Some Mothers Shouldn’t Be a
Boy’s Best Friend (Part 2):
Psycho - A Comparison of Book and Film
By Jim Nemeth
Boy’s Best Friend (Part 2):
Psycho - A Comparison of Book and Film
By Jim Nemeth
In comparing Robert Bloch’s novel, Psycho, against Alfred Hitchcock’s film, much of what follows certainly goes against past and current thinking regarding both projects but needs stating. In performing research for this chapter, I have been both surprised and saddened—surprised by the continual overwhelming favorable bias accorded Hitchcock’s film despite its flaws, but more so, saddened by the intensity and pervasiveness of the enmity directed toward Bloch’s book.
This dim view in which many regard Bloch’s novel is, arguably, unwarranted. Comments directed toward the book over the years range from “pulp trash,” and “potboiler novel” to screenwriter Stefano himself dissing the book for being weak in writing and characterization. Regarding Stefano, one can only speculate that perhaps a touch of professional resentment was involved. After all, having to acknowledge that every aspect of his screenplay (except the character of the state trooper), had a basis of origin within Bloch’s novel, along with Hitchcock’s own public comments declaring that Stefano contributed only dialogue and no ideas to the film, could hardly leave the screenwriter with kind feelings toward the source material and its author. Others’ comments, when one reads the entire context of their words, hint at opinions based not solely upon the novel’s own merits, but rather in unfair comparison against said reviewers’ exalted opinion of Hitchcock’s film. This supposition gains traction when one considers that the book received generally laudatory reviews upon publication…i.e., before the release of Hitchcock’s film.
But, let us be frank. Is Bloch’s Psycho a masterpiece of literature? Of course not. The novel is admittedly neither War and Peace nor The Great Gatsby. But that was never Bloch’s aspiration, nor should it be readers’ expectation. Psycho was never meant to be anything more than it is—a can’t-turn-the-pages-fast-enough, psychological horror/thriller. As such, Bloch succeeds admirably, delivering in under two-hundred pages more genuine chills and moments of delicious horror than other authors muster with double the page count. Bloch’s mastery at the setup/build-up of suspense, frequently capped by an unexpected (and sometimes rather gruesome) “twist,”—a skill honed over the decades through his innumerous short stories— is in full display here and at its peak. As evidence, we put to you that of the three major shocks shared between book and film (Marion and Arbogast’s murders and the revelation of “Mother’s” true identity) Bloch’s novel outshines Hitchcock in all but one. Shocked? We elaborate shortly.
One area, for which the novel is sometimes faulted, by Stefano most noticeably, is characterization, or more specifically, the lack thereof. I argue that this is not the case. Bloch admittedly does not spend page upon page giving minute character and background detail perhaps found in the mammoth doorstop-heavy efforts of a Stephen King or Leo Tolstoy. But then, this is Psycho, not Anna Karenina. And yet, while readers should have no expectation of in-depth character studies in such a novel—characters here typically exist to serve their plot purpose and little else—Bloch nonetheless delivers to readers a fully realized Norman Bates and even, though she appears in the book for a much lesser duration than her cinematic counterpart, Mary Crane. Another point on which we elaborate later.
Defense of Bloch’s Psycho is not to suggest that the author does not stumble. Stylistically, the book’s frequent stretches of short paragraphs and even shorter sentences try readers’ patience for reading like the literary equivalent of short, staccato bursts from a machine gun. Bloch leaves the impression at these times that he is more intent on moving the story along as quickly as possible in order to get to his destination (a major shock) than allowing readers to revel in the journey itself. However, the effect of these stylistic hiccups is minimal, as elsewhere Bloch opens up his paragraphs, allowing him the luxury to elaborate on story as needed. It is then that Psycho becomes the more complex and engaging tale.
Turning from the book, dissecting Hitchcock’s film is a trickier proposition, due to the high regard and esteem in which it is held by…well, just about everyone. But let us ask the same question we posed regarding Bloch’s novel. Is Hitchcock’s Psycho a masterpiece? Unless one’s criteria for the term is limited to one superbly directed scene and/or that the film became Hitchcock’s biggest financial success, then I put to you that no, Hitchcock’s Psycho is not the masterpiece that so many fervently declare.
