(1998. Dir. Gus Van Sant. Vince Vaughn. Julianne Moore. Vigo Mortensen. William H. Macy. Anne Heche. 104 min.) A mixed bag based on Robert Bloch’s smartly written 1959 thriller, the granddaddy of modern horror novels even before there was such a marketing category. (All right, you can give me an argument over Richard Matheson’s I Am Legend. But that was as much science fiction as horror and didn’t spawn the legions of imitations.)
Bloch’s Psycho was very much an Oedipal tale of madness, mostly from Norman’s Bate’s claustrophobicily twisted point of view. Tame by today’s standards, one of the surprises reading the book was how much Hitchcock pushed the envelope of the time, 1960 film exploding the violence and carnality way beyond what Bloch described. And with the heavy lifting already done, it’s understandable if purists would avoid Gus Van Sant’s remake which not only uses Joe Sefano’s screenplay but tosses in an almost shot-by-shot recreation to boot. I’m a big fan of Gus Van Sant – in the business he’s got what they call a ‘rich eye’ and the composition of his shots are usually surprising in subtle ways. I really enjoyed Drug Store Cowboy; Good Will Hunting is the only movie I can think of that I’d call Emersonian. If other actors have played Hamlet then there’s nothing particularly wrong with reviving a classic.
So is the new Psycho worth the effort? From black and white to color is intriguing, promising a hothouse flavor to Marion’s Crane's theft of 400 thousand dollars (adjusted for inflation), from a real estate office where a loudmouth millionaire (Chad Everett of all people) paid in cash. But the first twelve minutes feels like they’re still in mothballs – the acting lacks the urgency of the original, and only when James Remar’s State Trooper knocks on Marion’s car window to see why she’s parked and asleep on a berm does the movie click into it’s rhythm, the rhythm of Sefano reworking Bloch’s novel to fit Hitchcock’s vision of guilt and fear.
Anne Heche is furtive with a fizz; Vince Vaughn looks like his shoes are too tight; and I can almost make out what Vigo Mortensen is saying in his vague South Western accent. Julianne Moore shows up and simply takes over, Robert Forster is Simon Oakland’s evil twin, and Bernard Herrmann’s musical score reverentially in place doesn’t hurt. The best I can say is there’s still a hypnotic story in there somewhere.
