The Artist Vs. Psycho

Went to see THE ARTIST at the Moreland Theater here in Portland. Never been there before, but the movie house is a lesser known gem in this fair city. It’s a single screen theater which has been in business since 1926. Vaudeville acts performed before screenings in the silent era. The “Arabian Nights” decor is gorgeous, authentic, and completely preserved. The place actually projects film. For a film going buff, seeing a movie here is a true and rare pleasure.

THE ARTIST was a decent picture, and there are greater sins than decency, but also pretty soft and pudgy. Like a slick Guy Maddin without the whimsically magical, exotic flavors and textures. Cloyingly ingratiating, it really wants you to love it. For me it was sentimental and lacked real emotion. THE DESCENDANTS mops the floor with THE ARTIST.

But strangely, I really loved Gus Van Sant’s remake of PSYCHO. Doing it shot for shot is gutsy, experimental, and enlightening - proving soul is completely independent from mathematics. It’s really cool to see what a huge difference casting makes. Janet Leigh’s Marion was haunted and conflicted while Anne Heche plays it like she’s a little bit crazy. Filling Anthony Perkins mighty shoes as Norman Bates is thankless and completely impossible, so it makes perfect sense to cast Vince Vaughn in the role. Why not?

The original PSYCHO is, hands down, my favorite Hitchcock movie. I think his films often have some great scenes which overshadow the quality of the picture as a whole. There’s a very cold, reptillian quality to many of Hitchcock’s movies, which I’m not too fond of. Reminds me of a serial killer’s chapbook - creepy, removed, deluded. But I love PSYCHO. I think Perkins gives it a human glow which I gravitate towards.

The murders and climax don’t have the same visceral snap as the original, but that may be inevitable. When the original PSYCHO was made, there must have been a transgressive charge in the air which effected the whole tone and vibe of the piece. After millions of Friday the 13th’s, Halloweens, and Nightmares On Elm Street, a graphic onscreen murder has become a cliche. There’s no going back. Over time, some things lose power and after so much shock, it gets harder to shock.

I think Van Sant realizes this and purposefully doesn’t go overboard in the recreations of the famous death scenes. In fact, he adds some truly surreal little bits which are shocking in the way they contrast with the ingrained remembrance of the murders. He includes a quick time lapse shot of ominous, fast clouds during Marion’s shower death, and a shot of an undressed woman in a blindfold and a goat on a rainy road for Arbogast’s stairway demise. These images seem to have very little connection to the film itself. It’s almost as if the act of recreating Hitchcock’s famous film, shot for shot, is a strange and sacred rite unto itself, rupturing space and time and allowing momentary invasions from another dimension to intrude into the film. Cinema is alchemy. Cinema is magick.