From the Queue: 'Psycho' (1960)

by Brian Kesler

You can lump Hitchcock movies into two categories: ‘Psycho’ and everything else. That may seem a little ambitious, but it's true. Stylistically, 'Psycho' shares many attributes with other Hitchcock fare, but no other film in the canon shares much with 'Psycho.' Certain things immediately set it apart from the master's other work. The use of black-and-white photography, for instance, in a late period of the director's career; the exceedingly low budget; the use of locations rather than sets; the all string score by legendary Bernard Hermann; and a story that really amounts to nothing, making this a purely psychological study on human behavior. As Norman Bates tells us in the film, "We all go a little mad sometimes." 


At the surface, the story is about Marion Crane (Janet Leigh), a woman who wishes desperately to marry her boyfriend, Sam Loomis (who shares that name with another well-known horror movie character). Sam, who can only visit on weekends to sleep with Marion (in her angelic white bra and slip) in dirty motel rooms, has major debt and still owes his ex-wife alimony. He refuses to marry Marion until his debts are paid and he can provide a decent life for them. This romance automatically pulls away from the Hitchcock norm. Their dialogue is more philosophical than passionate, and the music suggests these characters live sad lives, that their romance is unfortunate. Well, this is where Marion goes a little mad. Her boss asks her to make a deposit of $40,000, which is handed to her in cash. That's the equivalent of $300,000 today. Without a hint of expression, she leaves with the cash and we find her at home in a black bra and slip, packing her bags, the money sitting on the bed. 

 Of course, the black represents her impulse into madness, but she turns out to be a clumsy thief. Her boss sees her driving out of town and, although she told him she was going to stay home due to illness, she smiles and waves. He does a double take. Marion starts making up little conversations in her head. Janet Leigh does some marvelous close-up acting as we hear the dialogue of her boss, co-workers, family members, all wondering where she was going and what she might be up to. When a policeman finds her sleeping on the side of the road, she tries to start the motor and flee. As he stops her and questions her, her eyes and tone of voice give her away. Once she evades the policeman, she goes to buy a new car to avoid more police trouble. She wants a car fast, doesn't matter what kind of car or how well it drives, she just wants to make a change and be out in five minutes. As the car salesman smartly suggests, "It's the first time the customer high-pressured the salesman." He suspects her, and soon Marion imagines him talking to the police. She imagines her boss realizing she stole the money, and the client, whose money it is, ranting about getting it back with the addition of her "soft, sweet flesh." At this, Marion's eyes widen, and her lips curl into a delicious smirk. She is beginning to enjoy herself ... enjoy the rush. Of course, before she can make it to Sam's hometown, a storm comes in and she is forced to pull off to a deserted highway where she finds the Bates Motel. 

This is where the movie starts a shift. Marion meets Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins), the owner of the Motel. Bates is flirtatious, a bit nerdy, cute, friendly, and wide-eyed. He stutters and dares not use the word "bathroom" in front of a lady. He makes small talk and invites Marion to eat sandwiches and milk with him. She can't deny his likable personality and accepts. Bates goes to make the sandwiches, and Marion hides the money in a newspaper. That's when she overhears a conversation between Bates and his mother from the house that sits on a hill above the motel. Interesting how she can hear their banter so clearly and loudly from that distance. Mother is cruel, harsh, and demeaning, without any sort of reason or sanity behind her blunt retorts and accusations. She won't have her son eating sandwiches with that slut, won't allow the appetite of "cheap erotic boys with cheap erotic minds," to be appeased. When Bates shows up at the motel with the sandwiches, Marion finds him pitiable. He brings her into his parlor, filled with dozens of birds. Stuffed birds. Their wings spread, their shadows stretching across the walls, their eyes peering down at the conversationalists as they eat. Norman has a hobby as a taxidermist, you see. No, more than a hobby, he tells Marion, "a hobby is supposed to pass the time, not fill it." "Is your time so empty?" she asks. Marion realizes that Norman is a sad human being. Someone who is trapped because of his blind love for an abusive mother. She crosses the line when she suggests putting his mother "some place." Norman quickly becomes a new person, a dark person. "People always call a mad house 'some place,'" he says. As the tension subsides and Marion sees the madness that consumes this poor boy, she realizes her own succumbing into madness and makes the decision to set things straight. 


And then, the movie surprises us. It hasn't really been about Marion at all. It's about Norman, and we follow him now as he does anything to protect his mother from the consequences of her actions. If you've never seen 'Psycho' and don't know much about it, this is where you can stop reading to avoid spoilers. Marion removes the demonic black bra and slip and, with redemption in mind, takes a very cleansing shower. As Marion wets her hair, a dark shape is seen through the shower curtain: A woman. Mother, with a kitchen knife, stabs Marion to death and quickly leaves, in one of the most iconic scenes in movie history. Marion, hanging onto the last bit of life in her, clutches the shower curtain and falls, her dead face smashing onto the cold bathroom floor. The camera, famously, watches her blood wash down the drain while fading to her soulless pupil, pulling back with a panning tilt (NOT a full twirl, but a 90 degree tilt).

