A new film by Alfred Hitchcock is usually a keen enjoyment. Psycho turns out to be an exception. The story, adapted from a novel by Robert Bloch, has to do with the fate of one Marion (Janet Leigh), an uninhibited secretary, who steals $40,000 from her employer and drives off into the night to meet her lover (John Gavin). During a storm she arrives at a sinister motel owned by a crazy taxidermist (Anthony Perkins), whose even more demented mother lives in the adjoining mansion.
There follows one of the most disgusting murders in all screen history. It takes place in a bathroom and involves a great deal of swabbing of the tiles and flushings of the lavatory. It might be described with fairness as plug ugly.
Psycho is not a long film but it feels long. Perhaps because the director dawdles over technical effects; perhaps because it is difficult, if not impossible, to care about any of the characters.
The stupid air of mystery and portent surrounding Psycho's presentation strikes me as a tremendous error. "The manager of this theatre has been instructed, at the risk of his life, not to admit any persons after the picture starts." "By the way, after you see Psycho don't give away the ending." Signed, Alfred Hitchcock.
I couldn't give away the ending if I wanted to, for the simple reason that I grew so sick and tired of the whole beastly business that I didn't stop to see it. Your edict may keep me out of the theatre, my dear Hitchcock, but I'm hanged if it will keep me in.
