Episode 351 - Psycho

“We all go a little mad sometimes.”

Join Ian & Megs for our 351st episode as we check into the Bates Motel, definitely avoid Cabin One and discover why showers have never quite felt the same since for Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960) — one of the most influential films ever made, one of cinema’s greatest exercises in audience manipulation… and perhaps a slightly stranger viewing experience than its reputation suggests.

Liam isn’t with us this week — he checked into the Bates Motel and Norman assures us he checked out first thing this morning. We have absolutely no reason to question that.

Kev is also absent. His mother wouldn’t let him come.

This week we discuss:

The extraordinary construction of Norman Bates — Anthony Perkins gives us one of cinema’s great characters long before we completely understand who we’re looking at. Awkward, charming, vulnerable, funny and quietly unsettling: how does Hitchcock make Norman someone we instinctively like at almost exactly the moment we should be becoming afraid of him?

The narrative pivot that changed movies — Psycho spends almost its entire opening act convincing us that Marion Crane is the protagonist and that the stolen $40,000 is the story. Then Hitchcock pulls the floor out from underneath us. Is the shower scene’s real brilliance not simply that Marion dies, but that the entire movie we thought we were watching dies with her?

And then it pivots again — Marion’s crime disappears, Norman becomes our point of identification and eventually the film shifts towards Lila and Sam investigating what happened. Psycho repeatedly hands the narrative from one character to another. Is that structural instability part of its genius — or one reason the middle of the film occasionally feels less propulsive than its reputation suggests?

Those pacing issues — for a film remembered as relentlessly suspenseful, there are stretches where Psycho moves remarkably slowly. We talk about whether that deliberate patience increases the tension, whether some sequences simply drag, and how differently the film plays when you already know exactly what is waiting in the fruit cellar.

Can a movie survive when its

greatest pleasure is a twist everybody already knows? Norman Bates and Mother may be one of the least secret twists in cinema history. So what remains once surprise has disappeared? Does Psycho become richer on repeat viewing because we can watch Hitchcock constructing the deception — or does losing the revelation inevitably remove