Now, put down those torches and pitchforks (or perhaps more appropriately, butcher knives) for a moment. I am not saying that Psycho is a bad film. Certainly, Hitchcock’s execution of the shower scene is nothing short of brilliant and wholly deserving of the accolades it continues to receive some 50+ years later. As well, Anthony Perkins’ nuanced performance as Norman Bates remains both iconic and mesmerizing.
But, one scene and performance, however, do not an entire film make, and so I put forth that on the whole, Hitchcock’s Psycho’s prestige is overblown due to viewers’ obsession—to the exclusion of nearly everything else—upon the film’s three previously mentioned moments of shock. Harsh? Perhaps. But I felt a little tough love was necessary here and long overdue. I’ll grant that filmgoers’ enduring interest and affection certainly qualifies the film to classic status. But in the end, labeling Hitchcock’s film a masterpiece is just too much of a stretch.
Let’s now turn a closer eye to significant instances where book or film executes better over the other, beginning with the three shock sequences.
The shower scene: No surprise here. The scene as written in Stefano’s screenplay is mundane at best, with Marion dispatched in a single dispassionate sentence. In Hitchcock’s hands, however, this one sentence became a legendary forty-five seconds of a master class in direction. As volumes of commentary exist regarding the “Psycho shower scene,” little more needs saying except that Janet Leigh’s watery departure undisputedly remains one of the most distinguished sequences in motion picture history. The corresponding scene in Bloch’s novel is effective to a point, until Bloch goes overboard by not only having Mother/Norman kill Mary in the shower, but beheading her as well. Bloch here, unable to restrain his usual need to go for something really “big,” instead only makes readers shake their heads in disappointment for the overreach. While such shocking and gruesome “surprises” work well in Bloch’s shorter works, here, restraint would have worked to greater effect.
Arbogast’s death: While on paper there is little difference in how this scenario plays out—in the novel, Mother slays Arbogast at the front door, while in the screenplay Mother starts her deed at the top of the stairs—Bloch’s depiction is the more satisfying, as Hitchcock stumbles badly here. In what to this day stupefying remains a prime example of the Emperor’s New Clothes, fans and critics alike praise Hitchcock’s execution of this sequence, when in fact, it is utterly ridiculous. While one attempts to suspend disbelief when viewing a film, I put to you that no one—especially someone just slashed by a knife across the face—could descend an entire staircase as swiftly as Arbogast does, backward, without one hand ever grabbing onto the railing. This gross illogic, combined with Balsam’s exaggerated, pin wheeling, flailing arms, plays decidedly more comical than terrifying upon each subsequent viewing. Stefano declared Bloch’s version unfilmable as written, for revealing Mother’s “secret” upon her descent of the staircase. It seems not to have occurred to Stefano or Hitchcock that one solution could be the simple use of a Halloween/Michael Myers-type POV from Mother’s perspective. Arguably, the end result would have been considerably more effective than what we have.
Mrs. Bates’ “reveal:” One of the finest moments in the book comes when Lila leans forward to address what is actually the wizened, preserved corpse of “Mother.” A response comes from behind Lila, who turns to find Norman-as-Mother proclaiming “I am Mrs. Bates.” Bloch’s sense of misdirection and displacement underscore the eerie surrealism of the moment. Hitchcock’s interpretation is considerably less effective. The director undercuts the efforts of both Bloch and Stefano by delivering a scene riddled with cinematic faux pas. First, there is the director’s far too heavy reliance on Bernard Herrman’s signature “slash” theme to carry the day. Said music plays much too loud, to the point of almost completely drowning out Perkins’ declaration, “I am Norma Bates!” That this essential line of dialogue was all too obviously looped in post-production is bad enough. Perkins’ noticeably closed mouth during much of the line’s utterance only compounds the problem. But the pièce de résistance comes with “Mother’s” struggle with Sam. It’s embarrassing to watch Perkins here, with his deliberate and overly exaggerated head movements, intended only to shake the wig from his head for viewers’ benefit. It’s disappointing that Hitchcock had so little faith in his audience to recognize Norman dressed as Mother that the director would allow this badly executed piece to remain in the film. Only the horrific visage of the desiccated Mrs. Bates intercut throughout keeps this all-important climatic scene from resulting in out-and-out laughter.
