Friday, 28 September 2018

Scorsese: Goodfellas, Gangsters and Guilt

Goodfellas (Directed by Martin Scorsese)
Goodfellas is about guilt more than anything else. But it is not a straightforward morality play, in which good is established and guilt is the appropriate reaction toward evil. No, the hero of this film feels guilty for not upholding the Mafia code – guilty of the sin of betrayal. And his punishment is banishment, into the witness protection program, where nobody has a name and the headwaiter certainly doesn't know it. What finally got to me after seeing this film – what makes it a great film – is that I understood Henry Hill's feelings. Just as his wife Karen grew so completely absorbed by the Mafia inner life that its values became her own, so did the film weave a seductive spell. It is almost possible to think, sometimes, of the characters as really being good fellows. Their camaraderie is so strong, their loyalty so unquestioned. But the laughter is strained and forced at times, and sometimes it's an effort to enjoy the party, and eventually, the whole mythology comes crashing down, and then the guilt – the real guilt, the guilt a Catholic like Scorsese understands intimately – is not that they did sinful things, but that they want to do them again. – Roger Ebert
In the following extract from Richard Schickel’s Conversations with Scorsese, director Martin Scorsese discusses guilt, celebrity and the gangster in his great movie of mob life Goodfellas:

RICHARD SCHICKEL: Your next full-length feature after ‘Last Temptation’ was ‘Goodfellas’ in 1990, which I suppose with ‘Raging Bull’ is one of my two favorite movies of yours. Perhaps part of my feeling for that is based on the fact that most of us share a sort of love for gangsters as outsiders, or rebels. I mean, we always sort of sympathize with the gangster Jim Cagney, or people like him. They seem to have such a nice, rich life: lovely meals they’re always making for each other, a certain amount of friendship, brotherhood, and all that. They enjoy the good life, and at the same time they get to whack people.

MARTIN SCORSESE: When I was doing The Color of Money in Chicago, I was reading The New York Review of Books and saw a review of a book by Nick Pileggi called Wiseguy. It seemed like Nick was taking us through the different levels of purgatory and hell in the underworld, like Virgil or like Dante. Irwin Winkler said, ‘Are you interested in that?’ I said yes and he bought it for me. I said yes because I thought Nick was telling the story in a different way. It’s about that lifestyle, and the dangerous seduction of that lifestyle.

I remember I was talking to Marlon Brando from time to time, and he said, ‘Don’t do another gangster picture. You’ve done Mean Streets, you did the gangsters in Raging Bull. You don’t have to do that.’ I came to feel the same way. So I said to Michael Powell, ‘I think I don’t want to do this Goodfellas thing,’ or Wiseguys, as it was then called.

Michael Powell went back to his apartment with Thelma Schoonmaker, whom he’d married right after Raging Bull. He couldn’t see anymore, so she read the script to him. I was in the editing room, I remember, in the Brill Building, and suddenly he called and said, ‘This is wonderful. You must do it. It’s funny and no one’s ever seen this way of life before. You must do it.’ And that’s why I did it.

RS: Well, there’s a William Wellman story on ‘Public Enemy’. He found the script and he took it to [Darryl] Zanuck, who was running Warner Bros. It was then called ‘Beer and Blood.’ He loved it – these young writers had lived in Chicago and knew some of the mobsters. But Zanuck said, I can’t do another one of these. I’ve just done this, I’ve just done that. Tell me one good reason to do it. And Wellman said, ‘Because I’ll make it the toughest one you ever saw.’ And Zanuck said, ‘You got it.’ You could argue that, of all the modern gangland things, ‘Goodfellas’ is the toughest one of all. Was there some aspect of ‘Goodfellas’ for you that was like Wellman’s attitude, that you could do it tougher?

MS: I thought of it as being a kind of attack.

RS: Attack?

MS: Attacking the audience. I remember talking about it at one point and saying, ‘I want people to get infuriated by it.’ I wanted to seduce everybody into the movie and into the style. And then just take them apart with it. I guess I wanted to make a kind of angry gesture.

RS: Why were you angry?

