious shot; people either love it or hate it, but I find the moment that Arbogast falls down the stairs terrible. It's the most 'B-movie' that this film ever looks, and I can't believe that a director whose work is always so polished, and who innovated camera movement in Vertigo (1958) only two years earlier, would find this an acceptable shot in his movie. I know that Hitchcock was bedridden for a portion of shooting, and I can't help but believe that his assistant director is responsible for these few seconds of visual sloppiness.
My final two issues involve the script of the film. I love the suspense of Marion's flight from Phoenix, her run-in with a police officer, and her desperation to exchange her car. I can't for the life of me understand why the officer, who was suspicious of her from the outset, and then saw her exchange her car after he looked at her license and plates as he was tailing her, just let the whole thing drop after that. Perhaps he underestimated her intentions, but he spends so much time watching her, and it all comes to nothing. He doesn't even question her. It has never made any sense to me, and always takes me out of the movie for a second.
The final and most significant problem I have with the movie is the scene toward the end, in which the psychiatrist (Simon Oakland) explains all of the missing pieces of the mystery. Every. Single. Piece. I don't mind a bit of insight into Norman's psyche, but this scene is too long, too explanatory, and doesn't leave anything to the imagination. I mean, I know the general public’s knowledge of psychiatry was not the same as it may be today, but was all of this explanation really necessary? The film would have been all the better if Hitchcock had cut this scene entirely, or, at the very least, cut down to one or two lines. I'm particularly irritated by Oakland's performance, as he portrays the psychiatrist akin to all of the Holmes’ or Poirot's as he 'solves the case.' It's so irritating, with the only saving grace being that it's not the movie's final scene. What follows is a stunning final performance by Anthony Perkins to finish up the film. If that psychiatrist scene had been the moment that closed the movie, I don't think I'd be able to hold it in as high an esteem as I do.
Psycho continues to be a joy to watch, even after studying it to death for the better part of a decade. From the classic Herrman score (how did I not mention the fantastic opening sequence in this whole review?), to Hitch's masterful direction, and some stellar performances, there is always something to keep me coming back to the Bates Motel, time and time again. Don't worry, though, I always shower at home. - Bailey 🚿💀
Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates, Psycho (1960).
What can one write about Psycho that has not already been said? Arguably one of Alfred Hitchcock’s most famous (or infamous) films, Psycho has cemented itself in this place of esteem within the cinematic world. Countless directors have cited this film as a source of inspiration (I am thinking about you Brian De Palma!), and yet, upon re-watching this film, I have to scratch my head and wonder: why?
It is not that I do not care for the film, as, at the very least, I can appreciate it for its historical significance, but I do not believe that it is one of Hitchcock’s better films. For suspense, give me Ingrid Bergman hiding a key in Notorious (1946); for horror, I’ll take The Birds (1963); and for pure entertainment, I gladly re-watch Rear Window (1954) or North by Northwest (1959) pretty much any given day… Psycho just does not gel, for me, as a good example of narrative filmmaking. The movie feels disjointed, like Hitch decided to throw a whole bunch of ideas into the film to see what would stick, to see what he could get away with, and to see just how far he could push the censors.
In reviewing this film, the main issue that I have lies in the feeling that Hitchcock struggled to find a main character. The standout performances should be that of Anthony Perkins or Janet Leigh, for their portrayals of Norman Bates and Marion Crane, respectively, and yet this film is not really centered upon either of them. The film feels divided, split right down the middle (not unlike Norman’s personality), with the events pre and post ‘the shower scene’ carrying equal, but thematically divided, weight. (The camera even seems lost upon Marion’s death, panning out from her corpse, as if searching for a new character upon which to focus.)
