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“They were aroused by pure film,” said one critic. “It wasn’t a message that stirred the audiences, nor was it a great performance.”
As a result, Alfred Hitchcock discussed “Psycho” with Francois Truffaut, adding that it “belongs to filmmakers, to you and me.” Hitchcock purposely made “Psycho” appear to be a subpar trash movie. He used the crew for his television program instead of his customary expensive feature crew, which had just completed “North by Northwest”. He used black-and-white photography. There was no dialogue in the long stretches. Even by 1960 standards, his budget of $800,000 was modest; the Bates Motel and mansion were constructed on the rear lot of Universal. “Psycho” shares more of a primal vibe with noir short films like “Detour” than with classy Hitchcock thrillers like “Rear Window” or “Vertigo”
However, no other Hitchcock picture made a bigger impression. The filmmaker admitted to Truffaut in their in-depth interview for the book, “I was directing the viewers. I was essentially playing them like an instrument, you could say. It was the most startling movie that its first viewers had ever seen. No moviegoer could have predicted the surprises Hitchcock had in store, including the murder of Marion (Janet Leigh), the apparent protagonist, only a third of the way through the movie, and the secret of Norman’s mother. “Psycho” was advertised as an exploitation drama by William Castle. “You must start watching ‘Psycho’ at the beginning!” “The late-comers would have been expecting to see Janet Leigh after she had disappeared from the screen action,” Hitchcock ruled, adding, “
These surprises are now generally known, and yet “Psycho” continues to work as a frightening, insinuating thriller. That’s primarily due to Hitchcock’s artistry in two less obvious areas: the framing of the Marion Crane story and the dynamics between Marion and Norman. (Anthony Perkins). Both of these components function because Hitchcock gives them his undivided attention and expert handling as though they were going to be developed for the complete picture.
The theme of the setup is one that Hitchcock frequently returned to: the guilt of the average individual caught up in a criminal situation. Even though Marion Crane did steal $40,000, she still matches the Hitchcockian stereotype of the victim of a crime. She first appears to us while spending the afternoon in a run-down motel room with her ex-boyfriend, Sam Loomis. (John Gavin). Due to his alimony payments, he is unable to marry her; therefore, they must meet in secrecy. When the money materializes, it’s tied to a shady real estate client (Frank Albertson), who suggests that Marion might be up for sale for that kind of cash. Marion’s target is a creep, and her motivation is love.
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This is a perfect foundation for a two-hour Hitchcock story. Never once does it seem like something that was created to deceive us. And we get another favorite Hitchcock trademark, paranoia about the police, as Marion leaves Phoenix on her journey to Sam’s hometown of Fairvale, California. She is awakened from her slumber by a highway patrolman (Mort Mills), who then interrogates her and almost sees the envelope containing the stolen money. When she arrives at the dealership to exchange in her vehicle for one with new license plates, she is startled to see the same patrolman across the street sitting against his squad car with his arms crossed and staring at her. Every first-time watcher assumes that this setup creates a narrative arc that the film will follow through to its conclusion.
A violent downpour delays Marion as she approaches Fairvale because she is scared, exhausted, and may already regretting her crime. She enters the Bates Motel and starts her brief, tragic relationship with Norman Bates. Again, Hitchcock’s attention to detail in the scenes and dialogue leads us to believe that Norman and Marion will play important roles throughout the remainder of the movie.
He does that as they talk for a while in Norman’s “parlor,” where ferocious-looking stuffed birds stand ready to sweep down and seize them as prey. Marion gently recommends that Norman leave this rundown motel in a dead end on a road that the new interstate has bypassed after she overhears Norman’s mother berating him in the voice. She has concern for Norman. She is also inspired to reconsider her own behavior. And that touches him. He is so moved that his emotions make him feel endangered. And for that reason, he must murder her.
Psycho Quiz
Hitchcock claimed that most viewers interpreted Norman’s spying on Marion as Peeping Tom conduct. Truffaut noted that Marion’s appearance in the film’s beginning, which is in a bra and underwear, emphasizes the later voyeurism. We have no clue that a murder is coming.
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When I recall the shower scene from today, a few thoughts come to mind. In contrast to contemporary horror movies, “Psycho” never depicts the knife cutting flesh. Nobody has any scars. Blood is present, but not in large quantities. Hitchcock thought that the audience would not be able to handle so much blood in color, so he only shot in black and white. (the 1998 Gus Van Sant remake specifically repudiates that theory). Instead of more gory sound effects, the music by Bernard Herrmann uses slashing chords. The final shots, which show blood and water spinning down the sink before cutting to a closeup of Marion’s immobile eyeball, are symbolic rather than graphic. This is still the best slashing in movie history, indicating that context and artistic merit are more significant than gory specifics.
In a portrayal that has gone down in history, Perkins does a remarkable job of developing the nuanced character of Norman. Perkins demonstrates that Norman is essentially flawed, but he still exudes the likeability of a young man, stuffing his hands deep into his jeans pockets and skipping onto the porch while beaming. He only stutters and avoids questions when the discussion becomes personal. He initially makes Marion and us feel sorry for him.
Following the heroine’s passing, Norman meticulously cleans up the murder scene. Hitchcock deceitfully switches out the heroes. Although Marion is no longer alive, we now connect with Norman (perhaps subconsciously, but nonetheless) because, if we had stabbed someone, we would have been paralyzed by guilt and fear, just as he is. The scene comes to a close when Bates pushes Marion’s car into a swamp while it is still carrying her body and the money. After sinking, the car stops. Norman keeps a close eye. Finally, the vehicle sinks beneath the ground.
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When we examine our emotions, we see that we shared Norman’s desire for that vehicle to sink. Before Sam Loomis resurfaces, working with Marion’s sister Lila’s (Vera Miles) help in her quest, “Psycho” has a new lead character in Norman Bates. In Hitchcock’s lengthy history of using deception and leadership to control and lead us, this is one of the most audacious substitutions. There are two good shocks, and the remainder of the movie is good melodrama. The private eye Arbogast (Martin Balsam) is murdered, in a shot that employs back-projection to seem to follow him down the steps. And Norman’s mother’s secret is made public.
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But there is still an equal surprise in store for attentive watchers. That is the riddle of why Hitchcock added a scene that is grotesquely unnecessary to an otherwise perfect conclusion. In an odd scene that occurs after the killings are solved, a rambling psychiatrist (Simon Oakland) explains to the gathered survivors the reasons behind Norman’s psychopathic behavior. This anticlimax has almost been carried to the level of parody.
I would only include the doctor’s initial account of Norman’s dual personality if I were brave enough to recut Hitchcock’s movie: “Norman Bates no longer exists. He was only partially there to begin with. The other half has now likely permanently seized control. When the mother’s voice starts to speak (“It’s sad when a mother has to speak the words that condemn her own son…”), I would cut out everything else the psychiatrist says and move to shots of Norman covered in a blanket. I contend that those changes would have brought “Psycho” very close to being ideal. The psychiatric blather has never been adequately defended, and Truffaut skillfully steers clear of the topic in his renowned conversation.
The fact that “Psycho” speaks to our fears directly—including our fears of the police, becoming a victim of a psychopath, and, of course, our fears of disappointing our mothers—makes it immortal at a time when so many movies are already half forgotten as we leave the theater.
