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Norman/Mother strikes
Psycho
Queering Hitchcock's Classic
Introduction
As the first staccato chords ominously resound and the viewer sees through broken horizontal bars the word "Psycho," it is clear that what lies beyond these frames is no ordinary story, and a strange feeling of anxiety begins to rise in the throat along with the pitch of the violins. Alfred Hitchcock adapted Robert Bloch's novel Psycho1 into what would become one of the classic films of all time. On its surface, Psycho is a film about clandestine affairs, larceny, murder, secrets, and mental illness; however, between the shadows, there lies an exploration of the temptations of capitalism, sexual identity, gender roles, sexual expression, and a pedagogical message that demonstrates what horrible things can happen in the absence of "proper" development. Psycho reiterates to its viewers that people are not what or who they seem to be despite their appearances, and that evil acts may occur if a person has not resolved his or her sexual development and identity to a "normal" level. Interestingly, the story explored in Psycho has its roots in the queer events that unfolded in 1957 in the small town of Plainfield, Wisconsin.
Ed Gein (right) was described
by
locals as a reclusive man obsessed with anatomy and the sex-change
operation of
Christine Jorgensen (one of the first highly publicized transsexual
cases).2
On November 16, 1957 local law enforcement, acting on a tip, discovered
in Gein's home a grisly scene complete with body parts, skulls,
preserved skin from women's faces, and a vest made of women's skin
complete with breasts. There was evidence of cannibalism and it was
apparent that Gein, donning a garment constructed from the skins and
body parts of women, would parade about his house. The people of
Plainfield could hardly believe the reports emerging from the Gein
farm. Gein was arrested and questioned, stating that he was, "in a
daze" when he killed, and he reported experiencing amnesia for what
appeared to be more than a dozen murders, all women.3 The trial was
sensational and Gein was found criminally insane, spending the rest of
his life at Central State Hospital in Wisconsin, dying in 1984.
Plainfield's residents were left asking, how could this happen here?
Most certainly, Gein's activities rent the fabric of the quiet, rural
American life that so characterized the 1950s where everything was
"normal" and no one deviated from what was expected. Sullivan,4
quoting Halperin, writes that "Queer is by definition whatever is at
odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant."5 and certainly
the events of Plainfield, based on this interpretation, were queer. A
local writer, Robert Bloch, was struck by the depth of disruption
created by the Gein case and pursued writing a novel based on the
story.
Bloch was interested in "abnormal psychology" and was familiar with the popular Freudian theories of the day, particularly regarding the development of sexual identity. He set his story in a rural location, and his murderer was Norman Bates. There were rumors about the Gein case that suggested Gein had an incestuous relationship with his mother and, in fact, many of the gravesites of his victims and their remains were found close to his own mother's grave. Gein had apparently kept his mother's room in pristine fashion, as did Norman in Bloch's novel. While Bloch did not overtly write about such taboo topics as incest and sexual identity confusion, he certainly suggested them in his novel. Norman seems to the reader to be a rather normal man, albeit eccentric, who has many secrets, representing a queer commentary on humanity. At its heart, the Bloch novel is about mental sickness that results from an unresolved developmental stage; sickness that can lead to unthinkable acts of destruction. Viewed queerly, perhaps what was and is held up as "normal" development (according to Freud) is not normal at all. From a queer perspective, sexual fantasy with multiple objects is one of the endless colors on the spectrum of sexual expression.
As Hitchcock formulated his plan to bring Bloch's novel to the screen, he held fast to Freudian theories and, as I will explore, presents obvious and cloaked references to "normal" development according to Freud. Based on accounts of Hitchcock's direction of the film, it does not seem that he intended to make such a social and sexual commentary; however, as one reflects on the film today, there are many opportunities to view it through a queer lens, which, according to Hall,6 Sullivan,7 Britzman,8 and others, should involve the use of multiple viewpoints as the film is read as representative of, and existing within, a social/sexual paradigm.
