Alfred Hitchcock’s influence over the horror genre is towering. “Hitchcockian” is one of the few namesake descriptors used to describe (typically lesser) copycats. Film courses teach Hitchcock’s catalog as epitomic examples of tension, mystery, and suspense, while filmmakers worship Hitchcock through tributes and facsimiles. Anyone would kill to have a Rope or Vertigo on their […]
Alfred Hitchcock’s influence over the horror genre is towering. “Hitchcockian” is one of the few namesake descriptors used to describe (typically lesser) copycats. Film courses teach Hitchcock’s catalog as epitomic examples of tension, mystery, and suspense, while filmmakers worship Hitchcock through tributes and facsimiles. Anyone would kill to have a Rope or Vertigo on their resume, but few will—even if they attempt a shot-for-shot remake.
Enter Gus Van Sant, hot off the success of 1997’s Good Will Hunting. Van Sant’s adoration of Hitchcock is well-documented, as well as his desire to remake Psychowith zero alterations. “It’s a marketing scheme,” Van Sant once answered in response to why Universal would greenlight his remake, continuing, “because they have this little thing they’ve forgotten about that they could put in the marketplace and make money from.” It’s hardly what I’d want to hear from a filmmaker tasked with revitalizing a horror classic for modern audiences, and that’s what we’re here to analyze.
Much like the curious cases of Cabin Fever or Funny Games—each with their unique explanations and outcomes—what value does a mirror-image remake hold?
Van Sant always envisioned his Psycho as a meticulous love letter to Hitchcock, staying militantly accurate to Joseph Stefano’s 1960 script. That’s why it’s often dubbed a shot-for-shot remake, although it’s not a perfect ditto. According to Van Sant, Hitchcock’s blocking couldn’t be replicated in certain instances, so they had no choice but to abandon the original’s cinematography here and there. It’s more of a beat-for-beat remake, with minor tweaks like dollar amount adjustments for inflation and enhancements in color, such as increased blood usage. However, Psycho (1998) is—intentionally—an experiment in remake filmmaking that questions whether shot-for-shot mentalities could prove financially viable.
Where Van Sant’s iteration differs most is, unsurprisingly, in the cast. Vince Vaughn is a skeevier, skittish, and more deviant Norman Bates who trades Anthony Perkins’ warmly welcoming charms for immediate bad vibes. Anne Heche portrays Marion Crane with more smirks and what some might define as overacting, whereas Janet Leigh displayed more tepid restraint. Viggo Mortensen gets to be more of a cowboy as Sam Loomis, Julianne Moore turns Lila Crane into an angsty aggressor, and William H. Macy stays faithful to Martin Balsam’s sleuthing as P.I. Milton Arbogast. The characters are the same, but the actors portraying them have changed—which, yeah, duh.
The argument is that Van Sant’s remake isn’t plagiarism, it’s the ultimate form of celebration. Hitchcock’s daughter Patricia even said her father would have been “flattered” by the production. Van Sant’s bringing his idol’s work to new audiences decades later, and yet there’s an inevitable flatness to the outcome. What Van Sant injects anew is overshadowed by the film’s slavish dedication to mimicry, and it’s never as an assertion of dominance. A little voyeuristic masturbation here, some random subliminal imagery, and little green army men? Where Hitchcock excels at uncanny levels of unease, Van Sant’s narrative delivery hits you like a slap in the face.
Does It Work?
‘Psycho’ (1998)
Truthfully, the answer to “Does it work?” can only be determined by individual viewers. Appreciators liken Van Sant’s motivations to Andy Warhol, as /Film’s Chris Evangelista notes, “It’s like taking someone else’s work and turning it into a famous silkscreen.” Others, such as Roger Ebert (in his one-and-a-half star review), cite Van Sant’s Psycho as evidence that a shot-by-shot remake is pointless, adding, “genius apparently resides between or beneath the shots, or in chemistry that cannot be timed or counted.” There’s no end to this debate. Either you recognize Psycho (1998) as artistic experimentation, or you curse its very existence. Those are the options.
Personally, it’s difficult for me to embrace the freedom of not qualifying Psycho (1998) as a typical remake. It could have been a re-adaptation, given how both films are based on author Robert Bloch’s novel—but it’s not. Van Sant makes the conscious choice to re-release a still oddly period-coded Psycho in the late ’90s featuring a new cast, color filming, and a fresh attitude. By using Stefano’s screenplay and Hitchcock’s storyboard cues, Van Sant opens his remake to comparisons whether he wants to or not. Universal didn’t release Van Sant’s remake as an art installation; instead, they released it as a theatrical title that required paid tickets to see. So, by those metrics, did I get my money’s worth?