An oft-repeated fallacy surrounding Bloch’s novel points to its lack of strong characterization. I argue that Bloch’s Norman Bates and Mary Crane are more complex, fleshed-out characters than their cinematic counterparts.
Take Norman. Because the novel opens on Norman and he remains more or less center-stage throughout, we gain significant insight into our antihero—the inner workings of his mind, his life and many interests, as well as important backstory concerning his relationship with Mother. Because Norman doesn’t appear until nearly half way through Hitchcock’s film, what do we really know about him? Little more than that he is motel proprietor with an interest in taxidermy and has a mother who goes “a little mad sometimes.” And it’s hardly fair to credit Stefano with a fully realized character here, as the bulk of what we do learn of Norman comes from a psychiatrist’s expository at film’s end. A fully developed character emerges via their words and actions throughout the entire story, not from having all their details forced on us at story’s conclusion. To be fair, similar explanatory dialogue is conducted by Sam and Lila at novel’s end, but at least readers have followed Norman’s progression from page one. Remove this expository from book and film and Bloch’s Norman remains a fully realized character. One cannot say the same for his cinematic incarnation, however.
Stefano fares little better in his handling of Marion Crane, despite the advantage and luxury of expanding upon the role from the novel and devoting the early part of the film to her. While Stefano does succeed in creating a needed counterpoint to Norman, there is little else to our heroine. Backstory is nonexistent, and what we do glean of Marion “in the moment” isn’t particularly revelatory, as it concerns either Sam or her theft of the money. As such, Stefano’s Marion Crane never rises above being more than a one-dimensional character. That Hitchcock is able to make situations involving Marion interesting doesn’t necessarily make her interesting (and Leigh’s flat delivery doesn’t help in this regard). On the flip side, despite existing in the novel for only two chapters, there is more to Bloch’s Mary Crane than critics are ever willing to give the author credit for. Here, Mary has backstory: a woman who spent her early adult life scraping by and sacrificing in order to support her sister Lila. Stuck now in a menial job, with no perceived hope of living the life she dreams of with Sam, who can blame Mary for having become increasingly embittered toward life? And, as such hardships likely hit close to home for many, it’s not hard to grasp why readers come to identify with this character in such a short span. Admittedly, the Mary Crane of Bloch’s novel is more cynical and hardened (Stefano would call it “unlikeable”) than her cinematic counterpart. But, “likeable” or not, Bloch provides us with a considerably more relatable character than Stefano; this, despite the screenwriter’s previously outlined advantages.
Even if you haven’t come to accept any of the views or opinions thus far expressed regarding Hitchcock’s classic, is there anyone who doesn’t believe that the concluding scene of the film—where Simon Oakland, as psychiatrist Dr. Richman, expounds on Mother and Norman—isn’t the film’s crippling Achilles heel? To start, Stefano and Hitchcock do not play fair with audiences by springing a new character from out of nowhere simply to (all-too conveniently) tie up loose ends. Forgiving that, the scene just does not work. It plays far too long, is too static, and Oakland orates as if he more belongs up on a pulpit delivering a fiery sermon to parishioners. It is an understatement to say that this scene feels decidedly out of place with what has come before. Bloch’s novel handles this sequence better. Here, Sam and Lila relate the same material following Sam’s discussion with Norman’s psychiatrist. Having our two principals discuss Norman’s condition, as well as their reflections on the entire experience just seems the more appropriate conclusion. And Bloch even has one last “shock” for readers—following the horror that has just transpired, an unexpected moment of tenderness comes when the newly enlightened Lila expresses a measure of sympathy for Norman. This deftly written passage brings Bloch’s story to a close with a continuity and sense of satisfaction sorely lacking from Stefano and Hitchcock’s translation.
In conclusion, Psycho, both book and film, each deserve a fresh look by fans. Acknowledging that Hitchcock’s film is not all that we have previously believed does not diminish its stature in the echelon of great American cinema. All great films have their flaws. Conversely, I hope to have shown that Bloch’s novel is long overdue for stepping out from the shadow of its cinematic offspring and recognized as one of the all-time great classics of horror literature.