From the start, Marion’s motives never quite made sense. Her actions and words were constantly at odds; one moment telling her lover, Sam Loomis (John Gavin), that they can’t keep seeing each, that they cannot keep their relationship going in its current state, and yet then sharing a passionate kiss, which contradicts her insistence that they end things. One can assume, when Marion steals the money, and runs away, that her intentions (via voice-overs playing in her mind) are to run away with Sam, but her actions, once again, prove to be full of contradictions. She never phones Sam, she does not set her fantasies into motion, and appears, instead, to be conflicted with her actions, resolving to return to Phoenix and clean up the mess she has made for herself. Her subsequent death, partway through the film, becomes a jarring turn of events, begging for some sort of satisfying resolution beyond what we are given within this film.
Logic might then dictate that the second half of the film should be given over to Norman, and yet much of the action swirls around outsiders, with the introduction of Lila Crane (Vera Miles) and P.I. Milton Arbogast (Martin Balsam), who teamed up with Sam Loomis in the search for Marion and the missing money. The money ends up being both a blessing and a curse, which drives the action of the plot, as the $40,000 is Marion’s downfall, but also acts as the only force that brings about the recovery of her body… (It is actually a rather disheartening subtext to think about, when you realize that the plot of Psycho hinges upon the assumption that if a woman went missing, no one would actively pursue tracking her down if it weren’t for a large sum of money…) None of these secondary characters quite live up to the tension that is built surrounding Marion or Norman.
However, my favorite character in the film, hands down, is the Bates Motel. Each of the spaces within the grounds, from the motel proper to the Bates’ house, play such central roles in the film that you cannot help but appreciate the level of detail and startling juxtapositions these spaces provide. (Right down to the architecture, with the gothic and looming presence of the Bates’ house, contrasted with the modern and rustically simple structure of the hotel proper.) Take for instance, the scene in which Norman invites Marion into the parlor behind the office. This space, which Norman refers to as being “warmer,” is anything but. The taxidermied birds should have been a massive warning to Marion ‘Crane,’ the utterance of her last name being the cincher for Norman (we even briefly see him check his ledger, where Marion signed her last name a “Samuels”), and, as if recognizing her deceit, Norman literally sets his sights on her as his target, via his peephole, with premeditated plans to snuff her out as easily as he would stuff one of his birds. I, also, cannot help but appreciate the irony of Marion’s last name, and the abundance of bird motifs, as if Hitchcock is cheekily hinting to his viewers that The Birds would be his next big film project.
Nothing about Psycho stands out more to me than that of the final scene. The inadequate resolution is neither satisfying nor all that shocking. With Norman/‘Mother’ sitting demurely in the chair, wrapped in a blanket, the audience knows that the character (based on the psychologist boring and long-winded monologue) is most likely bound for a ‘psych’ ward, lacking a sense of justice or completely satisfying resolution that accounts for each of the murders Norman has committed. The best part about this ending, however, is the subtle moment when the ‘Mother’s’ skull is transposed upon Norman’s face, giving the character a momentarily and externally hideous appearance. This is, of course, overshadowed by the true final moments of the film, with Marion’s car being pulled up from the swamp. This proves that the elements that are not seen, such as Marion’s decaying body or Norman’s internal and tumultuously conflicted personalities, are actually the scariest.
With his final shot, this external manifestation of evil, Hitchcock, like many a great magician, proves his mastery of misdirection with the ways in which he withholds the truth from the viewer, keeping them guessing from the very beginning of the film right up to that pivotal moment when Lila Crane enters the Bates’ fruit cellar… Psycho is a film that gets even creepier upon repeated viewings, as you, the viewer, know what is going to happen, and can relish in the cunning ways Hitchcock attempts to distract you, to mis-direct your attention, and to play tricks on you in an attempt to get you to believe that Norman is just your average boy, who also happens to be controlled by his overbearing and aging mother. While I am not the biggest fan of this film, I can appreciate its lasting legacy, and might even have to agree with Norman that “we all (indeed) go a little mad sometimes…” – Sarah 💵🤷
What did you think of Psycho? Who is your favorite character? What is your favorite Hitchcock film? Share your thoughts with us in the comments below and be sure to check back in with us at the end of the week for the announcement of our October Film Club Pick!
Copyright © 2020 Sarah Crane & Bailey Lizotte