We also must return to my usual parameters for discussing remakes. Go back to any “Revenge of the Remakes” entry, and you’ll read how I’m approaching these examinations. Remakes are more than an opportunity to lazily spit out the same movie for new audiences. They’re a chance to bring original spins to established legends or to modernize old classics according to the latest technological standards. Van Sant whiffs on both, given how Psycho (1998) hardly renovates outside a cheeky reference on the new Bates Motel sign, or how he stubbornly demands to show the world his Hitchcock impression. It’s just not what I’m looking for in a remake because you’ve failed to answer the question, “Why am I watching your take instead of the original?”
The Result
‘Psycho’ (1998)
Van Sant’s Psycho isn’t a shot-for-shot remake of Hitchcock’s, but it’s pretty friggin’ close and without good reason. You can argue Van Sant’s intentions are noble and his heart pure, but that doesn’t change what’s played on screen. It’s an Old Hollywood throwback that makes ’90s updates at random, yet leaves dialogue about “tranquilizers” untouched, or has characters dress in more ’60s-fitting attire. It’s also worse off in color, as poor Moore appears pale as a ghost under horrendous lighting conditions, or as the pretty pastel colors set the opposite of Hitchcock’s dreary, monotone mood. Cinematographer Christopher Doyle does his best to match John L. Russell’s disturbed, angular shot selections, but even that’s an undersell—much like the entire film.
I’m afraid I’m on Mr. Ebert’s side when it comes to performances. The first time Vaughn laughs as Norman, it feels like a parody. The same goes for Mortensen’s hayseed loverboy. It’s strange because Hollywood standards were far different in the 1960s, with performances being more theatrical and less grounded; yet, Psycho (1998) is the far more over-accentuated and, frankly, cartoonish feature. There’s nothing added by Vaughn’s nastier portrayals of sexual arousal or the boyish manchild who has lost his mind to Mommy Dearest. Instead, it’s more like Van Sant’s working with caricatures of Hitchcock’s characters and themes, despite so adamantly wanting to succeed through duplication.
Perhaps there’s a degree of achievement in the way Van Sant can trace Hitchcock’s techniques, like he’s following written instructions. Arbogast’s death stands out: Norman lunges dressed as Mother, carves a few facial wounds, then the camera holds onto Macy’s face while tumbling backward down the main home’s staircase. Funnily enough, I’m less frustrated by these imitation games than the liberties taken by actors and non-linear scene work. The term “grift” might be too extreme, but Psycho (1998) doesn’t present itself as a worthwhile endeavor by either remake or originality standards. Everything is done better in Hitchcock’s Psycho, whether “remade” or added by Van Sant.
The Lesson
‘Psycho’ (1998)
Last month, I wrote about why the Soska Sisters’ Rabid remake is a wash because it wants nothing to do with David Cronenberg’s original (among other reasons). This month, Van Sant shows the troubles of swinging to the other side of the spectrum. Psycho (1998) sets out to prove the futility of remaking movies shot by shot, but in doing so, renders itself impotent and redundant. Some argue it’s a beautiful send-up to a magnificent talent, while others will call it a ripoff and wasted effort. I won’t take anything away from those who cherish Van Sant’s process, but I can’t call something an “experiment” when there’s no trace of experimentation.
So what did we learn?
● When you make something as well-received as Good Will Hunting, you get a free pass at any dream project—even if producers don’t understand why you’d want to cash that opportunity in on a shot-for-shot remake of someone else’s movie.
● It’s harder than it looks to copy someone’s work with 100% accuracy.
● A remake that changes nothing questions why remakes should even exist.
● Van Sant might have approached Psycho from a place of immense gratitude, but that doesn’t show in the final product.
Van Sant’s Psycho remake is the most frustrating example of (almost) “shot-for-shot” filmmaking we’ve covered yet. I don’t really want to platform Cabin Fever, but at least Eli Roth was involved in the process (for whatever that’s worth), and the finished film boasts its own personality. Funny Games is a far more acceptable example since Michael Haneke was allowed to helm the American remake of his Austrian original. Then there’s Psycho, where Van Sant operates from under Hitchcock’s shadow. There’s never an instance where I’ll reach for Psycho (1998) over Psycho (1960), which is the ultimate ding against a remake. It exists to exist, which isn’t a compelling enough reason.
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