Psycho (1960)

If “North By Northwest” has not aged well, it is because Alfred Hitchcock’s large scale, big budget chases are not and were never his strongest suit. Hitchcock made “Psycho” a year later in black and white with a fraction of “North By Northwest’s” budget and no special effects or extravagant chases to think of. Yet “Psycho” has not aged one bit.

“Psycho” is a masterpiece. It is one of the greatest films ever made and beyond that, one of the most influential. I could spend a thousand words discussing the film’s legacy and place in cinema history and never actually talk about the film or the masterful craft that went into it.

But the reason “Psycho” has not aged a day whereas “North by Northwest,” one of his most popular and well known films has, is because “Psycho” is Hitchcock’s expression of “pure cinema,” a term countless critics, and Hitch himself, have thrown around when talking about the film. To make the film, he ditched the crew he used for “Northwest” and enlisted the one that produced his television show “Alfred Hitchcock Presents.” They built the set of the Bates Motel on the still standing soundstage at Universal Studios and did not use any on location shooting. Their budget was a grand total of $800,000. Cary Grant received over $400,000 alone for shooting “North by Northwest.”

The term “pure cinema” is a bit complex, one that would suggest filmmaking of the utmost quality and solely superb filmmaking. The things most people remember about “Psycho” are the shower scene or the looming eagles inside Norman Bates’s den. The plot, while famous for its notorious twist, or the chilling performances, particularly by Anthony Perkins, are remarkable, are not exactly what make “Psycho” truly memorable or masterful. The same is arguably true of “North by Northwest,” in which the plane in the cornfield scene is particularly striking, but it could be inappropriate to apply the “pure cinema” label to that film.

Consider the set-up for “North by Northwest,” in which Roger Thornhill (Cary Grant) is mistaken for a secret agent, is framed for murder and is unable to convince anyone of his true identity. The innocent man thrown into an impossible situation is a staple of Hitchcock films dating as far back as “The 39 Steps.” Hitchcock rides this theme out thanks to Cary Grant’s witty dialogue and timing, and he intercuts the film’s banter with extended chase scenes, the first of which involves a drunk Thornhill driving to escape his capturers. The chase goes on a bit long, and we see additional reaction shots and special effect breaks punctuated by Bernard Hermann’s intense score.

But there is not a wasted moment or shot in “Psycho.” No image seems routine and no line of dialogue is unnecessary. He establishes a similar theme of an innocent man (here a woman) in an impossible scenario by offering less than subtle hints to Sam Loomis’s poverty and Marion stealing from a sleazy business man flirting with her rather than another innocent. The plot of “Psycho” is not a detailed conspiracy, and yet we get the same feeling of suspense and in fact a greater one.

There are even comparable “chases” in “Psycho,” such as when Marion is being followed by the “faceless” police officer or when she is driving in the heavy rain. “Psycho” embodies pure cinema because all the tension that is created in each chase is done through lighting, cinematography and art direction. We are granted the instant symbolism of the police officer’s black sunglasses without any added dialogue or imagery, and after only a few reaction shots, Hitchcock does away with them because he knows we have no reason to suspect the cop is not still there watching Marion. When she is driving in the rain, voiceovers underscore her anxiety, and the extreme close ups in the low lighting are entirely artful. Not to mention Hermann’s score again pounds away at our senses.

The two climactic scenes in each film I mentioned earlier are also worth side-by-side comparison. In “North by Northwest,” Hitchcock is still attentive to timing and cinematic pacing during the chase in the cornfield, but there is clearly a focus on the believability of the plane actually chasing Cary Grant. It’s an effect that appears dated today, and the moments that stand out the most to me are the preceding ones before he suspects he is in danger, watching cars slowly pass on this desolate road.

In the shower scene in “Psycho,” there is an even greater attention to detail with an equally elaborate build up. Hitchcock meticulously crafted the shower set with the stark parallel lines seen in the tiled wall so that when Marion turns on the shower, it would spray at a disruptive angle to foreshadow the knife that will come and break the symmetry even more. As he builds tension, you’ll notice an absence of music (no different from the build up in “Northwest”), and we get a glimpse of a silhouetted figure slowly entering the frame in the background. The infamous music is cued as Norman rips back the curtain, and yet we see no actual piercing of the skin, no gratuitous amounts of blood, and the scene speaks entirely on its imagery and symbolism. Hitchcock proved you could make an effectively terrifying film in black and white by merely suggesting the discoloration of the water, and he speaks a thousand words with one fade from the drain to Marion’s eye.

It is in this sense, that the only person or thing telling us how to feel about a scene is the director behind the camera, that we define pure cinema. Hitchcock has been classified as an auteur because he had the nerve and the ability to operate alone, or at least make it appear as such. He did so in “Vertigo” two years prior when he inhabited all of his own obsessions into the James Stewart character, he has a distinct but not omnipresent voice in “North by Northwest,” and he comes full circle in “Psycho.”

And yet we begin to see inklings of these same experimental acts of cinematic simplicity on his TV show. One episode that Hitchcock himself directed in 1959 is called “Arthur,” and it too is about a slightly disturbing yet otherwise cool and collected man that lives alone, operates his own business and murders a woman without getting caught.

“Arthur” is much more direct and almost pandering to the audience than “Psycho” is, but the frameworks are still there. At numerous points throughout the episode, Hitchcock places objects of note in plain site, and yet through their mere suggestion he is able to build suspense. Arthur’s fiddling with his food processor is as miniscule yet as obvious as Marion’s reaction shots to the envelope of money. He keeps the plot simple, eliminating any frilly loopholes in which the other characters may have an inkling to suspect Arthur actually committed the murder. He even tries out some foreboding high angle shots and low lighting on Arthur’s gaze that seem to be a precursor to Norman’s own voyeurism.

Critics today point to “Psycho’s” influence on movie going in general, how the marketing of the film to not allow any late comers to the film changed the way audiences watched movies. It also introduced the first radical perspective shift when he killed off Janet Leigh halfway through the film. Suddenly Hitchcock discovered a way to get the audience to feel connection and attachment to the villain who had just killed the leading lady. And much discussion has been made about the psychiatrist scene, which although is undeniably too much and unnecessary, fits the B-movie vibe Hitchcock had intended to convey. Specifically, marketing “Psycho” as a B-movie was the only way Hitchcock could detach the studios from the process to make the purely cinematic movie he dreamed of.

More than most directors before or after “Psycho,” Hitchcock gave his film a level of motherly care and attention. And we all know, a mother is a boy’s best friend.