Regardless of his intent, Hitchcock created a stark cinematic portrait of just how "damaged" one can become when seduced by greed, sexual desire, and the pressure to keep it all quietly disguised under the façade of normalcy. Additionally, on a personal and professional level, Hitchcock was very aware that he needed to take a new direction, breaking from his previous movie work, which had become mainstream, Technicolor, "A" movies cast with stars.9 In many ways, Psycho was a vehicle that queered what the public had come to expect from Hitchcock films, and, much like its real-life inspiration, it queered the notion that America was a place where "normal" was defined as quiet, safe, smalltown life, free from the darkness that lurks in modest roadside motels.
Context
Before examining the plot, performances, and technical aspects of Psycho, it is important to frame the film in the cultural context of the day. The 1950s is generally regarded as representing the height of achieving the American ideal with an emphasis on conformity.10After the Great Depression and World War II, the 1950s became an era of prosperity, and middle-class America emerged and thrived as the market became flooded with goods. There were enough jobs to support the growing consumer appetite, and television brought the idealized image of the American family into many homes as Ozzie and Harriet and other shows demonstrated the pleasures of family life. In keeping with enduring Victorian values, sexuality was not discussed. Society, including public schooling, emphasized traditional masculine and feminine roles with men being the family breadwinners and women, even if they worked, being expected to keep their place in the home. Media at the time did not explore alternative sexualities, and even heterosexual married couples were not portrayed as acting sexually. For example, despite being married, Lucy and Desi Arnaz had separate beds on the I Love Lucy show, and we never see Ozzie and Harriet or June and Ward Cleaver in the bedroom at all. Sex was off limits except for underground and back-alley publications of "girly" magazines and pulp fiction novels. A clean, proper image became paramount, with men in suits and women dressed smartly in skirts and blouses, hair coiffed and pearls at the neck. Diversity was not embraced, as homogeneity was viewed as making society stronger.11 There were certainly rebels who challenged the zeitgeist of repression and conformity, from Beat novelists like Jack Kerouac to provocative rock and rollers like Elvis Presley. However, these and other such figures were seen as deviant and their work viewed as contributions to the "corruption" that led to 1960s counterculture.
Through the 1950s, Hitchcock
had
carved out a film career that, despite some racy themes, played well to
the mainstream. Most of his work prior to Psycho
centered on suspense and tension that developed between characters and
situations. His films were often shot in color and, with a few
exceptions like Shadow of a Doubt and Strangers
on a Train, did not explore deviance as a major narrative
element. Hitchcock himself was a rather queer character in
Hollywood at the
time, with a reputation as a perfectionist, a womanizer, and an
autocrat on the set.12 It is
interesting that on the cusp of the '60s, Hitchcock, through Psycho,
chose to recreate himself as a director just as society was also
beginning to radically reinvent itself. With Psycho,
Hitchcock would shock audiences with sexual innuendo, apparent nudity
coupled with a sadistic stabbing scene. Perhaps most shocking of all,
he would leave audiences what might lie below the surface of family,
friends, neighbors, and even themselves.
Plot: Analysis and Critique
Central to the plot of Psycho is the idea that an ordinary person can harbor many secrets, making his or her appearance seem theatrical. Hall13 refers to Butler's concept of identity as performance and, while Hitchcock predates Butler, this notion is very evident in how he directed the development of the central characters in Psycho. Even as the film ends and the murderer is exposed, private conversations within his/her mind conceal what appears to be a disturbed but calm "victim" of faulty psychological development. The opening montage sets the scene for the dark things that take place inside ordinary towns and inside the minds of ordinary people.
As the opening credits roll, stark lines enter and exit the screen, bringing in the next title. The film is black-and-white — a departure from the popular color films of the day. The audience is taken to Phoenix, Arizona, and a time appears in the frame, giving a documentary quality to the opening scene, establishing the importance of time as central to the story. Interestingly, time seems to evaporate as the film progresses, and by the end, time seems to have reversed for the main character, Norman Bates, as he spirals into madness. The message seems to be clear — you are about to witness what really goes on while you live your life as if all is well in the world. Wood (1965), as quoted in Kolker14, says of the opening sequence, "we are to be taken forwards and downwards into the darkness of ourselves." Indeed, the film encourages us throughout to turn our gaze at the self.