This is, of course, the most talked about scene of the film. Modern movie-goers might say the scene is tame compared with current horror fare. This is true, but you must understand that realism was not a trend until the 1970s. Creative editing and camera placement was what dominated Hollywood back then, and I wish it had stayed that way. Movies these days are filmed with a "documentary" style. Even major blockbusters use steady cam and discreet camera work. Special effects and gore must have the utmost detail and realism to them. This scene in 'Psycho' is a product of its time, and it is more effective at conveying the horror of murder to us than any contemporary exploitation flick. We never see the knife penetrate Marion's flesh. Each cut in the editing is a stab. As we cut from the knife, to Marion's screaming, to the side of her bodice, to an overhead shot of a struggle, to the water pouring gently from the shower head, to the knife once more, to the tub filling with blood (all quick cuts in which a screeching score is syncopated), we are drawn into the moment; we are part of the action; we are Mother and victim and third party observer all at once. This scene was of great importance to Hitchcock. Initially imagining it as scoreless to heighten the tension, he succumbed to Bernard Hermann's insistence that it utilize music to make it more horrific. It is the one argument in which Hitchcock was dead wrong, and thank God he gave in. 

Saul Bass did the storyboards, which are among the greatest in the history of film (Bass also designed the opening titles, which are also among the greatest in the history of film), and claims to have filmed the scene. That rumor has been denied by nearly everyone who was there. Alfred Hitchcock shot that scene. He shot it with great care and precision. The camera has such control, in movement and in focus; the lighting is perfectly balanced with contrast; the steam and water effects and use of blood; everything was controlled meticulously by Hitchcock and crew. Not to mention the editing, which was labored over for months. Hitchcock's wife, even, rearranged certain shots to perfect the scene. You take a scene like this, and it is unsurpassable. No matter how hard you try to recreate it, you never can and you never will. I talk, of course, about the awful remake of the film by Gus Van Sant. It claimed to be a replica of the original, shot by shot, and although it was very close, you can't recreate lighting, you can't recreate performances, you can't recreate the exact angle of the camera. Not to mention, the remake takes some liberties with this scene. It does a full twirl around the eye instead of a tilt. It removes the haunting image of Marion's hand sliding down the shower wall. It has a moment of silence after Mother throws the shower curtain open, about four or five seconds, before the music comes in. It has inexplicable shots of clouds. The color photography gives away the lack of blood on the impeccably clean knife. Shots of Marion's pupil dilating. And, most shamefully, it adds an overhead shot of Marion's buttocks raised in the air as her face falls to the floor. These liberties reveal just how perfectly tweaked the original version is, down to the last second. Seconds make a difference.

Although the shower sequence is the most famous, I feel the most powerful scene comes immediately after. Norman shouts, "Mother! Blood, blood!" from the house atop the hill and rushes down the steps to the motel only to find the fate of poor Marion. And then, we watch as Norman swallows his nausea and tidies up. I use that phrase because of the normality in which the scene is shot. It is a complete juxtaposition from the previous scene which was cut very haphazardly. Norman lays the shower curtain on the carpet. He delicately wraps the naked body in it. He mops the tub and floor. He cleans down the walls, he washes the blood from his hands and sink. He gathers up Marion's things and throws them in the trunk of her car, all the while the newspaper sits on the nightstand, waiting to be discovered. At first, it seems Norman has forgotten the paper, until he has a feeling he should check the room one last time. He sees the paper and, without any idea of what's hidden within, throws it in the trunk with the dead body and useless possessions. He drives the car out to a swamp and pushes it in. He chews, animatedly, on candy and clasps his hands together and watches as the car sinks. Just the roof and the trunk are exposed when the glooping of the sinking car ceases and so does Norman's chewing. That's when we realize we're on Norman's side. As the car commences glooping once more, we exhale with relief. 

To go through the rest of the film won't do much good. It goes further into the psychological state of Norman Bates, including a perfect scene between Anthony Perkins and Martin Balsam (another scene destroyed in the remake), and it also becomes a bit of a detective movie with Marion's sister (Vera Miles) and boyfriend (John Gavin) trying to find out what happened to her. They guess, incorrectly of course, that Norman murdered Marion to get his hands on the money. Eventually, the film climaxes, and then immediately recedes into a very long, very specific, and very psychological discussion regarding the mental state of Bates. This scene is very controversial. Many a critic have slammed the scene, saying it is the one imperfection of the film. Hitchcock himself disliked the scene and wanted to pull it from the movie, but screenwriter Joseph Stefano insisted it remain. I, for one, believe the scene is an attribute to the characters and to our understanding of them, but a disturbance in an otherwise perfectly paced film. You have to understand that without this scene, Perkins' performance would be very different. It would be devoid of the nuance and subtleties. We'd also have an alternate and subjective analyses of his character and acting choices, particularly on repeat viewings. The central character, who has become one of the greatest movie creations, works solely because of this scene. 

'Psycho' does represent some signature Hitchcock techniques. There's always a correlation to food and sex, and food and violence. When the camera moves the characters follow it, and when it is still the characters are as well. It also brings in some motifs from screenwriter Joseph Stefano. There's a recurring motif involving words used twice in the same sentence in different forms: "Eating in an office is too officious." "You make respectability sound disrespectful." "I will not speak of such disgusting things because they disgust me." The characters in the beginning of the film all discuss their mothers, and maternal attributes, with disdain and irritation: "My mother called to see if Teddy called." "After dinner, we can turn mother's picture to the wall." In these ways, 'Psycho' undoubtedly carries the trademarks of the master of suspense. Its small scale, personal and articulate dialogue, and overwhelming sense of impending doom, however, make this truly stand out as his most unique, strange, and mystifying work, emulated in the final line, "She wouldn't even harm a fly ..."