Psycho: Still a masterpiece, 6 decades later

Directed by: Alfred Hitchcock

Written by: Joseph Stefano, Robert Bloch

Starring: Janet Leigh, Anthony Perkins, Vera Miles, John Gavin

It seems ridiculous that someone who calls themselves a ‘film fan’ hadn’t – by the age of 35 – seen one of the world’s most famous films of all time. And yet, until recently, there we were. I suppose my general dislike of horror is probably the reason for my procrastination. Don’t let the tattoos and football hooliganism fool you; I am, in my soul, a piece of wet tissue paper with the most nervous of dispositions.

But enough; there are simply no excuses for not watching history’s most famous director’s most famous film. It’s so famous, it’s had films made about the film. So, I got some popcorn, installed the boyfriend as a shield, and braced myself for 109 minutes of clenching.

And clench, I did.

The problem with oldies

Unfortunately, as with many a classic, a lot of Millennials like myself (and younger) will never really see these kinds of films ‘for the first time’. The biggest reveal of our lifetime has so far been ‘Who Shot Mr. Burns’, which – to be fair – more than makes up for our pre-ordained knowledge of the classics. We already knew the twist in Empire before we properly watched it. We already knew what ‘Rosebud’ was (and a good job too, because it’s really disappointing). Psycho is no different. I don’t think it’s overegging it to say that it contains history’s most famous film scene. And we’ve already seen it, over and over again. We’ve seen it in silo. We’ve seen it parodied. We’ve heard those infamously shrill strings that provide the soundtrack. We know what’s going to happen. It’s become a standalone cultural reference. Surely, knowing this, and knowing it was made over 60 years ago when cinema was – forgive me – somewhat ‘tamer’ than it is now; it can’t still be scary, right?

Good lord.

There really is a reason he’s called the ‘master of suspense’, isn’t there? From the achingly drawn-out build-up, to the sharp black-and-white that creates seemingly endless shadows and hiding places, to the unconventional angles that force you to stare at the underside of Anthony Perkins’ remarkably angular jaw for a solid 30 seconds, this isn’t a horror film. It’s a work of art, designed only to terrify its watchers.

The plot in a nutshell

Marion (Janet Leigh) has a hopeless boyfriend who’s broke. She nicks $40,000 from work and goes on the run, intending to run away with her aforementioned deadbeat man. After several obstacles like being spotted by her boss, swapping her car etc. she eventually has to admit defeat when the rain and wind force her to hold up at The Bates Motel, which stands next to a sinister mansion, seemingly inhabited by an old lady, permanently silhouetted in the window. The proprietor of the motel is young, keen, kind Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins), who checks Marion into the room next door to his office. She freshens up, he makes her a sandwich, they chat – it’s all rather nice. Once she’s back in her room, Norman removes a picture hanging on his office wall, and spies on her through a rough peephole. Shortly after, she takes a shower. A figure – evidently a woman – slowly enters the bathroom behind Marion, tears away the curtain, and stabs her to death. Soon after this, Norman runs in, seemingly believing his mother to be the murderer. He wraps the body, puts it in Marion’s car, and disposes of it all – the money too – in a convenient nearby bog/marsh/quicksand pit, and he cleans up the room.

The rest of the film sees Marion’s sister, Lila (Vera Miles), her husband Sam (John Gavin) and a private detective, Arbogast (Martin Balsam), try to figure out where Marion went. As they piece together her last 12-or-so hours, they begin to suspect Bates. We overhear Bates’ conversations with his mother, leading us to further believe that she’s a jealous woman who disposed of Marion. Ultimately, following Arbogast’s grizzly end at the hands of the Mother, Sam and Lila take matters into their own hands and trespass into the mansion. Lila braves the basement, and finds Mother Bates, sat in an armchair with her back to the door. The chair spins, Mother Bates is revealed as a long-dead, mummified corpse. Norman himself – dressed in (presumably) his mother’s clothing – lunges at Lila, knife in hand. The audience – always thinking we were ahead of the game – suddenly realises who the culprit has been all along. Or, at least, that’s the intention; again, modern audiences have always known the truth. Norman Bates is clearly an unhinged, unwell man. We learn that he and his mother had an unhealthy, codependent relationship following his father’s death. Then, when his mother remarried, Bates’ jealousy drove him to poison both his mother and stepfather. Driven mad by trauma and guilt, he un-buries her corpse and brings her back to the house. Norman has embodied roles of both mother and son to continue their relationship long after her death. And, apparently, this also involves killing people. The final, chilling shot is of Norman in a jail cell, looking, at first, unintimidating as he stares straight down the lens of Hitchcock’s camera. ‘Mother’ now narrates, saying she had to tell the truth as she couldn’t bare him blaming her for Marion and Arbogast’s deaths. Norman’s face is gradually overlaid with the image of Mother’s mummified skull. The two are now one; there’s no more Norman, only Mother.

