Strangers on a Train (1951, Alfred Hitchcock)

Strangers on a Train is many things, but it’s principally an action thriller. Director Hitchcock never quite ignores any of its other aspects; he’s just most enthusiastic about the action he and editor William H. Ziegler execute. For example, the third act is entirely action set pieces, one to another, with an occasional bit of light humor thrown in. The light comedy ought to be more complex because the stakes are high; Hitchcock pulls it off thanks to running with light humor throughout, even when it didn’t help a scene; it plays off later.

Train’s best action set piece is the finale, which involves a high-stakes fight scene on a merry-go-round. The film’s incredibly “small,” principally in a handful of locations, moving its cast between them as needed. Plus the train. If it weren’t for the New York to Washington train, there wouldn’t be a movie at all.

The film opens with stars Farley Granger and Robert Walker on such a train. They happen upon each other and become traveling pals for a meal, with wealthy Walker inserting himself into Granger’s day and, soon, affairs. Walker’s awkward but seemingly harmless, and Granger is used to placating the rich and powerful. Granger’s a proto-yuppie (the club tennis pro made good), Walker’s the defective blue blood. Walker knows all about Granger—married to an unfaithful wife (Kasey Rogers), while courting a senator’s daughter, Ruth Roman, on his way into politics. The only problem Walker’s got is dad Jonathan Hale being a pain in his ass. But wouldn’t it be great if both their problems could disappear? Walker’s even got a plan for it: swap murders to confound the police with no motive.

Granger placates Walker’s eccentricity—in for a penny, in for a pound when you’re trying to suck up to the rich—and thinks nothing more about it. Walker, on the other hand, is convinced he’s got all his problems solved. All he’s got to do is get rid of Granger’s problem, and Granger will return the favor.

The film will split its time between Walker, Granger, and Roman, with Roman being the nearest to a protagonist. Walker gets the spotlight, his villain transfixing and often inexplicable. Granger’s the straight man, a little too simple to navigate the resulting troubles on his own, but stoic enough to know he’s got to fix his own problems. Otherwise, he might disgrace Roman and the senator father (Leo G. Carroll); it’s unthinkable since they’re basically his patrons.

He needs patrons to get away from his small city hometown, where his wife Rogers cats around in public view, pregnant with another man’s baby but ready to move to D.C. just to ruin Granger’s life. Train’s got a problem with women, especially if they’re not rich, glamorous, or wear glasses. But thanks to the film’s detached and askew narrative distance, eventually, those characterizations align with the characters’ projections.

Though for a while, it’s just women in glasses—Rogers, for instance—are harpies put on Earth to torment good men trying to be upwardly mobile. The glasses turn out to be a device for set pieces, a fine example of Hitchcock ignoring or oblivious to certain connotations to later deliver on stylized action. It works. But mostly because when the glasses bit comes back, it’s with Patricia Hitchcock as Roman’s precious younger sister. Hitchcock’s a bobbysoxer goth outwardly, really just a cute blue blood, she’s obsessed with murders. One hundred percent, she’d have a true-crime podcast today.

But she also wears glasses, which becomes an issue for Walker, who’s got PTSD from his encounter with Rogers, specifically her glasses.

Hitchcock’s the film’s second most memorable character after Walker—arguably Granger comes in fourth, behind Roman, who’s invaluable in moving the plot forward. At the same time, Granger hems and haws so much it’s a plot point. No one can believe Granger is actually active, so it raises suspicion when he tries it.

Roman’s also more critical because she’s the most sympathetic perspective. The relationship between Granger and Walker is endlessly peculiar, the two men sharing an unspoken bond, but not a simple case of alter egos. They’re both deceptive, and their interactions together are the only times they’re willingly honest. They both will make exceptions, for Roman and Rogers, but not without significant hesitation. Though their respective uncertainties are for very different reasons.

There’s not a bad performance in the film; everyone’s able to find their own space as Walker dominates the screen. Walker’s got as many knockout scenes as the film’s got action set pieces. It’s hard to decide on the best scene; it might be a matter of personal preference—I’m partial to him and Rogers’s disturbing flirtation scene, as he woos her from a distance. It’s the only time Walker ever exhibits lust, and it’s bewitching stuff.

Roman starts as a stock girlfriend part, but it gets better, with her performance doing most of the work. Hitchcock’s great. Granger’s good. It’s his story but not his movie. Carroll’s fun as the senator, but he’s barely in it. He, Hitchcock, and Roman are a fine proto-sitcom family, full of warm and wry banter. Marion Lorne’s delightful as Walker’s confused mother.

Great cameo from John Brown.

Raymond Chandler and Czenzi Ormonde get the screenwriter credits—with Whitfield Cook doing the adaptation from the Patricia Highsmith novel. The writing’s the only place the film ever gets toothsome, but more because Hitchcock’s not interested in the scenes yet doesn’t rush them. Again, it’ll all inform the final payoff.

Robert Burks’s cinematography and Dimitri Tiomkin’s score are both excellent. Tiomkin’s got some great score; Burks has got some great lighting. Thanks to the Hitchcocks, Walker, Roman, Granger, and everyone really… Strangers on a Train is a singular, sensational motion picture.

