2/5 stars

Alfred Hitchcock was known for many noticeable traits in his films; the use of trains, the involvement of birds, mistaken identity and suspense.
The last of those characteristics is lacking in this film. The suspense is meagre, and there is nothing to grip you on the edge, unlike Vertigo and North by Northwest. The actors are exactly the sorts of people that you’d expect; Scarlett Johansson playing the blonde, Helen Mirren playing the wife and Anthony Hopkins playing the dark lead role, but the story lacks the extra half a glass of juice to make it meaty.

On the surface, the synopsis looks quite interesting. It revolves around the making of the film Psycho and Hitchcock’s attempts to get it made. He encounters trouble; firstly, with the financing, which he solves by mortgaging his mansion, secondly, with the distributors, Paramount Pictures and lastly with the censor. His wife, Alma Reville (Helen Mirren) has an increasingly tempestuous relationship with him as well.
Hopkins, armed with fat suit, does occasionally make Hitchcock look as if he is on a major tightrope and the moments he loses his temper are enjoyable. But he never seems consistently on the edge of collapse, which is what one would expect of a man who might be about to lose everything.

The moments when he is imagining reminiscing with Ed Gein, the Wisconsin serial killer, are unconvincing and silly. A serial killer acting as someone’s therapist is worthy of a week in Broadmoor Prison. These exchanges just make the plot confusing and stultifying.

It’s a pity that the film, with such an alluring story and such good actors lacks any killer instinct, not of the ‘Psycho-ish’ disposition, but the necessary punch to keep audiences glued back to their chairs. Anyway, I’m off to play squash (with shower afterwards).

Harry Wise