By Alan Scherstuhl
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Carolina Del Busto
By Amy Nicholson
By Simon Abrams
By Kevin Dilmore
By New Times
By Amy Nicholson
Now, for everybody else: Van Sant's new Psycho is funny, and sort of creepy--a not-bad little thriller with some peculiarly dated plot development. I suspect it wouldn't be much more than that, to an audience member who had never seen the original, but who had seen some of the innumerable films that ripped it off. For the rest of us, however, including those of us who know the original so well we can mouth the lines along with the actors, the new film is fascinating, and it's fascinating mostly because it really is Gus Van Sant's Psycho, not Alfred Hitchcock's.
Yet this is not a case of someone trying to one-up an earlier director--Van Sant clearly isn't implying that, yeah, old Hitch was on to something, but I can do better with the same idea. His approach is more like that of a rigorous thesis writer who keeps the research up front and allows himself any original expression only in the footnotes.
What's striking is how much these "footnotes"--the design and costuming and sound effects, the slight shifts in interpretation by the actors, the little curlicues added on the margins--permeate the picture with Van Sant's idiosyncratic personality. This Psycho is an auteurist critic's wet dream; the most compelling case I've ever seen that it's the director's sensibility, more than anyone else's, that is expressed through the cinema.
In the tug of war between the two visions, it need hardly be said that Hitchcock "wins." Van Sant may well be capable of greater emotional and philosophical depths than Hitchcock, who generally couldn't be bothered with all that rubbish anyway. But Psycho, it's important to remember, was intended as comedy, a nasty Oedipal joke that plays on our aesthetic expectations like a Surprise Symphony with the left turn it takes at the famed shower scene. Despite the psychological explanations we are offered, in a somewhat tongue-in-cheek manner, at the end of the film, Psycho was less about a tortured psyche than it was about manipulating the audience, and nobody could beat Hitchcock at that. Yet Van Sant's obsessive desire to dress up a new film as the Mother of Modern Horror Pictures produces some fascinating variations.
For one thing, the story is now in bright, lurid color, shot by cinematographer Chris Doyle. Even those wonderful Saul Bass titles are no longer black-and-white--the bisecting line patterns are now a jolting green. Hitchcock had been fond of working in lush color himself since the '40s, but the prospect of Technicolor blood in the original's shower scene made him squeamish. It was his last black-and-white film. The red of the gore in Van Sant's film does indeed leap out at us, in a way that movie blood rarely does anymore, though this is likely a reaction to having a new element added to such familiar images.
Van Sant has made the film's sexual subtext overt. In the opening scene, while the two postcoital lovers (Anne Heche and Viggo Mortensen) talk with each other in a fleabag Phoenix hotel, we can hear loud sex going on in a neighboring room. At many other points throughout the film, particularly those involving voyeurism, the sexual ante is upped, not that most viewers could have been in doubt as to their implications back in the '60s.
Yet Van Sant's approach to the film's brutality is different: The violent scenes seem less savage, somehow, than those in the original. It's in these brief but crucial sequences that Van Sant allows himself some latitude. Instead of following Hitchcock's model exactly, he uses one of his own favorite techniques--the quick intercutting of incongruous, free-floating psychic imagery. This generates a twisted atmosphere rather than the all-out shock that Hitchcock gives us in these scenes, probably because Van Sant knew very well he had no hope of reproducing that.
The plot, obviously, is the same, and it's here that Van Sant's Psycho seems most eccentric. Once poor Marion Crane (Heche) arrives at the lonely Bates Motel and starts to interact with its nervous manager Norman (Vince Vaughn), who shares the Victorian heap at the top of the hill with his mother, the old lines play comfortably enough.
But when the film is out of horror-movie land, when it's in, so to speak, the real world, we realize how much has changed since Joe Stefano penned his original adaptation of Robert Bloch's leering 1959 novel. The sheriff's wife still asks an operator named "Florrie" to connect her to the Bates Motel, for instance. Despite this careless miss, there are many small changes--the word "Jell-O" for "aspic," the line "Let me get my Walkman" for "Let me get my coat"--but these cosmetic touches don't hide the period nature of the material.
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