The original, expanded version of this essay appeared in It Came From: The Stories and Novels Behind Classic Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction Films by Jim Nemeth and Bob Madison (Midnight Marquee Press; 2020). The essay appears here with the permission of its author, Jim Nemeth.
This dim view in which many regard Bloch’s novel is, arguably, unwarranted. Comments directed toward the book over the years range from “pulp trash,” and “potboiler novel” to screenwriter Stefano himself dissing the book for being weak in writing and characterization. Regarding Stefano, one can only speculate that perhaps a touch of professional resentment was involved. After all, having to acknowledge that every aspect of his screenplay (except the character of the state trooper), had a basis of origin within Bloch’s novel, along with Hitchcock’s own public comments declaring that Stefano contributed only dialogue and no ideas to the film, could hardly leave the screenwriter with kind feelings toward the source material and its author. Others’ comments, when one reads the entire context of their words, hint at opinions based not solely upon the novel’s own merits, but rather in unfair comparison against said reviewers’ exalted opinion of Hitchcock’s film. This supposition gains traction when one considers that the book received generally laudatory reviews upon publication…i.e., before the release of Hitchcock’s film.
But, let us be frank. Is Bloch’s Psycho a masterpiece of literature? Of course not. The novel is admittedly neither War and Peace nor The Great Gatsby. But that was never Bloch’s aspiration, nor should it be readers’ expectation. Psycho was never meant to be anything more than it is—a can’t-turn-the-pages-fast-enough, psychological horror/thriller. As such, Bloch succeeds admirably, delivering in under two-hundred pages more genuine chills and moments of delicious horror than other authors muster with double the page count. Bloch’s mastery at the setup/build-up of suspense, frequently capped by an unexpected (and sometimes rather gruesome) “twist,”—a skill honed over the decades through his innumerous short stories— is in full display here and at its peak. As evidence, we put to you that of the three major shocks shared between book and film (Marion and Arbogast’s murders and the revelation of “Mother’s” true identity) Bloch’s novel outshines Hitchcock in all but one. Shocked? We elaborate shortly.
One area, for which the novel is sometimes faulted, by Stefano most noticeably, is characterization, or more specifically, the lack thereof. I argue that this is not the case. Bloch admittedly does not spend page upon page giving minute character and background detail perhaps found in the mammoth doorstop-heavy efforts of a Stephen King or Leo Tolstoy. But then, this is Psycho, not Anna Karenina. And yet, while readers should have no expectation of in-depth character studies in such a novel—characters here typically exist to serve their plot purpose and little else—Bloch nonetheless delivers to readers a fully realized Norman Bates and even, though she appears in the book for a much lesser duration than her cinematic counterpart, Mary Crane. Another point on which we elaborate later.
Defense of Bloch’s Psycho is not to suggest that the author does not stumble. Stylistically, the book’s frequent stretches of short paragraphs and even shorter sentences try readers’ patience for reading like the literary equivalent of short, staccato bursts from a machine gun. Bloch leaves the impression at these times that he is more intent on moving the story along as quickly as possible in order to get to his destination (a major shock) than allowing readers to revel in the journey itself. However, the effect of these stylistic hiccups is minimal, as elsewhere Bloch opens up his paragraphs, allowing him the luxury to elaborate on story as needed. It is then that Psycho becomes the more complex and engaging tale.
Turning from the book, dissecting Hitchcock’s film is a trickier proposition, due to the high regard and esteem in which it is held by…well, just about everyone. But let us ask the same question we posed regarding Bloch’s novel. Is Hitchcock’s Psycho a masterpiece? Unless one’s criteria for the term is limited to one superbly directed scene and/or that the film became Hitchcock’s biggest financial success, then I put to you that no, Hitchcock’s Psycho is not the masterpiece that so many fervently declare.
Now, put down those torches and pitchforks (or perhaps more appropriately, butcher knives) for a moment. I am not saying that Psycho is a bad film. Certainly, Hitchcock’s execution of the shower scene is nothing short of brilliant and wholly deserving of the accolades it continues to receive some 50+ years later. As well, Anthony Perkins’ nuanced performance as Norman Bates remains both iconic and mesmerizing.
