Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho remains frightening, with Anthony Perkins making its quieter encounters especially uncomfortable. A few passages labour the mystery, but the performances and the precision of its shocks deserve their reputation.
Psycho is an exceptionally effective thriller, and its patience with people is a large part of what makes it frightening. We recommend it even to those who think they already know what it has to offer. Joseph Stefano’s screenplay, adapted from Robert Bloch’s novel, makes Marion Crane’s troubles worth our attention, then lets her encounter with Norman Bates complicate our sympathies. Hitchcock understands how readily curiosity about a stranger can turn into concern for one.
Janet Leigh makes Marion’s unease persuasive without making her remote. She gives us enough vulnerability to care about Marion, but never invites us to stop examining her. The result is uncomfortable, because our interest in her begins to feel intrusive. Hitchcock allows us to feel close to her while leaving room for doubt, and Leigh holds those uncertain feelings together without making the performance seem calculated.
Anthony Perkins is even better as Norman Bates, and the conversation between Norman and Marion in the parlour is the scene we would defend first. Perkins makes Norman’s politeness feel effortful, so that an ordinary exchange becomes difficult to relax into. We felt uneasy listening to him, and then sorry for him; the discomfort comes from seeing how badly he seems to need the conversation to go well. Leigh gives him someone alert enough to notice the strain, and their conversation holds our attention without needing to hurry towards a shock.
John L. Russell’s cinematography makes faces difficult to stop studying. In the parlour, the space around Norman feels restrictive, and the framing makes his company increasingly uncomfortable. We have time to examine him, but that extra time does little to settle our feelings about him. Hitchcock does not need constant movement to keep the image interesting: the tension survives while the two people in the frame simply talk.
George Tomasini’s editing is decisive without being uniformly hurried. The changes of pace make the stretches of conversation matter; Hitchcock can afford to let us listen because the film has other ways of interrupting our concentration. Bernard Herrmann’s string-heavy score is far less discreet, and that is part of its force: it gives fear a harsh, immediate sound that makes the shocks physically unpleasant. Some of the suspense would survive without it, but the music makes sitting comfortably through the film a more difficult proposition.
The mystery does drag in places. There are stretches when Hitchcock’s determination to keep us guessing becomes too apparent, and we start waiting for information instead of worrying about people. Stefano’s screenplay has made Marion and Norman interesting enough that this feels like a loss. These passages do not undo the tension, though they leave us conscious of the effort being made to sustain it.
For all its appetite for shocks, this is horror with an unusual interest in embarrassment, loneliness and the wish to be treated kindly. That interest prevents the humour from becoming an excuse to despise the people caught up in the mystery. At 109 minutes, it asks for no great commitment, though its reputation can make it seem like required homework. If its surprises are familiar, watch it for Perkins and Leigh, and for the trouble they can make out of a conversation.
