PSYCHO (1998) ** (out of four)
-a review by Bill Chambers
('Tis the season to visit FILM FREAK CENTRAL:
http://filmfreakcentral.net Or my name isn't Santa Claus.)
starring Anne Heche, Vince Vaughan, Viggo Mortensen, Julianne Moore
screenplay by Joseph Stefano
directed by Gus Van Sant
Were Alfred Hitchcock alive today, he probably wouldn't give half the damn that Psycho 1998's detractors do-I'll bet that he would simply wish Van Sant "good luck" and turn the other cheek. In fact, the new film is unlikely to continue to drum up controversy; my guess is that within weeks it will have all but vanished from cinemas and moviegoers' memory banks, mostly because Van Sant has given a sixties movie a modern spin, yet succeeded in taking the edge off the original.
Must I recount the tale of Norman Bates and his mum? Phoenix, Arizona receptionist Marion Crane (Heche) steals a bunch of money ($400 000 this time around) from her real estate company, with the intention of running off with her lover, Sam Loomis (Mortensen). She stops at the Bates Motel for a good night's sleep along the way to California, where she shares sandwiches, milk, and stitled conversation with the taxidermist owner, Norman Bates (Vaughan), a mama's boy if there ever was one. Later, Marion is murdered in the shower by Mrs. Bates; her body, her car, and her personal belongings-including the loot-are disposed of in a nearby swamp by fearful Norman. An investigation ensues: Detective Arbogast (William H. Macy), and amateur sleuths Loomis and Lila (Moore), Marion's sister, attempt to uncover the truth behind Marion's disappearance.
Van Sant's version is basically a recreation of the original, with the exception of a few wrongheaded additions (do we really need those added flashcuts of storm clouds and human atrocities during the murder sequences?). What struck me most about Psycho 1998 was how the replicated pacing-a perfect tempo for the original-seemed too damn sluggish for today's viewers: audience members were dropping off to sleep all around me. (Perhaps that does defend Van Sant's MTV-style killings, after all.) Psycho's screenplay remains brilliant-the stolen money having no ultimate significance to the story was of course Hitchcock's greatest red herring, but Heche is not nearly the big star Janet Leigh was in 1960: even virgins to the tale will not be fazed by her demise halfway through the film, as she's just one member of a cast of solid but not popular actors. The current shower scene lacks its predecessor's sense of pulp, mischief and kink. (Aside: for whatever reason, the psycho-babble epilogue is more palpable this time around. Another aside: Danny Elfman's reorchestration of Bernard Hermann's score sounds great in digital sound.)
How are the performances? Occasionally, the dated dialogue sounds a little silly coming out of their mouths. (If Van Sant went so far as to update Hitch's vision by shooting in colour, why not extensively revise the script, too?) The most successful at reinventing his role is Macy as Arbogast, whose previous work with David Mamet positively affects his delivery-whenever Macy is on screen, it's impossible to turn your head. Heche, Mortensen, and Moore are just fine, but they seem to be dying to improvise and ad-lib. The movie is such a rigid remake it barely allows them breathing space.
With only a few puckers of his bee-stung lips and the occasional narrowing of his fashion model eyes, Vaughan comes off as much more sinister (not to mention physically imposing) than Anthony Perkins' Bates-ultimately, Vaughan fails to convince us his psychotic behaviour isn't premeditated. An impish Van Sant can be glimpsed through the window of the real estate office in scene two, and I couldn't help but think he should've played the title character: he bares a resemblance to Perkins and obviously has a deeper affinity for the material than Vaughan.
Ultimately, what disappointed me most about this Psycho was its softness. Why is Marion lolling around in bed with her naked lover wearing a bra and panties? Why the use of such obvious visual metaphors as storm clouds? Is this same director responsible for Drugstore Cowboy and the envelope-pushing My Own Private Idaho? I can't help but think of the moment in Psycho 1998 when Moore is startled by her own reflection on a giant mirror. It's as if Van Sant was too busy looking at Hitchcock's movie and too frightened to explore the truly personal aspects of the yarn, rendering this recreation functional but pointless.
-December, 1998
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