But, one scene and performance, however, do not an entire film make, and so I put forth that on the whole, Hitchcock’s Psycho’s prestige is overblown due to viewers’ obsession—to the exclusion of nearly everything else—upon the film’s three previously mentioned moments of shock. Harsh? Perhaps. But I felt a little tough love was necessary here and long overdue. I’ll grant that filmgoers’ enduring interest and affection certainly qualifies the film to classic status. But in the end, labeling Hitchcock’s film a masterpiece is just too much of a stretch.
Let’s now turn a closer eye to significant instances where book or film executes better over the other, beginning with the three shock sequences.
The shower scene: No surprise here. The scene as written in Stefano’s screenplay is mundane at best, with Marion dispatched in a single dispassionate sentence. In Hitchcock’s hands, however, this one sentence became a legendary forty-five seconds of a master class in direction. As volumes of commentary exist regarding the “Psycho shower scene,” little more needs saying except that Janet Leigh’s watery departure undisputedly remains one of the most distinguished sequences in motion picture history. The corresponding scene in Bloch’s novel is effective to a point, until Bloch goes overboard by not only having Mother/Norman kill Mary in the shower, but beheading her as well. Bloch here, unable to restrain his usual need to go for something really “big,” instead only makes readers shake their heads in disappointment for the overreach. While such shocking and gruesome “surprises” work well in Bloch’s shorter works, here, restraint would have worked to greater effect.
Arbogast’s death: While on paper there is little difference in how this scenario plays out—in the novel, Mother slays Arbogast at the front door, while in the screenplay Mother starts her deed at the top of the stairs—Bloch’s depiction is the more satisfying, as Hitchcock stumbles badly here. In what to this day stupefying remains a prime example of the Emperor’s New Clothes, fans and critics alike praise Hitchcock’s execution of this sequence, when in fact, it is utterly ridiculous. While one attempts to suspend disbelief when viewing a film, I put to you that no one—especially someone just slashed by a knife across the face—could descend an entire staircase as swiftly as Arbogast does, backward, without one hand ever grabbing onto the railing. This gross illogic, combined with Balsam’s exaggerated, pin wheeling, flailing arms, plays decidedly more comical than terrifying upon each subsequent viewing. Stefano declared Bloch’s version unfilmable as written, for revealing Mother’s “secret” upon her descent of the staircase. It seems not to have occurred to Stefano or Hitchcock that one solution could be the simple use of a Halloween/Michael Myers-type POV from Mother’s perspective. Arguably, the end result would have been considerably more effective than what we have.
Mrs. Bates’ “reveal:” One of the finest moments in the book comes when Lila leans forward to address what is actually the wizened, preserved corpse of “Mother.” A response comes from behind Lila, who turns to find Norman-as-Mother proclaiming “I am Mrs. Bates.” Bloch’s sense of misdirection and displacement underscore the eerie surrealism of the moment. Hitchcock’s interpretation is considerably less effective. The director undercuts the efforts of both Bloch and Stefano by delivering a scene riddled with cinematic faux pas. First, there is the director’s far too heavy reliance on Bernard Herrman’s signature “slash” theme to carry the day. Said music plays much too loud, to the point of almost completely drowning out Perkins’ declaration, “I am Norma Bates!” That this essential line of dialogue was all too obviously looped in post-production is bad enough. Perkins’ noticeably closed mouth during much of the line’s utterance only compounds the problem. But the pièce de résistance comes with “Mother’s” struggle with Sam. It’s embarrassing to watch Perkins here, with his deliberate and overly exaggerated head movements, intended only to shake the wig from his head for viewers’ benefit. It’s disappointing that Hitchcock had so little faith in his audience to recognize Norman dressed as Mother that the director would allow this badly executed piece to remain in the film. Only the horrific visage of the desiccated Mrs. Bates intercut throughout keeps this all-important climatic scene from resulting in out-and-out laughter.
An oft-repeated fallacy surrounding Bloch’s novel points to its lack of strong characterization. I argue that Bloch’s Norman Bates and Mary Crane are more complex, fleshed-out characters than their cinematic counterparts.
