WARNING: There are heavy spoilers in this review. If you haven’t seen Psycho before or know practically nothing about it, you may not wish to read on. It’s more of an essay on a personal favorite then a prototypical review.
Psycho is Alfred Hitchcock’s masterpiece, a revolutionary and daring spin on the thriller genre and shockingly underappreciated by today’s film junkies. It’s regrettable that so many think of it as simply the “shower scene” movie; it is, in fact, extremely rich and complex. More than any of his other works, Psycho epitomizes Hitchcock’s directorial ideals. He never wrote his own scripts, believing that dialogue shouldn’t be necessary to convey what’s happening at any given moment. Rather, he utilized all film techniques, instructing his actors to “act” as little as possible. Consequently, the performances in Psycho are completely devoid of scenery-chewing, allowing the camera work and atmosphere to command the screen. It’s this restraint that makes Anthony Perkins’ performance as Norman Bates so chilling. With his toothpick build and childish voice, Bates appears to be little more than a shy coward, making the revelation of his Psychotic nature shocking. And it’s precisely Bates’ persona that epitomizes Psycho‘s great influence on American cinema; it was a drastic turning point for Hollywood cinema, one that jump-started a completely new genre and directorial flexibility.
Some background—during the ’50′s and earlier, the “Hays Code” was in effect, consisting of a self-censorship committee that determined what could and couldn’t be made. If a director broke the code, his film couldn’t be shown. Not only did this place enormous restrictions on Hollywood filmmakers, it prevented American cinephiles from seeing the films of directors like Ingmar Bergman and Akira Kurosawa, who had no such limitations in their work. Some of the rules look downright ridiculous now— toilets couldn’t be flushed onscreen, couples couldn’t sleep in the same bed, etc. By the late ’50′s, the Hays Code began to show a few signs of weakening—theatres became privately owned instead of being run by Hollywood, allowing each to show whatever it wished. But it was Psycho that truly ushered in a new era of motion pictures. The opening scene in the Phoenix hotel between Marion (Janet Leigh) and Sam (John Gavin) completely bucked the code, announcing that the audience was going to be seeing a different kind of film. Clothed in her white bra and summer dress, Marion oozes sexuality and rebellion, having just had illicit relations. Hitchcock refused to screen Psycho for critics, not because he had any doubts about its quality, but to keep reviews from ruining the suspense and freshness. That turned out to be a brilliant marketing move, and Psycho was a smash, going on to gross more than 15 times its cost.
Now to the film itself. Firstly, the manner in which Hitchcock splits the stories is radical but ingenious. In the novel on which Psycho is based, the entire plot revolves around Norman Bates. Marion arrives in chapter two and is dead by the end of chapter three. Hitchcock, however, begins the film with 40+ minutes of Marion. We learn about her love life, her place of employment, her general unhappiness. We grow to care deeply for her tormented personality. Then suddenly, the infamous shower scene takes place and boom! The entire character arc swings to Norman. To do this with an hour to go in the picture was an extraordinarily daring move by Hitchcock, but he slyly sets the unknowing audience up for it. During the parlor scene in the motel, about 10 minutes before Marion’s death, we get our first POV shot from Norman’s perspective. Additionally, the camera gradually begins to focus more and more on Norman, deftly shifting our attention away from Marion. This might go right over the uneducated viewer’s head, but Hitchcock is subtly readying us to change gears. So, smoothly, we glide to the story of Norman Bates. Up until now, we have experienced, more than anything else, extreme shock and surprise. But once Norman “takes over,” the suspense begins in earnest, as his storyline revolves around Marion’s murder, both directly and indirectly.
The visuals are exceptionally polished. Every shot drips of Hitchcock, from the extreme use of shot/reverse shot to establish emotional connections, to the masterful way he uses his actors. Example: The scene when Marion’s about to leave her house with the money. There’s no dialogue, nor does her face contort into hammy expressions. The camera handles everything. It focuses on Marion, then the stolen cash, lying on the bed, then back to Marion, etc. The pattern flawlessly presents the viewers with all they need to know about her emotions, what she’s thinking, without a wasted moment or cheesy line. This is precisely what Gus Van Sant doesn’t do in his wretched excuse for a shot-by-shot remake in 1997. Every scene may indeed have similar composition on the surface, but all the delicate touches that make Hitchcock’s version so exquisite are butchered, resulting in an over-the-top joke of a movie that saps away all the power of the original. The casting of Vince Vaughn as Bates is also a dreadful error. As mentioned above, Bates’ presence comes from his feeble appearance, while Vaughn is a hulking 6’5″.
Unfortunately, Psycho is viewed by some as a one-trick pony, a film that’s based around a single twist. These people need to re-visit the picture. It loses none of its luster on repeat viewings, quite an achievement for a movie that in many ways was an experimental piece. Though Strangers on a Train, Rear Window, and Vertigo are all excellent in their own right, I’ll take Psycho when discussing Hitchcock at his very finest.