The camera takes us to an ordinary
building, and the viewer is shown a window, blinds closed but not
completely lowered to the bottom. We enter the room and there on the
bed lies Marion Crane (Janet Leigh, right, with
John
Gavin) in her bra and slip, which is
white. Later, she changes to black underwear and eventually, Norman,
her murderer, will see her in the black bra and slip — a visual
reminder of her deviance. Standing by the bed is Sam Loomis (Gavin),
who is drying the sweat off his chest with a towel. It is clear
that these two have just finished an afternoon sexual encounter, and
not their first. They begin to dress and we learn that they are indeed
having a secret affair. As they restore their clothing, they transform
from seedy, half-dressed ne'er-do-wells to polished,
respectable-looking citizens. They talk about wanting to be
"legitimately" together, but Sam says he does not have the money to
settle his divorce. Frustrated, they leave their secret place and
return to their ordinary lives, he in California as a hardware store
owner and she as a secretary to a real estate broker. From the
beginning, the stereotypical moral image of the 1950s is disrupted by
what is obviously a less than respectable coupling of two perfectly
nice, heterosexual people. They seem to want to conform to the standard
of the day, namely, that one establishes a monogamous, heterosexual
relationship only when one has severed all ties in other relationships.
However, they cannot afford to purchase that standard. Hitchcock queers
the image of sexual purity but reinforces naturalized heterosexuality
as the film progresses. A contemporary queer read of this aspect of the
film demands a challenge to the emphasis on heterosexuality,
particularly as Hitchcock utilizes the Freudian explanation of
homosexual development in his explanation of Norman's development as a
psychopathic killer despite Norman's apparent heterosexual orientation.
In any case, the film next takes us into the deviant acts of Marion
Crane as we see her steal a large sum of money from a rich investor who
is doing business with her employer. Here, Hitchcock sets us up to see
that greed can only lead to trouble and, through a queer lens, Marion's
decision to commit larceny illustrates just how powerful capitalist
ideals can be — gaining means and wealth must be done at any cost.
Feigning a headache, Marion and the money begin a journey to meet Sam, presumably to run off together so they can freely engage in a socially acceptable relationship with financial comfort. During her drive, we are introduced to the mirror motif, which recurs throughout the film, representing how important it is to reflect on one's self and one's actions, measuring them against what is "normal." Read queerly, this self-reflection should serve the purpose of examining one's own construction of identity (or identities) rather than measuring it (them) against a culturally constructed norm. During this section of the film, Bernard Herrmann's score provides tension and suspense and foreshadows the price Marion will pay for deviating from the norm. Hitchcock's use of rain visually hints at the trouble to come, in particular what will happen in the shower. Losing her way literally and figuratively, Marion comes upon a small motel and, in the pouring rain, meets a young man who will kill her.
Norman Bates (Anthony
Perkins) is a
thin but attractive figure who is courteous and kind as he assists
Marion with an overdue break from her trip. We discover that he lives
with his mother in an ominously large Victorian mansion and that he
spends his time caring for the motel that has become all but deserted
due to the opening of a new highway. Norman invites Marion to the house
to eat, and as she is settling into her room, she hears what seems to
be a confrontation between Norman and his mother at the house. Mother
is lambasting Norman for inviting a girl into the house and accuses him
of violating sexual mores by doing so. In a few moments, Norman appears
with a tray of sandwiches, visibly shaken from the run-in with Mother.
Marion follows him into the motel's parlor and, sitting among a
sinister collection of stuffed raptors, offers an empathetic ear. It is
here in the shadows that we and the birds of prey bear witness to a
conversation about internal psychological turmoil, with Marion
realizing that she has made a mistake, announcing her return to Phoenix
to right her wrong. Norman, however, lets us know that he has been
developmentally derailed and that he feels trapped and angry. He says,
"We're all in our private traps. Clamped in them. We scratch and claw,
but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it we never
budge an inch." Reading queerly, Norman is making a statement about the
impact of cultural expectations on identity. More particularly, he is
expressing what Sullivan15 refers to
when discussing Cohen's observation that multiple systems of oppression
collide to, "regulate the lives of most people." 16 Norman's life
has been regulated. He is trapped (like the stuffed birds in the
parlor) in a world where he appears to have freedom; however, because
of oppressive systems including his own self-regulation, he is anything
but free.
