The Persona of Horror Films

Rating: 10/10 (24 October 2011)

It wasn't a message about psychological abuse or the dark side of the maternal instinct that enthused the audiences, nor was it any particular performance. They were stimulated by sheer, out-and-out cinema. Hitchcock consciously shot Psycho not with his high-priced feature regulars but with his TV crew. Lengthy segments hold no dialogue. In its gut sensation, Psycho fits better alongside shoestring noir like Detour than with Hitchcock's own chic Technicolor thrillers like Rear Window or Vertigo. In this way and in its starring use of Janet Leigh, Psycho is as much a companion piece with Touch of Evil as it is Hitchcock's arguably most socially pivotal film.
But no other Hitchcock film had more effect. He's directing us. It was the most staggering film 1960 moviegoers had ever experienced. You couldn't be today's pervasive moviegoer: Walking in late, you'd be waiting to see the star after she's disappeared from the action. Plus, the internet would've shattered any possibility of preserving the movie's genuine shocks, none of which one could've anticipated Hitchcock had in store without it. Modern moviegoers would've ruined this film for themselves before even walking in. He didn't just direct movies. He directed us. He directed several subsequent decades of movie plot expectations.
Of course, today's generation can still see it as a fearsome, ingenious thriller despite knowing all about the shower scene that would've been like the revelation of Luke Skywalker's father in 1960 terms rather than 1980 ones. It's all owing to Hitchcock's imagination in two matters not as obvious: The pure subjective telling of Marion Crane's story, and her rapport with her new host. Hitchcock's trick is dedicating his thorough concentration and flair to handling them like they'll be expanded upon for the whole remaining film.
Anthony Perkins is uncanny in establishing the thorny character of Norman, in a performance that has become momentous. He lets us know there's something deeply amiss with Norman, and yet he has a young man's congeniality, stuffing his hands into his pockets, hopping onto the porch, beaming a toothy greeting. Only when discussion becomes personal does he begin to hesitate and sidestep. He evokes our empathy right alongside Marion's.
Nearly every present-day viewer is spending that whole time anticipating the spectacle of murder in store. However, seeing the shower scene today, various elements are notable. Unlike contemporary horror films, Psycho never sees the knife actually striking flesh. We see no wounds. Herrmann's slicing strings deputize for more gruesome sounds. And yet this remains the most famously shocking of cinema's slasher deaths, suggesting that graphic details are more shocking in our mind's eye and ear depending on their circumstances and creativity.
The terror of the rug being yanked swiftly and completely from beneath us is followed by Norman's painstaking erasure of the whole staggering affair. Hitchcock is subtly swapping protagonists. The new one killed the old one, yes, but we relate to Norman because, if we killed somebody, we'd be devoured by paranoia and remorse, just like him. The car sinks, then lingers. Norman watches fixedly, until it's ultimately submerged beneath the swamp.
Checking one's feelings, it dawns that we want that car to sink, which is what Norman wants. This is one of the most daring exchanges in Hitchcock's sustained custom of stage-managing the audience itself. Psycho's legend and luster will never die because, when innumerable films are over and done as the credits roll, it ties as candidly with our apprehensions as movie-making form can: That any one of us may impetuously commit a crime, our dread and paranoia of the police, our nightmares of becoming the quarry of a madman, and naturally, of failing our mothers.