Take Norman. Because the novel opens on Norman and he remains more or less center-stage throughout, we gain significant insight into our antihero—the inner workings of his mind, his life and many interests, as well as important backstory concerning his relationship with Mother. Because Norman doesn’t appear until nearly half way through Hitchcock’s film, what do we really know about him? Little more than that he is motel proprietor with an interest in taxidermy and has a mother who goes “a little mad sometimes.” And it’s hardly fair to credit Stefano with a fully realized character here, as the bulk of what we do learn of Norman comes from a psychiatrist’s expository at film’s end. A fully developed character emerges via their words and actions throughout the entire story, not from having all their details forced on us at story’s conclusion. To be fair, similar explanatory dialogue is conducted by Sam and Lila at novel’s end, but at least readers have followed Norman’s progression from page one. Remove this expository from book and film and Bloch’s Norman remains a fully realized character. One cannot say the same for his cinematic incarnation, however.
Stefano fares little better in his handling of Marion Crane, despite the advantage and luxury of expanding upon the role from the novel and devoting the early part of the film to her. While Stefano does succeed in creating a needed counterpoint to Norman, there is little else to our heroine. Backstory is nonexistent, and what we do glean of Marion “in the moment” isn’t particularly revelatory, as it concerns either Sam or her theft of the money. As such, Stefano’s Marion Crane never rises above being more than a one-dimensional character. That Hitchcock is able to make situations involving Marion interesting doesn’t necessarily make her interesting (and Leigh’s flat delivery doesn’t help in this regard). On the flip side, despite existing in the novel for only two chapters, there is more to Bloch’s Mary Crane than critics are ever willing to give the author credit for. Here, Mary has backstory: a woman who spent her early adult life scraping by and sacrificing in order to support her sister Lila. Stuck now in a menial job, with no perceived hope of living the life she dreams of with Sam, who can blame Mary for having become increasingly embittered toward life? And, as such hardships likely hit close to home for many, it’s not hard to grasp why readers come to identify with this character in such a short span. Admittedly, the Mary Crane of Bloch’s novel is more cynical and hardened (Stefano would call it “unlikeable”) than her cinematic counterpart. But, “likeable” or not, Bloch provides us with a considerably more relatable character than Stefano; this, despite the screenwriter’s previously outlined advantages.
Even if you haven’t come to accept any of the views or opinions thus far expressed regarding Hitchcock’s classic, is there anyone who doesn’t believe that the concluding scene of the film—where Simon Oakland, as psychiatrist Dr. Richman, expounds on Mother and Norman—isn’t the film’s crippling Achilles heel? To start, Stefano and Hitchcock do not play fair with audiences by springing a new character from out of nowhere simply to (all-too conveniently) tie up loose ends. Forgiving that, the scene just does not work. It plays far too long, is too static, and Oakland orates as if he more belongs up on a pulpit delivering a fiery sermon to parishioners. It is an understatement to say that this scene feels decidedly out of place with what has come before. Bloch’s novel handles this sequence better. Here, Sam and Lila relate the same material following Sam’s discussion with Norman’s psychiatrist. Having our two principals discuss Norman’s condition, as well as their reflections on the entire experience just seems the more appropriate conclusion. And Bloch even has one last “shock” for readers—following the horror that has just transpired, an unexpected moment of tenderness comes when the newly enlightened Lila expresses a measure of sympathy for Norman. This deftly written passage brings Bloch’s story to a close with a continuity and sense of satisfaction sorely lacking from Stefano and Hitchcock’s translation.
In conclusion, Psycho, both book and film, each deserve a fresh look by fans. Acknowledging that Hitchcock’s film is not all that we have previously believed does not diminish its stature in the echelon of great American cinema. All great films have their flaws. Conversely, I hope to have shown that Bloch’s novel is long overdue for stepping out from the shadow of its cinematic offspring and recognized as one of the all-time great classics of horror literature.
The original, expanded version of this essay appeared in It Came From: The Stories and Novels Behind Classic Horror, Fantasy, and Science Fiction Films by Jim Nemeth and Bob Madison (Midnight Marquee Press; 2020). The essay appears here with the permission of its author, Jim Nemeth.