This is the 1960 culprit that catapulted the horror film to an altogether new and gruesome plateau. It's the ship that launched a thousand blood-spurting imitators, although that was never Alfred Hitchcock's intent. Unfortunately, 90 per cent of those writers and directors inspired by his unprecedented work in "Psycho" never got past the initial primitive thrill of seeing on-screen violence for the first time. They didn't "get" the homework that went into this brilliantly macabre masterpiece. Just what DID make the infamous shower scene and "Mother" Bates' stairwell confrontation so shockingly memorable, other than providing front row forum seats to the carnage?
With "Psycho," the master of suspense would tempt us to enter the intricate, insidious mind of a violent, psychotic killer, something he surely tampered around with in "Strangers On a Train." Hitch himself created the essential tool kit for modern day terror implementing story, set-up, characterization, photography, camera technique, mood and music in order to weave an elaborate spider's web that would playfully entice, then seduce his intended victim, the audience.
Norman Bates will forever be enshrined as THE infamous poster boy of cinematic psychosis. As expounded by Simon Oakland's psychiatrist in the last reel, Norman was an isolated, terrified, severely undernourished man-child consumed by a hideously abnormal fear of change. In the end, the self-suffocating Norman lashed out like a wild, kicking, screaming child at a world he never knew or understood. Smart enough to distance himself and the Bates Motel as far from the highway of humanity as possible, it still wasn't far enough. For somewhere down the line, fate, coincidence, or maybe just a primal need for human contact, would inevitably lead a John Doe (or Marion Crane) to his door.
The most compelling scene for me is when the verrrrrry brave Lila Crane sneaks into the decrepit Bates' house behind the motel to investigate her suspicions as to sister Marion's disappearance. After coyly tormenting us throughout the first three-fourths of the movie, Hitch finally lets us in on the equally decrepit world of Norman Bates and his mother. Norman's bedroom holds the key elements to his enslaved childhood. The pathetic little bed with his careworn stuffed animal nearby, the little phonograph with Beethoven's "Eroica" record in place. It's such a private, eerily invasive moment that one feels guilty for possessing this natural Peeping Tom' curiosity.
Seeing Norman huddled up looking maniacally serene, immured within the confines of a "new" prison and armed only with a security blanket, you know that the poor innocent fly that lands on his hand, a fly he promises to respect, will never see the light of day again. And neither will Norman...despite the inferior sequels that tried to alter his obvious fate.
We can only thank Anthony Perkins for sacrificing a brilliant, promising, and highly versatile film career after bestowing upon us the most definitive, sympathetic creature of violence ever to assault the eyes. There will never be another one like him. Janet Leigh, one of Hollywood's biggest, fluffiest stars at this juncture, graciously cut short a dramatic "starring" role and instead offered us the screen's most tragic golden girl of all time. Both of their sacrifices were rewarded with film immortality.
I was introduced to "Psycho" at the age of 9. My older brother and I had the option one night of seeing "Psycho" or Jerry Lewis' "Cinderfella" at the local Riviera Theater. I wanted Jerry Lewis but my older brother had clout and, of course, won out. Needless to say I lost a good portion of my innocence (and my hair!) that night, succumbing to the frequent nightmares and shower traumas that obviously accompany such a youthful experience. Oh, yes, there is that abnormal fear I developed of screeching violin strings...
On a bright note, my faith in today's horror suspense was restored after experiencing the bravura Shyamalan-directed "The Sixth Sense" and "The Blair Witch Project" a raw, but creepy and effective little thriller filmed on a pittance. Both took stock of Hitchcock's tool kit for terror. "Blair Witch" proves once again that the real horror of shock films today lie not in its low-grade budgets, but in its third-grade scripts and mentality.
Alfred Hitchcock opened our eyes in awe, wonderment and, yes, horror. But never in disgust. And he never sacrificed his story or characters for the sake of shock. We can only apologize for all the gratuitous "Friday the Thirteenth" and "Halloween" dreck that rose out of his ashes.
With "Psycho," the master of suspense would tempt us to enter the intricate, insidious mind of a violent, psychotic killer, something he surely tampered around with in "Strangers On a Train." Hitch himself created the essential tool kit for modern day terror implementing story, set-up, characterization, photography, camera technique, mood and music in order to weave an elaborate spider's web that would playfully entice, then seduce his intended victim, the audience.
Norman Bates will forever be enshrined as THE infamous poster boy of cinematic psychosis. As expounded by Simon Oakland's psychiatrist in the last reel, Norman was an isolated, terrified, severely undernourished man-child consumed by a hideously abnormal fear of change. In the end, the self-suffocating Norman lashed out like a wild, kicking, screaming child at a world he never knew or understood. Smart enough to distance himself and the Bates Motel as far from the highway of humanity as possible, it still wasn't far enough. For somewhere down the line, fate, coincidence, or maybe just a primal need for human contact, would inevitably lead a John Doe (or Marion Crane) to his door.
The most compelling scene for me is when the verrrrrry brave Lila Crane sneaks into the decrepit Bates' house behind the motel to investigate her suspicions as to sister Marion's disappearance. After coyly tormenting us throughout the first three-fourths of the movie, Hitch finally lets us in on the equally decrepit world of Norman Bates and his mother. Norman's bedroom holds the key elements to his enslaved childhood. The pathetic little bed with his careworn stuffed animal nearby, the little phonograph with Beethoven's "Eroica" record in place. It's such a private, eerily invasive moment that one feels guilty for possessing this natural Peeping Tom' curiosity.
Seeing Norman huddled up looking maniacally serene, immured within the confines of a "new" prison and armed only with a security blanket, you know that the poor innocent fly that lands on his hand, a fly he promises to respect, will never see the light of day again. And neither will Norman...despite the inferior sequels that tried to alter his obvious fate.
We can only thank Anthony Perkins for sacrificing a brilliant, promising, and highly versatile film career after bestowing upon us the most definitive, sympathetic creature of violence ever to assault the eyes. There will never be another one like him. Janet Leigh, one of Hollywood's biggest, fluffiest stars at this juncture, graciously cut short a dramatic "starring" role and instead offered us the screen's most tragic golden girl of all time. Both of their sacrifices were rewarded with film immortality.
I was introduced to "Psycho" at the age of 9. My older brother and I had the option one night of seeing "Psycho" or Jerry Lewis' "Cinderfella" at the local Riviera Theater. I wanted Jerry Lewis but my older brother had clout and, of course, won out. Needless to say I lost a good portion of my innocence (and my hair!) that night, succumbing to the frequent nightmares and shower traumas that obviously accompany such a youthful experience. Oh, yes, there is that abnormal fear I developed of screeching violin strings...
On a bright note, my faith in today's horror suspense was restored after experiencing the bravura Shyamalan-directed "The Sixth Sense" and "The Blair Witch Project" a raw, but creepy and effective little thriller filmed on a pittance. Both took stock of Hitchcock's tool kit for terror. "Blair Witch" proves once again that the real horror of shock films today lie not in its low-grade budgets, but in its third-grade scripts and mentality.
Alfred Hitchcock opened our eyes in awe, wonderment and, yes, horror. But never in disgust. And he never sacrificed his story or characters for the sake of shock. We can only apologize for all the gratuitous "Friday the Thirteenth" and "Halloween" dreck that rose out of his ashes.