Psycho (1960, Alfred Hitchcock)

Psycho is a masterpiece of color. After forty joyfully plodding minutes of Janet Leigh going from fetching spinster in a torrid lunch hour romance to grand larcenist in precise black and white (and then another few minute as she moves to close that character arc), director Hitchcock and Psycho put Leigh in the color of an all-white motel bathroom. And all of a sudden the black and white film (gorgeous photography from John L. Russell) is just as colorful as the imagination, albeit in a stark, sterile white bathroom. The mundane soon becomes a nightmare, even as Hitchcock allows for some ogle on Leigh—who’s partially in her current predicament thanks to every man she’s encountered in the film objectifying her in one way or another. The first arc—not act—of Psycho is Hitchcock humanizing Leigh from the opening, which has her dissatisfied with beau John Gavin. He’s a hunk and he’s worth matinees on work days, but he’s unavailable—he’s too broke to marry Leigh—and Leigh’s getting exhausted with her life.

The film’s an entire flex from Hitchcock. There’s not a scene where he’s not showing off. The drab backgrounds of Leigh’s office are going to contrast the white in the bathroom but also the clutter of the eventual locations. Leigh’s office is as flat and bland as the motel where she and Gavin meet. Psycho’s all about motel living for Leigh; she starts in one, she ends in one. In the first she has urban—even if it’s small city Arizona—anonymity, in the second she has none. In the first she’s on an arc to cause (or inflict, but it’s hard to sympathize with the guys she’s ripping off) suffering, in the second she’s brought the situation around and is directing herself now, actively toward gladness. But Psycho is not about the moral tragedy of Leigh’s character, though along the way Hitchcock does sort of decimate the film noir trappings and examine the resulting dust; Psycho is about the unknown and the terror hiding in it.

Because the second motel is where Leigh meets Anthony Perkins and once Perkins arrives, even a nude shower scene isn’t enough to keep the focus on Leigh. It’s all about Perkins. He’s a shy, somewhat awkward, but very charming, handsome young man who manages the roadside motel for his elderly, infirm mother. They live up in a big house behind the motel. Hitchcock’s going to be very, very careful about how he shows that big house. For most of the film there’s only one way to get there; Perkins’s slim figure, always in mostly dark, going up to the house, coming down from the house, is going to become on the film’s most haunting images as the audience learns more and more about him. Psycho’s a mystery. Hitchcock tells the story of that mystery with the film, with his shots—there are always well-placed inserts to make the world tactile to the viewer—with the photography, with George Tomasini’s editing, and obviously Bernard Herrmann’s awesome music. Whoever did the sound design—Tomasini, Hitchcock, some sound recorder—works in such magnificent unison with Herrmann, who’ll go very loud then silent, the silence ratcheting up the terror. Because everyone’s in some kind of danger in Psycho. Always.

The film establishes very early on women are not safe in Psycho. Sure, she’s in the process of committing a felony, but Leigh is in danger every guy she meets and always because she’s a woman. So when her sister, Vera Miles, starts looking for her, not just retracing her journey but continuing on—Leigh’s plan was to steal the money and go rescue Gavin and then disappear (was disappearing on twenty grand possible in 1960)—with Miles making the trip to Gavin and enlisting his help. Miles only puts herself in actual danger in the finale, but until then it’s clear she’s not safe.

Miles and Gavin get a Third Musketeer in Martin Balsam, a private detective out to get the money back before Leigh’s boss, Vaughn Taylor , has to call the cops. Balsam validates a bunch of imagined offscreen events from Leigh’s rationalizing scene—a phenomenal sequence with Leigh in close-up, driving through a thunderstorm, imagining various conversations about her going on, the conversations playing as voiceovers. Again, Hitchcock flexes everywhere he can in Psycho, showing off a variety of distinct devices, only slowing down once the film’s got Perkins established.

While Leigh’s story is Psycho’s more obvious MacGuffin, certain aspects of Perkins’s character and performance are similarly airy as far as the actual narrative’s concerned. Everything’s relevant, but thanks to Russell’s lighting, Hitchcock obscures that relevancy. Psycho always presents Perkins as a sort of sympathetic, even after it’s clear he doesn’t get it by default. He’s less a hen-pecked doting son and more an active participant in his mother’s outbursts, which place terrible burdens on him. The scene where Perkins has got to clean up the bathroom, restoring the pristine whiteness, has all these tactile touchstones so Hitchcock can force the audience into a sympathetic response (we’ve all grabbed a towel, haven’t we), only for Hitchcock to reveal the dangers of such sympathies. You’ve got to be on guard at all times in Psycho.

Of course, there’s an explanation for all the goings on, and it’s a….

It’s a lot. The film weaponizes the inaccurate, bigoted psychology of the era to create a new category of screen villain (or at least new in A tier movies) for an easy reveal, all patriarchally lectured (quite ably from Simon Oakland). It’s sexist, transphobic, ableist; even for the era the film should’ve come with a disclaimer. Psycho is, no doubt, a singular masterpiece; it changed mainstream film thanks to Hitchcock and company’s techniques. And also because of its garbage reveal. That reveal has had a lot of bad consequences. Solely bad consequences, in fact; fruit of a poisonous tree branch. Psycho’s deus ex machina hasn’t so much as aged badly as always been rotten.

It’s also an expertly executed deus ex machina. Hitchcock knows how to present the reveals, then pulls all the threads together for the last few shots; he brings in Perkins for part of the pay-off too, after building big up to his return to the screen even though he’s only been gone a few minutes. It’s incredibly well-done, also bringing back the noir feels.

Psycho’s one of a kind.