Psycho: We All Go a Little Mad Sometimes

In the 1960 film Psycho, by allowing his audience to see through the eyes of specific characters, Hitchcock uses the camera’s point-of-view to persuade us to not only sympathize with certain characters, but to participate in their crimes as well.

Marion Crane is a real-estate secretary who steals forty-thousand dollars in cash from her trusting boss and Norman Bates is a hotel manager who spies on women in their rooms through a peephole in the wall of his office. Hitchcock presents us with characters that would normally be difficult to like; however, by strategically placing the camera in a way that captures a specific character’s visual point-of-view, the audience is encouraged to share and react to that character’s experiences, however extreme or conflicted.

When the lecherous old business man sits on Marion’s desk waving a wad of hundred dollar bills in her face and letting his eyes travel lustfully over her body, we feel her vulnerability and we sympathize with her; so much so that we may even want her to steal his money as punishment for his lewd behavior. Similarly, when we discover that much of Norman’s shy, awkward behavior is probably due to the oppressive hold his mother has over him, we are less judgmental when we catch him spying on Marion getting undressed, especially when we are guiltily participating in this act of voyeurism alongside him.

Throughout the film, Hitchcock uses point-of-view to explore this theme of double identities. Is she caring and loyal Marion, or Marion the liar and thief; is he shy and sensitive Norman, or Norman the depraved and homicidal lunatic? Hitchcock is asking us to turn these questions of identity on ourselves. Which are we? Are we the neutral observers we might want to see ourselves as, watching innocently from the sidelines, or are we really secret participants living vicariously through these characters on the screen? Is film simply a window into another world or, as Hitchcock seems to be suggesting, is it a mirror reflecting our own? Maybe what gives Psycho its suspense, what makes it such a disturbing film, is its ability to allow us to look through the camera’s eye… and see ourselves.  

 

Work Cited:

Hitchcock, Alfred. Psycho. 1960. Universal. Amazon Instant Video. Web.

 

 

 

Frankenstein 1931:
 

Do All Monsters Go to Heaven, Daddy?

By Philip Hoy

As a morality tale, the 1931 film Frankenstein is the story of an individual whose selfish actions endanger the entire community, which in turn, must organize to destroy the threat and bring the individual back into the fold. The monster is the destructive result of Dr. Frankenstein’s attempt to play God and circumvent divine authority over life and death. The film’s closing scene depicting the doctor lying in bed under his wife’s care and the watchful eye of his father, confirms that he is now being rewarded for correcting his behavior. Through the doctor’s actions however, the film introduces at least one moral predicament that is left unresolved: the question of the monster’s soul. The question is answered explicitly through Dr. Frankenstein’s own words, and implicitly through Whale’s direction and Boris Karloff’s portrayal of the monster.

According to Dr. Frankenstein, he has not resurrected a corpse; he has created new life out of old parts. “The body is not dead,” Frankenstein tells Professor Waldman, “It has never lived. I created it!” At least in Dr. Frankenstein’s mind, to be truly a human life, his creation must have a soul. He cannot claim to “know what it feels like to be God” otherwise. “Kill it, as you would any savage monster,” pleads Waldman. “It’s murder!” is Frankenstein’s immediate and passionate response. For Frankenstein to proclaim anything less would be an admission of failure as a scientist; at the same time though, by leaving the monster to be euthanized by Waldman, he has admitted his failure as a father. While the townspeople can rest easy that they have executed a murderer, Frankenstein must come to terms with the fact that he brought life into the world, only to create a damned soul.

The audience, like Dr. Frankenstein, also suffers from conflicting emotions regarding the monster’s plight.  Boris Karloff, the actor portraying the monster, lets us see the innocent suffering child trapped inside the monster’s brute form.  Because of Karloff, more obvious to us is Frankenstein’s mistreatment of the monster through an emotional neglect that indirectly extends to physical abuse by permitting Fritz’s sadistic torture of the creature. Karloff allows us to see the creature’s soul when he reaches heavenward for the light that Frankenstein lets shine on him, and we see the emotional pain and confusion in his gestures and in his eyes when the doctor shuts off the light, oblivious to the needs of his creation. It is understandable that the monster kills Waldman just before the professor makes a living dissection of him; however, when the monster drowns the little girl Maria, just like Dr. Frankenstein, the audience can more easily resign themselves to the creature’s fate.

Despite the catharsis provided by the monster’s “death” and the reunion of Dr. Frankenstein with his bride, the film’s ending is still somewhat open-ended. In the brief long-shot of Frankenstein being attended by his wife, there can be no final evaluation the doctor’s state of mind. And the last view of the monster trapped beneath a burning beam... well, how can we be sure the monster is really dead? It’s hard to believe something brought to life by lightening from heaven can so easily be destroyed by manmade fire.

 

Work Cited:
Whale, James. Frankenstein. 1931. Universal. Amazon Instant Video. Web.