Psycho (1998)

Director: Gus Van Sant

Cast: Vince Vaughn, Julianne Moore, Viggo Mortensen, Anne Heche

Have I Seen it Before: Yes. Why I watched it again—when there may not be a film in all of history that more desperately begs you to watch another film—I’ll never know.

Did I Like It: The film is ultimately a cheat, but a fascinating cheat. What would possess someone to make a film this way? I don’t think I’ve yet to be able to wrap my head around that one. It works, but that’s because it was made right the first time. Comparisons are natural, and this film was destined to suffer in light of its predecessor, but Van Sant honestly thought Vaughn was the right guy to put in that role? He can’t help but display the personae he was honing and continued to hone in light comedies. I mean, Keaton might have been a little too old for the role, but if you’re going to do something crazy, reach for something that works. I’m also more than a little annoyed with Elfman’s similarly carbon copying of Bernard Hermann’s score. He suddenly got the idea that he can just plug in old themes and not do any of the off-the-wall work he did earlier in his career, a quarter of a century later he’s phoning in the orchestrations for Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (2024).

I’d mention something—really, anything—else, but again, the film is ultimately a cheat. I always promised myself that I would write a minimum 300 words (I’m real close) for each of these reviews, but if Van Sant can cheat, so can I. So, without further adieu, here’s my review of the original film. Feels appropriate.

Title: Psycho (1960)

Director: Alfred Hitchcock

Cast: Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, Vera Miles, John Gavin

Have I Seen it Before: Please... Is it weird that I view this movie as cinematic comfort food? I’m reasonably sure Hitchcock didn’t mean it to be so.

Did I Like It: I don’t think there’s enough written—<except by me>—about how Psycho is, at it’s core, the greatest B movie ever produced. The budget is nearly non-existent, especially in relation to Hitchcock’s immediately preceding production, North By Northwest (1959). The biggest star in the movie (and one hopes this isn’t exactly a spoiler) is killed before the plot truly gets running.

And that plot is, objectively, a muddled mess. In any other circumstances, a story that begins about a woman (Leigh) making a run for it with thousands of dollars of her employers money, only to veer wildly into the events after her sudden murder.

In another time, and another place, and most importantly, with another filmmaker at the helm, the film would have become a salacious, forgettable thriller that would have dropped off the face of the earth the instant drive-in movie theaters became all but extinct.

But we’re talking about Hitchcock here. In his hands, it single-handedly launches the slasher genre, inspiring an army of lesser sequels, homages, and echoes. The plot that shouldn’t work is a pure mis-direction fueled magic trick. We trust Hitch to tell us a story of the woman on the run, and after everything changes, we can never feel settled for the rest of the picture, or for any movie ever again.

Or, maybe, it has nothing to do with trust. Hitchcock works on a level few, if any of us, can fathom. This film is arguably his most famous, and he makes the whole thing seem effortless. It is a marvel to watch each and every time I have spun it in my Blu Ray player.

Hannibal (2001)

Director: Ridley Scott

Cast: Anthony Hopkins, Julianne Moore, Ray Liotta, Frankie R. Faison

Have I Seen it Before: Sure. I wasn’t yet 17 when the film was release, but perpetually looking about five years older than I really am, I was able to buy a ticket for myself without much scrutiny at all.

And yet, I couldn’t even begin to guess when I last saw the film. For someone who’s taken to a <Hannibal Lecter podcast> in recent months, it’s odd just how little this film has lived in my memory all these years.

Did I Like It: For the first half of the film, I was struck by how faithful an adaptation this was of the original Thomas Harris novel. I’m not certain if that’s the most thorough praise, as Harris’ third Lecter novel isn’t quite his weakest entry, but it’s far, far from his strongest.

For what it is, things could be a lot worse. Is it a satisfying successor to The Silence of the Lambs (1991)? Certainly not, but then again, neither was the novel, so Scott and company are  at least hitting their target here. Performances are all around pretty good. Moore accomplishes the unenviable task of equating herself well, while having to be either the George Lazenby or Roger Moore to Jodie Foster’s Sean Connery. An uncredited Gary Oldman disappears into his part as the non-charming monster of the piece, but one can’t help but wonder if original choice Christopher Reeve might have made the proceedings even more unsettling than they already were. Hopkins himself—the main attraction—doesn’t feel like he is trying to eliminate the need for him to reprise the role again (Red Dragon (2002), I’m looking in your direction) and keeps the hammier parts of Lecter, but just barely.

The final act of the film, however is where a bad taste is left in my mouth. It is a thorough exercise in the practice of half measures. Starling and Lecter couldn’t become lovers, sure, although with the departure of Moore, maybe they could. The eventual comeuppance of Mason Verger is a great deal more satisfying in the novel, and trying to make Starling anything other than a tragic hero in this story is a flex that the preceding two hours can’t quite support. We’ll just have to take comfort in the knowledge that we did get to see Ray Liotta eat his own brain for a little bit.