MS: I guess I used to feel I was the outsider who has to punch his way back in, constantly. Some people don’t have to do that, but I do. I’m not just talking about films, but everything.

I get angry about the way things are and the way people are. I get very involved in stories and the way a character behaves and the way the world behaves. More than anger, I think, maybe it’s caring about how characters behave, how the world behaves. I’m curious about those things. I still get excited by the story. I still get upset by what a character does. And the anger is something to get me working. I have to get sometimes rather upset with myself or a situation before I can really start working, thinking clearly. Some other people can do it very quickly, which doesn’t mean they don’t put energy into it. But they don’t put their heart and soul into it. I’m one of those people who does. It’s every minute of the day and night.

In the Rolling Stones documentary, I do a takeoff on myself for the first ten minutes. It’s about everything that could go wrong for me as the director. And things do go wrong. And they affect you.

I remember a priest told my father to come to talk to him and bring me with him to the rectory one day. I wondered why, what I did that was so bad? I must’ve been about twelve. He said something about me going around with the seriousness and the weight of the world on my shoulders. At that age I shouldn’t be that way, the priest said. I should have been enjoying my life. And he told my father something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘This boy,’ he says, ‘behaves.’ I did really, because I always was sick and never got in trouble.

But then later, when they threw me out of the preparatory seminary, the monsignor told my father, ‘Your son? There’s a brick wall. Don’t hit your head against it, you’re going to get hurt.’ The monsignor gets up, mimes hitting his head against the brick wall, and that was the end of it.

Everybody cares about what they do. But I tend to get emotionally involved, or let it get to me. I get too emotionally involved with everything. So over the years it became funny. Except when it wasn’t funny. In my mind, whether it’s the stroke of a pen or a bullet, a lot can happen to people. In our America, businesspeople are slaughtered every day. People are robbed every day.

RS: Well, there’s that whole theory of Robert Warshow, about ‘the gangster as tragic hero.’

MS: I was going to mention Warshow.

RS: I’m not sure I completely buy into that in a movie like ‘Goodfellas’; there’s actually nothing very tragic about those guys.

MS: No.

RS: What happens to Henry Hill is not tragic; he’s just not having fun anymore.

MS: Right. Too bad for him!

RS: And it’s not a tragic ending.

MS: No, he’s still breathing.

RS: I guess I need you to explain where you’re coming from with that because it really is a unique movie, I think. You’ve said you can’t see ‘The Sopranos’ in it, but I see a sort of precursor in it.

MS: A lot of the wonderful actors in The Sopranos were in my pictures, so we always talk about it. A lot of the people in Goodfellas are not on the upper levels, so they’re not tragic. It’s just everyday tragedy. These guys are dealing on the everyday level. I knew them as people, not as criminals. If something fell off the truck, you know, we all bought it. It was part of surviving, part of living. Some of those guys were smarter than others. Some overstepped their bounds and were killed. That was based on reality.

There’s a danger in idolizing that world, but many of the police who were down there in that neighborhood were on the take. I was surprised the first time I saw the American system at work, which was in Twelve Angry Men, Sidney Lumet’s film. Today, I credit the priests in the neighborhood who screened a 16 millimeter print of it down in the basement of the church for some of the kids. It was like being on Mars.

RS: The surrogate in your film, practicing that idolization as a kid, is the Henry Hill character.

MS: Yes. If you engage in that life, certain things are expected of you. First of all, to make a lot of money for everybody. Or to be the muscle. You have to perform, and you have to be careful: the scene that Joe Pesci asked to be put in, and improvised with Ray Liotta – the ‘You think I’m funny?’ scene – shows that you could be killed any second. They don’t care who’s around. The trick in the picture was to sort of ignore that danger, make it a rollicking road movie in a way – like a kind of Bob Hope and Bing Crosby picture, with everybody on the road and having a great time.

When the Sicilian police finally broke up the Mafia in the early nineties, they arrested some guy – I forget his name, but he was the second in command – and an Italian reporter asked him if any movie about that world was accurate. And he said, Well, Goodfellas, in the scene where the guy says, ‘Do you think I’m funny?’ Because that’s the life we lead. You could be smiling and laughing one second, and [snaps fingers] in a split second you’re in a situation where you could lose your life.

