Hitchcock

The trouble with biopics is that many of them feel like history lessons. Gandhi, Amadeus and Malcolm X are just a few of the old school films to have tried to condense the lives of iconic figures into overlong movies laden with historical heft, but often bereft of substance and characterisation. However, a new wave of sorts has emerged in more recent years, as films like W, Nowhere Boy and My Week with Marilyn have eschewed the old format and adopted instead a more focused approach, by concentrating on a specific period of these individuals’ lives to reveal the man/woman behind the icon.

Hitchcock falls in the latter category of biopics, as John J. McLaughlin’s script keeps the plot strictly confined to the production of Psycho, Alfred Hitchcock’s legendary thriller that gave birth to the slasher genre. The concept looks undeniably solid on paper and the prospect of peeking into the master of suspense’s psyche via Psycho is rather alluring, but there is something distinctively amiss in Sacha Gervasi’s film.

The most obvious misstep is having Hitch (“hold the Cock”) being confronted on regular intervals by apparitions of Ed Gein, the real life cross-dressing serial killer Norman Bates was originally based on. Gein is clearly supposed to be a manifestation of Hitchcock’s own personal demons, but it’s a baffling plot device which has already been overused in other biopics ad nauseam (see Ray or The Iron Lady). At least had he been visited by Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart, we would’ve had a bit of style to go with Hitch’s dry wit.

The big man himself is also somewhat befuddling. No one’s questioning Anthony Hopkins’ skills as an actor or his ability to put a personal spin on a real life character, as he so ably demonstrated in Nixon. But throughout Hitchcock he looks like he’s having too much fun doing an impersonation of the rotund filmmaker, rather than truly inhabiting him. It’s a spot on impression – he’s got the cadence down pat and the fat suit fits snugly – but little more than that.

Hopkins’ performance is not even the most memorable one in the film, which is a hindrance when you think his character’s name carries not only the film, but also the title. No, that honour goes to Helen Mirren as Alfred’s wife Alma, quietly impressive in the role of a gifted yet dissatisfied writer forced to stand in her husband’s imposing shadow. Scarlett Johansson, Jessica Biel and James D’Arcy also feature as the cast of Pyscho, although you do wonder whether their contracts stated that all they had to do was show up, considering their remarkably brief screen time.

Coincidentally, Hitchcock’s biggest flaw is indeed its brevity. For a film about what some deem to be the greatest storyteller ever to work in Hollywood, 98 minutes feel like a skimpy running time. As a result, Hitch’s unhealthy obsession with blondes, his difficult relationship with actors and, more importantly, his very own insecurities that informed Pyscho’s themes are all rushed through and barely hinted at. Perhaps a three hour biopic portraying his varied and illustrious career would’ve done Alfred Hitchcock more justice after all.

2/5