Psycho

It is fortunate for Alfred Hitchcock, not all men are destined to live healthily—mentally, that is. If this were not true, he would obviously have chosen some other topic as his showpiece in his new film, Psycho. I can only say, it is an adroit piece of degradation and capitalisation. Degradation, because Hitchcock has here excelled all bounds of reason in horror and thrills: the emphasis being upon death and associated nausea. Capitalisation, because Hitchcock has taken an ever-present malady of human weakness and popularly expressed the false conception of how peculiar, horrible and humourous, " mad-men" are.

There is nothing particularly smart in this; indeed, it is ample proof, to myself at any rate, that Mr Hitchock has completed his work in the cinema—he has outgrown his usefulness.

Psycho lacks all semblance to his former style. The subtlety, conflict of elements, discretion in formulating plot, apparent in his earlier works, are all lacking here. There is no discrimination as between what is meant to be humorous and what macabre—essential, in all thrillers according to the man himself. There is an abundance of superficial photographic detail—shots of a dead girls eye, ruthless stabbing (excised in Britain but retained here), unnecessary pans and tracks, all part of the Hitchcock trade-mark; a seal once noted for its competence, now I dare say, absolute horror.

This is just not good enough. I deplore the exploitation of certain social sicknesses, the unnecessary dwelling on death and the pervading atmosphere of putrescence; but all this aside, there is nothing essentially outstanding in the film. The conclusion is certainly unexpected, but after so much blood and gore, I should not have been surprised to see Jack-the-Ripper appear and summarise the life of Norman; in place of the actual Hollywood analyst. Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates, the psychopathic killer, is an actor of versatility, if not undue promise; Janet Leigh and Martin Balsam have done immeasurably better. I doubt, however, if anyone could have relieved the staticity in Joseph Stefano's unreliable script. George Tomasini is worth a mention: it is mainly his brisk pace and sense of urgency that just keeps the movie on the Mason side of the cinematic trash line.

But in the end, it is still a poor movie—I should suggest Mr Hitchcock now retire (he has been making films for 35 years and has directed 48). With films like Psycho he is only discrediting an honoured reputation.

—M.J.W.