RS: Quite an amazing anecdote.

MS: That is exactly where you live all the time. That’s the truth of it. Now that happened to Joe Pesci, originally, with a friend of his. He got out of it just by doing what Ray did. So when he told me the story, I said, ‘We’ve got to use that. That really encapsulates it completely. That’s the lifestyle.’

Remember when Jimmy Cagney got the AFI [American Film Institute] award, he thanked somebody I think was called Two-Times Ernie and the other street guys he knew as a kid. Because they taught him how to act. The kids in my neighborhood who told stories on the street corner, they’d have you enthralled, and often with a sense of humor about themselves. And these were some tough kids.

I’ll never forget one of the toughest I’d ever met telling a story about losing a fight in such a funny way, and not being embarrassed about it. [Laughs.] Not losing any dignity. I thought, That is brilliant: to accept the fact that he was knocked down so badly, had to get up again, get knocked down again. We were all laughing, and he was laughing. I’ll never forget it.

In the Wiseguy book, Henry Hill speaks that way, almost like a standup comic. He’s got his own rhythm. There’s a truth to it. Someone owes you money, and he doesn’t pay you. So you go to him, and he says, ‘Oh, my wife got sick.’ ‘Fuck you, pay me.’ ‘My daughter is –’ ‘Fuck you, pay me,’ a guy like Hill says. ‘My mother –’ ‘Fuck you, pay me’.

RS: De Niro in ‘Mean Streets’ has no conscious sense of consequences, always living in the moment. That’s symbolized in ‘Goodfellas’ by the great tracking shot into the Copacabana, when they all go out on the town. That’s the privileged moment they pay for in blood and death.

MS: Well, the Copacabana – that’s the top of the line for Henry – it was Valhalla. When you were able to get a table there, it was like being in the court of the kings. The Mob guys were really the ones in charge. The Copa lounge was always more significant because the real guys were up there. That’s why you have a lot happening in Raging Bull in the Copa lounge. My friend’s father, the one who would read and listen to opera, his father was the head bartender there. We have him in Raging Bull. Nice guy.

Everyone paid for the privilege eventually. The danger of the picture is that young people could look at it and think, Hey, what a great life. But you’ve got to see the last hour of the picture when things start going wrong in a big way.

RS: I think in one of the voice-over lines Henry Hill says, You only have it for maybe ten years.

MS: That’s right.

RS: That made me think about celebrity. Ballplayers, for example, only have maybe ten years.

MS: Right. Actors, filmmakers, you’ve got about ten years. Some of the greatest filmmakers had a run for ten years. It’s part of American celebrity.

– From Richard Schickel: Conversations with Scorsese (Alfred A. Knopf, 2011). Copyright © 2011 by Richard Schickel.

Monday, 24 September 2018

The Art of War: David O. Russell on Three Kings

Three Kings (Directed by David O. Russell)
Writer/director David O. Russell is best known for Oscar-nominated films such as Silver Linings Playbook, American Hustle and The Fighter. But before these, it was his critically-aclaimed 1999 film Three Kings that arguably launched his career. In the following extract from an interview with Creative Screenwriting Russell discusses disagreements over writing credits, moving from independent to studio films, and the dark heart of the movie.

How did you set up ‘Three Kings’ at Warner Bros.? It’s a very brave film for a major studio. Did they come to you?

Yes. It was a very odd and serendipitous process: David’s Adventure in Studio Land. I thought, what would this be like, to work with something from their candy box? They opened up their logbook to me and this one log line jumped out at me, which was a heist set in the Gulf War, a script by John Ridley. A pretty straight action movie. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. In fact, I was researching another script, a turn-of-the-century story, and I didn’t feel I had cracked it, so I started buying books about the Gulf—photojournalist books that had amazing images in them like hundreds of soldiers being stripped in the desert and Bart Simpson dolls on grills of cars. All this incongruous stuff. There was once a scene where they ate animals in the zoo...

