I re-watched an old interview with Alfred Hitchcock the other day and was almost surprised to find that he didn’t resemble the moon-faced muppet that currently invites cinema goers to “silence their mobile telephones” before each film begins (or, more accurately, before the slice of Kevin Bacon before each film begins).
But in a way what could be more perfect? In an industry where the symbols that connote a thing are unflinchingly interchangeable with the thing itself, Alfred Hitchcock now IS Anthony Hopkins in a fat suit.
And what could be more perfect? The actual films made by actual Hitchcock – that’s what.
It’s not that Hitchcock the film made me feel let down, it just floated on like a little puff of nothing. If you have an interest in filmmaking, are a fan of Psycho (1960), or have read/watched books and documentaries that detail the history of its production then you’ll find yourself counting off the well-known incidences (ranging from widely-accepted fact to downright urban legend) that you already know about. It’s like a wild rush through a checklist that the director compiled while watching several “The Making of Pyscho” documentaries.
Which is fine. But then odd liberties are taken to dramatise the story and make it some kind of sentimental slush where perhaps Hitchcock has dreadful anxiety about making a film at 60-years-old, perhaps his marriage is on the rocks too, oh and perhaps he has hallucinations and begins sharing his problems with the ghost of Ed Gein – the notorious murderer on whose killings Psycho is based.
One of the most grating things is the relationship between “Hitch” (every film about Hitchcock must call him Hitch where possible) and his wife Alma Reville (played by Helen Mirren) which the film not only assumes to have all the inside gossip on, but spells out in phoney dialogue. Who knows exactly what their relationship was like but I’d bet anything that a) they didn’t have the hyperbolic showdowns depicted in the film and b) that Hitchcock never said in his trademark drawl “of all my leading ladies, you are the most beautiful Hitchcock blonde of them all”. Vomit vomit vomit.
There are good performances. Scarlett Johansson and Jessica Biel interact well as the two actresses at the centre of Psycho, Janet Leigh and Vera Miles – one new to Hitchcock’s obsession, the other a long-time victim of it. James D’Arcy is great too – a dead ringer for Anthony Perkins and has his awkwardness down to a T.
Not that Hopkins and Mirren don’t do the best with what they are given. The trouble for me is that what they are given is a script that is a little too knowing for what the available facts can provide . While the making of Psycho has many interesting incidences and anecdotes, its story is for film buffs to read about or watch interviews on. What we know about its production doesn’t contain enough shock and awe for a dramatic feature film. And what we don’t know doesn’t require fleshed out half-fabrications to fill in the blanks.
Jon Bates Writes 