A Millennial’s opinion

Because you need more of these in your life.

If you’re going to go psycho…

For me, the most frightening thing of all is Norman Bates. It seems like an obvious statement, but stick with me. What scared me wasn’t his knife-wielding skills, his backdrop, or his mother. What scared me was how nice he is. Genuinely likeable. When he first met Marion Crane, I was looking for a hint of creepiness. Something that would make her – therefore, me – uncomfortable. And I couldn’t find it. When he was with her, I didn’t see a lot of lingering stares, over-familiarities, or unwanted shoulder touches. No, he’s not a creep. He can’t be. Not this guy. He's not the stabby one, is he? He’s too friendly and kind. He’s incredibly handsome, if we’re honest – in a naïve, way. I’d chat to him. I’d accept his offer of a sandwich. I’d feel safe with him in the building next door. As it turns out, if I did meet him – and if I were a deal prettier – I’d get hacked to pieces in the shower.

What struck me most about Anthony Perkins is how modern his acting style is. It’s very natural. Unnervingly so. When you watch a 60-year-old, black-and-white thriller, you expect a little – how to put this? – ham. You expect over-dressed blonde women screaming and collapsing into the arms of handsome, slightly-too-old-for-them men who almost wink at the camera is if to say, ‘yes, it’s me: Cary Grant’. Perkins isn’t that man. He doesn’t make a big entrance in a sharp suit. He doesn’t turn heads. He’s so believable. So unassuming. And that’s how he traps you. And then, even when you see what he’s capable of, you still feel a strange affection for him. Right up until that very last shot where you finally think – after, what? Three stabbings? – ‘oh man, yeah, that guy’s just bonkers’. And then you check yourself and think, ‘blimey – how have I gone for so long without being murdered?’

There’s a saying that goes ‘it’s always the quiet ones.’ Well, in this case, it’s certainly true. It’s always the calm ones. The friendly ones. The ones who make you feel at ease. They’re the most unhinged. What I’m saying is, don’t trust anyone. Even whoever’s next to you right now. Look at them. They’re probably going to kill you one day.

The Hitchcock Blondes

Right, we need to talk about Janet Leigh and Vera Miles. Let’s start with Jan, shall we? (I’ve assumed she wouldn’t mind being called ‘Jan’ – I’ve got an Auntie Jan who’s lovely). Already a superstar, and already mother to Jamie Lee by this point – she’s our leading lady. And she’s in it for about half an hour. If the 2012 film ‘Hitchcock’ is to be believed, then Vera Miles wasn’t too happy with not being the ‘leading lady’ despite having a technically larger role insofar as she’s allowed to live a lot longer in the film. But Leigh’s Marion Crane is complex, commanding, coquettish, and a criminal to boot. She’s far more interesting than her sister. Plus, she dies. She dies hard. However, that’s not to say that Miles isn’t bloody fabulous as Marion’s sister Lila. She’s actually incredible. She’s not quite worried enough about her sister, but I suppose that goes hand-in-hand with being ‘the pretty, sensible one’ to Marion’s ‘sexy, reckless one’. She is, however, determined. She’s so determined that she goes snooping around a deliberately spooky house (why do the women in these films always do that?) to find out what’s happened to her sibling. She’s a braver woman than I am, I tell you that right now.

Alongside Lila is her husband, Sam – played by John Gavin. He is very good at being Handsome, Brave Man.

Psychotic moments

To the scary stuff. From the opening of the film, we’re tense. Due in large part to the film’s intimidating title. But also, there’s that unmistakeable Hitchcockian edge to it. We meet our heroine, we know something awful will happen to her, and we know it’ll have little to do with embezzlement. It’s not a courtroom drama or a heist film, after all. Throughout her journey away from Phoenix and into California, we don’t know what awaits her. We’re wondering if the ‘psycho’ she’s going to encounter is the police officer following her. Or a car jacker or crazed hitchhiker. We wonder if it’ll be an accident that leads to her demise, or if her boss will find her and murder her. But the truth is less obvious and far, far more menacing.