So you found the log line—

It took me by surprise and eventually to everybody’s surprise, I said, ‘I think I want to do this.’ And everybody’s eyebrows went up. Including my agent’s. They were all like, ‘What?’ I said it’s going to be crazy textured, with all the politics and everything. To me, the heist is the least interesting part. So I went off, researched, and wrote it for eighteen months. It was a fun scriptwriting process, like no other I’d ever done. I would make columns of things I found fascinating, and then I would build the script that way. So it’s not character-driven, which is obvious from the movie. There was very volatile material which hadn’t been put in the face of Americans about what really happened there. I read papers, talked to veterans and Iraqis. Then I sewed together the quilt of this script. It was liberating, because it was blank as the desert, a palette where I could do a lot of different things, including action, which I hadn’t done before. I wanted to click on lots of information, like click on their day jobs, click on the wife at home, click on how this punk sees violence as opposed to how violence really is. I’ll do it and see how it works in the editing.

John Ridley has been vocal in his displeasure over credit...

He certainly has. I thought we had an amicable agreement. He was all friendly when we made the credit agreement.

You just used his premise of the heist in the Gulf.

That was all I took from his script, and frankly, that’s the most boring thing about the movie. Which in a way was an albatross, because I thought it was going to help me write faster. It was sort of the opposite.

Ridley was part of the process in the beginning?

Yeah, he sold his script. Like every other writer. I don’t understand what his whining is about because it’s the most common experience in Hollywood. You write a script, you sell it and get paid. Goodbye. You’re lucky you’re not rewritten 700 times. If he wants to direct his own scripts, he should control them a little bit. If he thinks it’s such a work of genius, I think he’d let me publish my script. I even offered to publish both scripts in one volume.

That’s a great idea.

He won’t do it. He got paid, he got co-producer credit, he was all amicable. I wanted to publish the screenplay and then he started playing the jilted writer.

Did he see the film and have a problem with it?

Not to my knowledge.

Was there WGA arbitration at all?

No. He decided not to. I was happy to go either way because I knew I had a very strong case. I think what is truly accurate is screenplay by me, and story by him and me. With him getting first position. He said he wanted sole story credit. I said okay and he got co-producer credit.

Is this going to make you wary in the future?

Oh yeah. [laughs]

You used to be an activist, so did you purposely set out to spotlight our foreign policy?

Definitely. That was one of my main motivations. It wasn’t dealing with characters so much as I did in my other movies, it was being driven by the political charge of the material. I couldn’t believe that no other filmmaker had gone after this and I couldn’t believe that Warner Bros. was going to let me do it.

Why did they?

They were hungry to work with independent filmmakers. They’ve done it before.  They were happy to let me do my thing.

In terms of action movies, are you a fan or was it new territory?

I’m not a huge action movie fan, although the other idea that was a big motivator was violence. There hadn’t been a war film since Platoon, so I thought, ‘Great! I’m going to explore this territory in a totally different way.’ So while I’m writing it I find out that Spielberg and Malick are doing these epic war movies! Yet mine was contemporary and nothing like theirs. The whole process of resensitizing violence cinematically captivated me at the time. I felt that bullets had become glib and cartoonish, even in really smart independent movies, so I wanted to render their impact more real. Sometimes I write in friends’ homes, and I have a friend who was a doctor in an emergency room. I was writing and I said to him, ‘What exactly does a bullet do?’ We talked about it and I thought, ‘I’m going to write this, show this, and if it doesn’t work we can cut it later.’

In the script, you also indicate a lot of visual directions.

That took a lot of work to translate that to the camera department.

So when you’re writing, you see exactly how you want to shoot the scene.

Yes. Then you have to make that technically happen. You have to experiment. Definitely with the shootout. When we looked at the first cut of the shootout, I didn’t think it was going to work. I said, ‘Thank God, we covered this normally.’ And the editor says, ‘But you guys didn’t cover it normally.’ I was shitting my pants thinking we were going to reshoot!

There are lots of cool visual touches in the film.