At one point in the scene, Marion asks Norman if he has friends, and Norman replies, "A boy's best friend is his mother." Also, Norman tells Marion that, "A son is a poor substitute for a lover." If, as Hitchcock would seem to have us do, we followed Freud, we would understand that Norman's development was arrested in the phallic stage, more particularly, during the Oedipal complex because his powerful and dominating mother was so strong that unconscious castration anxiety, normally created by the presence of the father, did not occur. Thus Norman identified with his mother and, according to Freud, would probably become homosexual in his orientation (following the sexual desires of his mother). Interestingly, Hitchcock skews Freud by giving Norman what appears to be a sexual appetite for females rather than males. Perhaps even Hitchcock was not brave enough to create Norman not only as a cross-dressing killer but as a homosexual cross-dressing killer. Presumably many viewers at the time of the film's release assumed that Norman was a closeted homosexual once they learned he was dressing in women's clothes, since cross-dressing behavior was stereotypically associated with homosexuals; however, Hitchcock goes to great lengths to make it clear that Norman is attracted to women despite his taste in couture.
Hitchcock's casting of Anthony Perkins in this coded queer role further shades the character. Perkins, according to Winecoff,17 professed his identity as a bisexual and was known to have had relationships with several popular male stars of the day including Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter. Perkins died from complications of AIDS in 1992 after having been married and fathering two children. His performance in Psycho subtly displays traits associated with traditional "feminine" behavior, hinting that, in fact, Norman is repressing his true desire for a same-sex partner. Perkins does not play Norman as a "manly man;" rather, we see him succumb to Mother's demands, even her demands to kill. Queerly, we are all subject to the pressures of the world we live in and our own internal pressures; this is how we construct our identities. Perhaps one dimension of the "private trap" Norman professes to be in involves his sexual identity, and having homosexual desire has been, in modern Western culture, one of the greatest transgressions. If Norman had been able to embrace a queer point of view, he may have opened the door of his trap, stretching his wings and flying to freedom. Instead, he remains locked in his disturbed world and, as the film progresses, becomes murderously mad.
Following the interaction in the parlor, Marion retires to her room, and as she undresses, we see Norman remove a painting — a nude woman apparently being attacked by a dark male figure — from the parlor wall in order to spy on her. For a moment, we are looking through Norman's eyes at Marion, now in a black bra and slip, getting ready for a shower. Obviously, Norman is sexually aroused and presumably, to avoid moral transgression, he makes his way up to the house. The entire scene is filled with shadows and is accompanied with pensive music, giving us a pressing sense of foreboding. Hitchcock used a 50 millimeter camera to achieve the closest visual image to the human eye for this scene.18 He clearly wanted the viewer to see things as Norman saw them. Norman enters the house and we see for the first time the obvious Victorian décor, which, read queerly, indicates what Foucault19 calls, in reference to "We 'Other Victorians," the " image of the imperial prude."20 The Bates house, and its Victorian styling, from a queer perspective, emblemize the strictures of Victorian sexual norms, namely, that sex is confined to the bedroom of married, heterosexual couples and is never discussed. Norman appears to be trying suppress his sexual desires by entering the structured environment of the house. Mother is in the house and Norman knows that she will help him stop the "dirty" thoughts he is having about Marion. Both Norman and Marion at this point convey a sense of impurity. Indeed, the next scene is Marion in the shower figuratively and literally cleansing her body and self.
