78/52 (2017)

Director: Alexandre O. Philippe

By Marilyn Ferdinand

Go up to a friend, someone in your office, or a young family member. Raise you right hand in a fist near your shoulder and move it back and forth several times while making an “eee eee eee” sound. Chances are very high that all of them will recognize the sound and movement whether or not they’ve ever seen Psycho. Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 horror masterpiece is deeply ingrained in our collective unconscious not only because of its own power, but also because of its power to influence so much of the cultural media we consume. More than anything, the infamous shower scene is at the very heart of why we can’t get enough of Hitchcock’s ultimate primal scream.

Documentarian Alexandre O. Philippe had the not-so-original idea of looking at why Psycho, and particularly the shower scene, are such enduring cultural artifacts. His exhaustive examination of this question, however, is anything but ordinary, and though I’m generally not a fan of talking heads, Philippe’s curiosity ranges so far and wide in placing the historical, artistic, and societal significance of Psycho in context that he won my admiration.

Among the more than 40 people who are interviewed onscreen are film directors like Eli Roth, Guillermo del Toro, Neil Marshall, and Oz Perkins talking about the influence of Psycho on the horror genre, with claims that Psycho inspired Mario Bava to invent the Italian giallo genre. Philippe has sound designer and mixer Gary Rydstrom discuss how Hitchcock experimented with 18 different kinds of melon to get the sound of ripping flesh he wanted. This reminded me of a similar sequence in Berberian Sound Studio (2012); could Psycho have inspired Peter Strickland, too?

Art curator Timothy Standring talks about the painting of Susanna and the Elders that hides the peephole through which Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) watches Marion Crane (Janet Leigh) prepare for her shower. This bible story tells of two elders who watch Susanna bathe and then threaten to lie about her virtue to force her to have sex with them. Hitchcock used the painting by Frans van Mieris the Elder (1635-1681), a particularly violent one in contrast to other versions Philippe exhibits, thus demonstrating the care Hitchcock took to foreshadow the deadly encounter between Norman and Marion, with lust and voyeurism at its center.

Elijah Wood sits on a couch with Josh Waller and Daniel Noah, two of his colleagues from the film production company SpectreVision, and comments on the acting. They watch the preamble to the shower scene in which Marion and Norman sit in his office and talk. Wood notices that Anthony Perkins is fidgety and uncomfortable up to the point when Marion suggests that Norman’s mother might be more comfortable in a nursing home. From then on, he is forceful, alert, and still—the men agree that change may have signaled the moment Norman decided to kill Marion.

Wood also comments on how hard it must have been for Janet Leigh to remain still during the long seconds when Hitchcock films Marion’s lifeless face mashed into the bathroom floor. Difficult indeed. We see an unmotivated cut to the shower head during this part of the 3-minute sequence because Hitchcock’s wife and partner, Alma Reville, told him that the camera captured Leigh taking a breath when it pulled back from her face.

Which brings us to editing. The title of Philippe’s film refers to the 78 camera setups and 52 cuts that comprise the shower scene, so it’s no surprise that the director calls on some of the most capable editors in the business—Walter Murch, Bob Murawski, and Amy Duddleston—to handle the technical breakdown of the scene, which was storyboarded by Saul Bass and edited by George Tomasini. Duddleston, who edited Gus Van Sant’s 1998 color remake of Psycho, muses on all the ways they couldn’t make that scene work, even when shooting what Hitchcock originally wanted—the entirety of Marion’s dead body, shot from above, draped over the bathtub rim. Murch points out the knife stabbing through the water coming from the shower head, a strong interruption of the easy flow that Marion was enjoying before the attack, a visual metaphor for the flow of blood being spilled and the life force that will slowly drain from Marion’s body. This kind of slow death is the antithesis of what audiences in 1960 were used to seeing, and Philippe inserts some scenery-chewing death scenes from other films to emphasize that Hitchcock’s aim was to confront audiences with how people really die, to make it real, not an exercise in easily forgotten entertainment.

One of the great revelations of 78/52 is Philippe’s interview with Marli Renfro, a model and showgirl who was Janet Leigh’s body double for the shower scene. She seems to have been quite amused by her interactions with Hitchcock, laughing about his insistence that she wear a crotch patch even though it kept coming off. She points out the frames in which the dying Marion grabs the shower curtain as another taboo-breaking moment—her bare breasts are clearly, if briefly, visible. Leigh most certainly sold the believability of the attack, but it was Renfro who struggled against her murderer with poignant urgency, and she deserves the recognition Philippe accords her.

It’s important to emphasize that although the documentary centers on the shower scene, Philippe is interested in the entire film and in how Psycho fits into Hitchcock’s body of work. He shows a clip from The Lodger (1927) of a woman being spied upon while taking a bath, and tees up the sentiment that nobody is safe, not even in their own bathroom, with a clip from Shadow of a Doubt (1943) of Uncle Charlie’s famously cynical scolding of his niece: “Do you know the world is a foul sty? Do you know, if you rip off the fronts of houses, you’d find swine? The world’s a hell.” He also shows how Psycho provided a decisive break from the suave Technicolor films Hitchcock made in the 1950s, with big stars and big budgets.

Philippe is on much less steady ground when he strays into sociological and historical territory. Claims that the film was the canary in the mine for the upheavals of the 1960s seem a big stretch, and he even lets film historian David Thomson repeat the probably apocryphal story of audiences fleeing in terror at the approach of a train projected on a screen in 1896 by way of comparison with audience reactions to Psycho. But these flaws don’t derail this documentary. I ate up all the intriguing details of this stuffed-to-the-gills celebration of Psycho and its legacy. 78/52 is a must-see for film fans who want to geek out on Hitchcock’s artistry at its finest.

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