I’m totally a beginner filmmaker, and I’m learning. My motives were political and informational, but also visual. I’d never been so visually motivated in any screenplay I ever wrote. Any flaws in the film are attributed to this, as well as its assets. I was experimenting with being a more visual writer. We studied these photojournalists, like Kenneth Jarecke’s book Just Another War, and it’s amazing—haunting black and white photos of the Gulf War. A brilliant book. We strove for that look in the film: a big, blank empty landscape with a person here and a truck way far away, that kind of thing. It was a little bit film school for me, so I’ll take a lot that I learned and go back to something that’s closer to my ballpark.

I think the dark heart of the movie is the interrogation scene. You get to hear the other side’s version of things. It’s horrifying what happens to Mark Wahlberg, but you can’t hate the interrogator.

One of the things that inspired me was that the war was like a computer picture from an airplane. So who are the people? It’s a dangerous thing because you can dehumanize the enemy. What would it be like to meet an Iraqi who didn’t want to serve in Saddam’s army—which most of them don’t want to – and bring him face to face with an American. That was exciting to me.

Did you interview any Iraqi soldiers?

We did. A lot of the people in the movie were Iraqi and we cast them out of Deerborn, Michigan, where there’s an Iraqi community.... I met a lot of them after I finished the script and asked if this was right, or this. But as a writer, you’d be surprised at how many of one’s instincts are right, strictly from intuition. I don’t know if it was Henry James who said as a writer, you should be able to walk by a house, and if the door opens for a moment and you get a glimpse into the kitchen where people are eating, then when the door closes, you should be able to write a story about that house.

Do you have certain habits to get yourself in the mood?

I have to write down all the things about an idea that excite me and I have to have the whole menu at my disposal. Sometimes I have charts on the wall. Once I outline—and I outline and outline—I have to insist that I write eight pages a day, otherwise I’ll never finish the script, or I’ll go over a couple pages a million times. Then I give it to another friend of mine so I can’t go back. You have to keep marching forward or you’ll never get it out of your head. I write longhand and then I transcribe onto the computer.

How long did it take to write Three Kings?

I had about a 200-page script after six months, but I wasn’t happy with it. I put it down for a few months before it became closer to my own version.

You gave it to the studio and they said go ahead.

At the beginning, they said, ‘Where’s the script? We paid you the advance and we normally expect a first draft in twelve weeks.‘ And I said, ‘That’s why most of your movies suck.’

‘Three Kings’ has done pretty good box-office. Is the studio happy with the outcome?

They’re very happy with it. Of course, everybody gets all pumped up when the tests are good and the advance press is good. Before that, we had more realistic expectations because the movie is provocative. It’s going to make money for them, I think.

What are the film or script influences on your work?

Definitely the films of the ’70s. I’m a big fan of Wes Anderson and Paul Anderson. All those Andersons. I love Alexander Payne. Chinatown. I watch a lot of movies. But I tend to watch movies I like over and over.

– ‘Not a Typical Action Movie: David. O. Russell on Three Kings’, Creative Screenwriting, March, 2016. Full interview here

Friday, 21 September 2018

Dream As Reality: An Interview with Fellini

8 1/2 (Directed by Federico Fellini)

’The difference is that I know I live in a fantasy world. I prefer it that way and resent anything that disturbs my vision’ - Federico Fellini
After an uneventful provincial childhood during which he developed a talent as a cartoonist, Fellini at age 19 moved to Rome, where he contributed cartoons, gags, and stories to the humour magazine Marc’Aurelio. During World War II, Fellini worked as a scriptwriter for the radio program Cico e Pallina, starring Giulietta Masina, the actress who became Fellini’s wife in 1943 and who went on to star in several of the director’s greatest films during the course of their 50-year marriage. In 1944 Fellini met director Roberto Rossellini, who engaged him as one of a team of writers who created Roma, Città Aperta (1945; Open City or Rome, Open City), often cited as the seminal film of the Italian Neorealist movement. Fellini’s contribution to the screenplay earned him his first Oscar nomination.