The
bathroom scene is remarkable
in
that it is believed to be the first time a toilet was shown in a
mainstream
American film, and the first time that an apparently nude woman was
shown bathing.21
Marion seems to be revitalized in the shower, and we see her literally
"coming clean" there. Then we see in silhouette, through the shower
curtain, the door creep open and the figure of an older woman raises a
large knife. As the curtain is flung open, the music shrieks, replacing
all sounds from the characters, and Marion is stabbed repeatedly. In
agony, she slumps into the tub as the killer runs out, and we see her
reach toward us one final time as if to say, "do something" just before
she grabs the shower curtain and, pulling it off its rings, falls to
the floor in death. We see blood and water spiraling down the drain,
and the camera takes us into the drain, the motif symbolizing the
spiral of madness that lurks beneath the civilized surface. The drain
is replaced with an eye, obviously dead, and as the camera pans away,
we see the body of Marion as she lays half in and half out of the tub,
her plans for repentance thwarted. We are taken by the camera to the
folded newspaper where she hid the money she had stolen as if to
reiterate that she has no chance of righting her wrongs. We hear
Norman's voice at the house, seemingly upset after seeing Mother
covered in blood. As Norman rushes in to discover the scene, he is
clearly horrified, covering his mouth with his hand, which is followed
by an emblem of Marion's death as a picture of a songbird falls to the
floor. Norman quickly takes action to clean up Mother's mess, and we
are left with the impression that Norman is accustomed to cleaning up
Mother's messes, perhaps at the expense of being able to address his
own mess. In the safety of shadows, Norman disposes of Marion's body,
her personal belongings, and her car in a nearby swamp, including the
stolen money which he does not realize is in the newspaper he tosses
into the trunk at the last minute. Norman returns to the motel to
assume his performance as an ordinary guy in an ordinary place anywhere
in America. At this point, the plot shifts to Marion's sister, Lila
(Vera Miles), Sam, and a private detective, Milton Arbogast (Martin
Balsam), who has been hired by Marion's employer to track her down in
order to give her the chance to return the stolen money.
Arbogast discovers the
Bates Motel
in his search for Marion and becomes suspicious at Norman's mounting
anxiety during questioning. Norman, trying hard to "play it straight,"
contradicts himself, and it is clear that he is not forthcoming. Seen
through a queer lens, Norman is failing at performing the role of a
"normal" guy, increasing the viewer's sense that he's a closet case. As
Arbogast gets closer to the truth — queerly, as Norman is about to be
"outed" — Norman/Mother kills the detective and thus continues to
conceal his/her secrets. What Norman does not know is that Arbogast has
told Lila and Sam about his suspicions, and they venture to the motel
to continue to search for answers. Beyond the narrative quest to find
Marion, Lila and Sam's confrontation of Norman reads as a heterosexual
reaction to the suspicion of someone's homosexuality. Indeed, Norman
panics as the pair come closer to ascertaining what has happened at the
Bates Motel and, in a desperate attempt to keep his deepest secret, he
moves Mother to the basement. Now we see just how handy Norman has been
with his taxidermy hobby. He has preserved Mother, who has obviously
been dead for quite some time. In the final climactic moments of the
film, Norman, in a dress and wig, comes up behind Lila, who has just
discovered Mother in the basement. As Norman raises his arm to stab
Lila, Sam appears at the last possible second and, acting as a
heterosexual deus ex machina, tackles Norman. Norman crumples in Sam's
arms (above), mouth agape, wig askew, his secrets
violently revealed.
From a
queer perspective, Norman's collapse into Sam's arms signifies briefly
allowing himself to touch that part of himself that desires a same-sex
encounter. The expression on his face, a queer mix of pain and
pleasure, certainly suggests more than simply being stopped from
committing another murder.
In the last sequence at the
police
station, we witness a psychiatrist reviewing Norman's pathology,
reflecting the then current belief that sexual difference is illness
rather than alternative expression. We discover that Norman killed his
mother and her boyfriend because of his jealously — confirming his
sexual desires for Mother. Norman could not separate from Mother, so he
stole her body prior to burial and kept it in the house. He assumed her
identity in an effort to comfort himself and fulfill his unconscious
sexual urges. The final scene has Norman, who has now completely become
Mother, draped in a blanket staring wildly at the camera as he thinks,
in Mother's voice, about how he/she will demonstrate his/her
harmlessness. He has blended his gender and, presumably, he has
expunged, or at least resolved, his deviant sexual desires. As the
final credits roll, we see Marion's car being pulled from the swamp to
expose its secrets. The message is clear that, despite the
most
extreme efforts to
conceal them, in the end all things hidden or unspoken will be
revealed.
Conclusion
If, as we have been considering, queer refers to a process of disturbing the norm, then it seems that Psycho is, at its heart, a queer film. Not only does it disturb the ordinary, it also uses broad cultural definitions of "normal" in 1950s America to question what is defined as "abnormal," while exposing the presence of darkness and "madness" in all of us — "We all go a little mad sometimes." Hitchcock has set out to make a film that capitalizes on fear (at many levels) to draw the audience into an uneasy space where human potential can include heinous acts.