99/100 [many, many viewings since have elevated this to my top 10 of all-time]
While watching L’Enfant, the latest from the Dardenne brothers (Jean-Pierre & Luc), co-directors of Rosetta, The Son, and La Promesse), Spike Lee’s 25th Hour kept popping into my head. Like 25th Hour, L’Enfant focuses on the ultimate redemption of a sinner, but it’s debatable whether or not L’Enfant really merits its teary finale. Set in Seraing, L’Enfant portrays a struggling couple—Bruno (Jérémie Renier), and Sonia (Déborah François)—living off illegal activities in the Belgian underworld. Viewing real work as worthless, Bruno refuses to get a job, instead selling and reselling anything he can get his paws on. A newborn baby doesn’t motivate Bruno to buck up—rather after some initial lukewarm affection, he decides to sell the child to the black market. After Sonia goes into hysterics, is hospitalized, and accuses Bruno of his crime, the confused offender returns the money and reclaims the child. That’s not enough for anyone, though: Sonia refuses to speak to him, the police don’t buy his alibis (though they have no real proof to arrest him), and the mob insists that he still owes them for the trouble he put them through. As Bruno digs himself into a deeper and deeper hole, he eventually concedes himself to his fate, and after confessing to his final crime—the purse-snatching of a female pedestrian—digs in for an elongated battle with remorse, an emotion he’s finally learned he can experience.
No question, L’Enfant is extremely involving: characters are strongly fleshed out—including supporting ones with little screen time, such as Steve (Jérémie Segard), a bold-yet-scared schoolboy who frequently assists Bruno with his crimes—and the picture’s casual, almost laissez-faire treatment of a despicable action is fascinating to observe. The Dardennes don’t cheapen the severity of peddling a child: rather, they depict it from Bruno’s short-sighted perspective, the viewpoint of someone who’s more concerned with bills in his pocket than traditional values. The naturalistic hand-held camerawork and dreary colors effectively mime the downcast, depressed mood of all the participants. Indeed, it often appears that Bruno or Sonia are rarely actually happy, though they do seem to genuinely care for each other—given the odd way in which they show it, it’s remarkable that the Dardennes make this aspect of L’Enfant come across as believable. Renier embodies Bruno with the proper nonchalant demeanor, and tosses in some perfect caught-with-your-hand-in-the-cookie-jar grins for good measure. The remainder of the cast is almost as good.
Still, a few issues keep L’Enfant while not directly involved in Bruno’s criminal activities, she’s fully aware of them; her half-assed attempts at prodding him into a real job are unconvincing. from being great, the most damning flaw being that Sonia appears as irresponsible as Bruno—consequently, it’s difficult to pity her sudden despair upon losing her child. She giggles as Bruno playfully tosses stones at her, despite little Jimmy being nestled against her chest; the couple cheerfully wrestles while the boy lies in the backseat of the car; she immediately consents to Bruno spending the last of his money (250 euros) on a jacket to give them a his/her combo, not worrying about how her son is going to eat. Her lackadaisical approach to motherhood projects her as unworthy to raise a child, and All this leads to a strange emotional confusion: while Bruno certainly is a severely troubled individual, Sonia isn’t much better, yet she’s the one storming around ignoring Bruno’s pleas for forgiveness. Obviously, his actions are far more extreme than Sonia’s carelessness, but it’s not far-fetched to imagine Bruno really thinking that Sonia would support his reckless decision.
When Monty breaks down on Naturelle’s lap near the end of 25th Hour, the emotional reconciliation is a natural extension of the regret-tinged club sequence that preceded it. In L’Enfant, Bruno and Sonia’s elongated embrace at the film’s conclusion (along with Bruno’s long-delayed show of penitence) is neither touching nor credible, primarily because his greatest misdeed—the sale of the child—could have been perpetrated almost as easily by Sonia as we know her. If L’Enfant is meant as a depiction of the challenges of parenting, and the conflicting emotions it inspires (and it can certainly be interpreted as such, as it’s Steve’s arrest that prompts Bruno to finally come clean), it’s only partially successful—Bruno’s matter-of-fact, “We’ll have another. I did it for us; see? We have money now,” encapsulates his attitude throughout most of L’Enfant. Live in the moment. Then again…in impoverished Seraing, where children are brought to shadiness at a young age, where everyone recklessly gambles their money and their livelihoods…maybe that’s the point. Maybe Sonia’s sudden rekindling of warmth for Bruno is her finding a form of redemption herself, and a steely resolution will bind the two from that gloomy day on. Many fellow critics whom I respect immensely walked out of the theater convinced they’d just witnessed genius, so don’t take my word as gospel here. Just color me in like, not in love, with the Dardennes’ cinematic approach from what I’ve seen thus far.