Fellini quickly became one of Italy’s most successful screenwriters. Although he wrote a number of important scripts for such directors as Pietro Germi (Il Cammino Della Speranza [1950; The Path of Hope]), Alberto Lattuada (Senza Pietá [1948; Without Pity]), and Luigi Comencini (Persiane Chiuse [1951; Drawn Shutters]), his scripts for Rossellini are most important to the history of the Italian cinema. These include Paisà (1946; Paisan), perhaps the purest example of Italian Neorealism; Il Miracolo (1948; The Miracle, an episode of the film L’Amore), a controversial work on the meaning of sainthood; and Europa ’51 (1952; The Greatest Love), one of the first films in postwar Italy that began to move beyond the documentary realism of the Neorealist period toward an examination of psychological problems and Existentialist themes.

Fellini made his debut as director in collaboration with Lattuada on Luci Del Varietà (1951; Variety Lights). This was the first in a series of works dealing with provincial life and was followed by Lo Sceicco Bianco (1951; The White Sheik) and I Vitelloni (1953; Spivs or The Young and the Passionate), his first critically and commercially successful work. This film, a bitterly sarcastic look at the idle ‘mama’s boys’ of the provinces, is still considered by some critics to be Fellini’s masterpiece.

Fellini’s next films formed a trilogy that dealt with salvation and the fate of innocence in a cruel and unsentimental world. One of Fellini’s best-known works, the heavily symbolic La Strada (1954; The Road), stars Anthony Quinn as a cruel, animalistic circus strongman and Masina as the pathetic waif who loves him. The film was shot on location in the desolate countryside between Viterbo and Abruzzo, with the great empty spaces reflecting the virtual inhumanity of the relationship between the principal characters. Although it was criticized by the left-wing press in Italy, the film was highly praised abroad, winning an Academy Award for best foreign film. Il Bidone (1955; The Swindle), which starred Broderick Crawford in a role intended for Humphrey Bogart, was a rather unpleasant tale of petty swindlers who disguise themselves as priests in order to rob the peasantry. Garnering a second foreign film Oscar for Fellini was the more successful Le Notti Di Cabiria (1957; The Nights of Cabiria), again starring Masina, this time as a simple, eternally optimistic Roman prostitute. Although not usually considered among Fellini’s greatest works, Le Notti Di Cabiria (upon which the Broadway musical comedy Sweet Charity was based) remains a critical favourite and one of Fellini’s most immediately likable films.

Fellini’s next film, La Dolce Vita (1960; The Sweet Life), was his first collaboration with Marcello Mastroianni, the actor who would come to represent Fellini’s alter ego in several films throughout the next two decades. The film – for which Fellini had Rome’s main thoroughfare, the Via Veneto, rebuilt as a set—proved to be a panorama of the times, rife with surreal imagery, and a compelling indictment of popular media, decadent intellectuals, and aristocrats. Immediately hailed as one of the most important films ever made, La Dolce Vita contributed the word paparazzi (unscrupulous yellow-press photographers) to the English language and the adjective ‘Felliniesque’ to the lexicon of film critics.

Regarded as a perfect blend of symbolism and realism, Otto e mezzo (1963; 8 1/2), is perhaps Fellini’s most widely praised film and earned the director his third Oscar for best foreign film. Entitled 8 1/2 for the number of films Fellini had made to that time (seven features and three shorts), the work shows the plight of a famous director (based on Fellini, portrayed by Mastroianni) in creative paralysis. The high modernist aesthetics of the film became emblematic of the very notion of free, uninhibited artistic creativity, and in 1987 a panel of motion picture scholars from 18 European nations named 8 1/2 the best European film ever made.

In the wake of 8 1/2 Fellini’s name became firmly linked to the vogue of the postwar European art film. He began to deal with the myth of Rome, the cinema, and, especially, the director’s own life and fantasy world, all of which Fellini considered interrelated themes in his works. His films of the late 1960s combine dreamlike images with original uses of colour photography. Satyricon (1969), inspired by such ancient Roman writers as Petronius and Apuleius, tells of the wanderings of a group of aimless young men in the world of antiquity. Fellini, who was unconcerned with historical accuracy, attempted to explore the human condition in an age before Christianity and the concept of original sin. A bizarre, flamboyant work, Satyricon remains a film on which critical opinion is heatedly divided. Roma (1971; Fellini’s Roma) is the director’s personal portrait of the Eternal City, and Amarcord (1973), which won Fellini a fourth Oscar for best foreign film, offers a nostalgic remembrance of Fellini’s provincial adolescence during the Fascist period. 
– ©

I Vitelloni (Directed by Federico Fellini)
The following interview with Fellini by Bert Cardullo took place in the lobby of the Grand Hotel in Milan, Italy, during the summer of 1986, not long after the release of ‘Ginger and Fred’.

