Remnants of tension can be found lurking in Bernard Herrmann’s score and Saul Bass’ title design, key elements wisely pilfered from the original for the opening credits, apropos of nothing more than their preeminence. By attempting to channel the essence of Hitchcock’s genius, Van Sant has sapped the lifeblood from Psycho, leaving the audience to desperately search for the ghost of suspense within a barren forgery. The finished product lacks the verve of Hitchcock’s pacing, the formality of his characterizations and starkness of his modest, black-and-white photography, settling instead for a game of compare and contrast that functions only to separate the viewer from the narrative. Van Sant attempts to add his signature to “The Master’s” canvas, injecting subliminal stock footage and contemporizing sexual mores, but his supplements are nothing more than extraneous hokum, pallid attempts at the psychosexual that wilt when held against Alfred Hitchcock’s subtle insinuations. Profit and hubris are the only logical explanations for Gus Van Sant’s shot-for-shot retread of Psycho, a rigorous exercise in homage that suffocates under the weight of its source of inspiration.
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