As mentioned, much of the horror of Psycho lies in Bates’ easy, likeable nature. We don’t see an ominous edge to him until he peeps on Marion. But even then, because of his stature and awkward charm, we assume he’s nothing more than a bit of a voyeur. By today’s standards, that’s obviously still an awful thing to be, but in the grand scheme of things, it’s the lesser of two evils here. His nature jars with the figure who ultimately sends Marion to the afterlife.

As to that moment, well, what can I say? After 30+ years of seeing it out of context, after seeing it parodied, after seeing how it was made (thank you, Universal Studios tour), and watching, safe in the knowledge that the blood was actually Hershey’s syrup (the existence of which is a crime itself). After knowing almost everything about it, it still shocked me. I saw it coming; the build-up happens so slowly, the figure seems to take an age to open the door and reach the shower curtain, you’re willing Marion to turn around but you know she won’t. Not until it’s too late. I remember learning when I was about 12 that you never actually see the knife puncture Marion’s skin. You see it being wielded, shots of her torso, her scream, her pain, and eventually – that shot of her blood ambling into the drain as her body becomes a corpse. Not seeing the most awful parts makes the most awful parts even more terrifying. A theory that Spielberg – with a lot of help from John Williams – would famously employ 15 years later.

But because of the fame of that moment, I relaxed a little too much when it was done. I let my guard down. I thought the worst was over and it was all downhill from there. I’m usually happy to admit when I’m wrong. And I was very happy to be wrong this time. Because, as it turns out, I really enjoy being made to jump out of my skin.

Arbogast’s death was – for me – the jumpiest moment of the film. The suspense is building as before. He’s walking up the stairs of a creepy mansion. He’s not sure whether he’s alone in that building. Neither are we. He seems like a nice man – that’s always a bad sign. Hitchcock seems to really enjoy tormenting his audience. He enjoys experimenting with angles so we’re out of our comfort zone. He enjoys making us suffer. He reminds me of a couple of exes in that respect. It was the aerial view that knocked me off my guard. I didn’t think anything could happen while I was watching the top of Arbogast’s head. My sphincter took a little rest for a moment. Within a nanosecond, all clenching muscles were immediately called back into action. Mother swung the door open and sprung out of a half-hidden frame. I rewound it and watched it twice more to see if I could anticipate it this time. I couldn’t. I was always watching the wrong part of the screen; even after knowing where she came from, I couldn’t see where she came from. It’s nothing short of genius.

A cinematic masterpiece

Despite their brilliance, these two moments alone are not what makes the film a suspenseful, masterful thriller. Somewhat unromantically, it was funding difficulties which led to the film being shot in black and white, not any artistic reasons. But that doesn’t mean that the reduced palate doesn’t play a huge part in the suspense of the film. The monochrome creates hiding places. It elongates shadows. It adds darkness. And it shows Hitchcock’s brilliance; he had to work harder on his angles to show more of what he wanted and hide what he didn’t. He had to employ unorthodox methods to create realism (hence the Hershey’s syrup). He had to create colour with light and music. And the music, especially, is what makes this film his most famous.

Or, infamous – depending on your opinion of horror films. This film’s legacy is synonymous with Bernard Herrmann’s pant-wettingly shocking score. You don’t think about Psycho without hearing those strings. That’s the part of the film which lives most vividly in people’s minds beyond the screen. Again – as with so much in horror – it’s the simplicity of the sound which makes it so memorable. The repetitive, stinging noise of violins invokes Bates’ slashes and stabs, much like Williams’ world-famous two-note theme immediately conjures images of a slow, menacing swim through the depths of the ocean. Both Herrmann and Williams seem to agree – when it comes to music for horror, less is more. And, 60 years later, those 15-or-so seconds of sound have embedded themselves in our culture. From episodes of Friends, to you regaling your mates with stories of your ‘crazy ex’, those jarring, eye-watering screeches have become canon.

Please, please watch it

Whether you’ll be watching it for the first time or the fiftieth, Psycho will – I believe – always shock and terrify its audience. There’s a reason why it’s become its own folklore. There’s a reason why those of us born 20 or 30 years after its release knew everything about it before we even saw it. There’s a reason why it’s still a part of Universal Studios’ tour. It’s legendary, and it should stay that way.

And so – even for someone who is frequently startled by department store mannequins – I enjoyed every single nerve-jangling moment of Psycho. I just thank all those years of ballet for giving me a strong pelvic floor muscle.