Hitchcock was a perfectionist when it came to the technical aspects of his films and Psycho was no exception despite the fact that, in some respects, the style was new for him. Several accounts of the making of Psycho, including those written by the actors, indicate that Hitchcock could be grueling in his demands for just the right angle or an exact tone or shade of light in a scene. As an example, the infamous shower scene took at least seven days to film by most accounts, and the final cut was forty-five seconds from beginning to end. Hitchcock queered conventional filmmaking by insisting on continuous dolly shots that were nearly impossible to design. For instance, the shot of Marion's dead eye was a continuous shot requiring the actor to lay motionless, not breathing or blinking, for several minutes at a time as the camera panned back and then across the floor into the bedroom. The smallest detail, such as the placement of a drop of water on Janet Leigh's face, consumed him. In this regard, as Hall22 points out, Hitchcock was acting queerly as he explored details, contexts, and nuances while reading and evaluating his own work. Hitchcock took many risks with Psycho and most of them appear intentional. The film is itself about risks, their consequences, and their rewards.
Psycho
posits
that identity is multidimensional and shifts within and
beyond the contexts where it is constructed and reconstructed, in any
space where one defines one's self. Our image of what is wholesome and
pure
is disrupted as Marion and Norman reveal their secrets to us; secrets
that rattle and shock us not only because of what Norman and Marion do,
but because we are made to look unblinkingly into who they are, and now
we know that we may also be capable of doing — and being — the same
things.
1. Robert Bloch, Psycho (New York: River City Press, 1959).
2. Stephen Rebello, Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho (New York: Debnar Books, 1990).
3. Ibid, p. 4.
4. Nikki Sullivan, A Critical Introduction to Queer Theory (New York: New York Press, 2003).
5. Ibid, p. 43.
6. Donald Hall, Queer Theories (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003).
7. Sullivan.
8. Deborah Britzman, "Is There a Queer Pedagogy? Or, Stop Reading Straight", Educational Theories, 45(2), 151-165.
9. Rebello, 1990.
10. U.S. Department of State (n.d.), The Culture of the 1950s. (Accessed September 11, 2007)
11. Ibid.
12. Raymond Durgnat, A Long Hard Look at Psycho (Trowbridge: Cromwell Press).
13. Hall, 2003.
14. Wood, 1965 quoted in Robert Kolker, Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004), p. 75.
15. Sullivan, 2003.
16. Ibid, p. 49.
17. Charles Winecoff, Split image: The Life of Anthony Perkins (Boston: Dutton Publishers, 1996).
18. Robello, 1990.
19. Foucault, 1978.
20. Ibid, p. 3.
21. Robello, 1990.
22. Hall, 2003.
Works Cited
Britzman, D. (1995). "Is There a Queer Pedagogy? Or, Stop Reading Straight," Educational Theory 45 (2), 151-165.
Durgnat, R. (2002). A Long Hard Look at Psycho. Trowbridge: Cromwell Press.
Foucault, M. (1978). The History of Sexuality, Vol. I: An Introduction. New York: Vintage Books.
Hall, D. (2003). Queer Theories. New York: Palgrave Macmillan.
Kolker, R. (2004). Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho: A Casebook. New York: Oxford University Press.
Rebello, S. Alfred Hitchcock and the Making of Psycho. New York: HarperCollins.
Sullivan, N. (2003). A Critical Introduction to Queer Theory. New York: New York University Press.
U.S. Department of State (n.d.). The Culture of the 1950s. Retrieved on September 11, 2007 from here.
Winecoff, C. (1996). Split Image: The Life of Anthony Perkins. Boston: Dutton Publishers.
August
2008 | Issue 61
Copyright © 2008 by Jay Poole
Jay Poole is a visiting assistant professor at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro in the School of Human Environmental Sciences, Department of Social Work. He is completing his Ph.D. in Educational Leadership Cultural Foundations with a focus in queer studies with particular interest in factors that influence identity. Jay holds the master of social work degree and is a licensed clinical social worker.
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