BERT CARDULLO: Signor Fellini, tell me a little about your background and your first film job.

FEDERICO FELLINI: I reached the cinema through screenplays, and these through my collaboration on humorous publications – Marc’ Aurelio especially – for which I wrote stories and columns in addition to drawing cartoons. If, one day in 1944, Roberto Rossellini hadn’t invited me to collaborate on the screenplay of Rome, Open City, I would never even have considered the cinema as a profession. Rossellini helped me go from a foggy, apathetic period in my life to the stage of cinema. It was an important encounter but more in the sense of my future destiny than in the sense of influence. As far as I’m concerned, Rossellini’s was an Adam-like paternity; he is a kind of forefather from whom many of my generation descend. Let’s just say I was open to this particular endeavour, and he appeared at the right time to guide me into it. But I wasn’t thinking of becoming a director at this juncture. I felt I lacked the director’s propensity to be tyrannically overpowering, coherent and fussy, hardworking, and – most important – authoritative on every subject: all endowments missing from my temperament. The conviction that I could direct a film came later, when I was directly involved on one and could no longer pull out.

After having written a number of screenplays for Rossellini, Pietro Germi, and Alberto Lattuada, I wrote a story called Variety Lights. It contained my recollections of when I toured Italy with a variety troupe. Some of those memories were true, others invented. Two of us directed the film: Lattuada and myself. He said ‘camera,’ ‘action,’ ‘cut,’ ‘everyone out,’ ‘silence,’ etc. And I stood by his side in a rather comfortable yet irresponsible position. The same year, 1950, I wrote a story called The White Sheik together with Tullio Pinelli. Michelangelo Antonioni was supposed to direct the film, but he didn’t like the screenplay, so Luigi Rovere – the producer – told me to film it. I can therefore unequivocally state that I never decided to be a director. Rovere’s rather reckless faith induced me to become one.

The vocation itself was altogether rather mysterious to me. As I said, my temperament led me elsewhere. Even today, when a film is finished, I find myself wondering how the devil I could have been so active, gotten so many people into motion, made a thousand decisions a day, said ‘yes’ to this and ‘no’ to that, and at the same time not have fallen madly in love with all those beautiful women that actresses are.

La Strada (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: Apart from women, how do you find inspiration in our mediocre times? Or perhaps you don’t find that we are constantly surrounded by mediocrity.

FF: No, it’s a barbaric era all right. People say this is an era of transition, but that’s true of every period. Certainly we have no more myths left. The Christian myth doesn’t seem to be able to help humanity anymore. So, we’re waiting for a new myth to comfort us. But which one? Nonetheless, it’s very interesting to live at a time like this. We must accept the time in which we live. We have no choice. Having said that, I feel that my mission in life, my vocation if you will, is to be a witness; and if your life consists of such testimony, you have to accept what you witness. Sure, you can be nostalgic about the past and how great it was, and you can lament the erosion of values, but there’s no point in doing that. From a generational point of view, I’m aware that there’s a certain regret about things past, but I personally try to live with the confidence that the future will assimilate the past. The past will transform itself into the future, so in a sense it will be relived—not in regret, but as part and parcel of the world to come.

BC: Does this vision of yours have to do with your looking into an interior reality rather than an exterior one? Are the dreams and fantasies of which an interior reality consists the basis of your inspiration?

FF: I don’t dwell too much on what it is that inspires me. Instead I have to be in touch with my delusions, my discomforts, and my fears; they provide me the material with which I work. I make a bundle of all these, along with my disasters, my voids, and my chasms, and I try to observe them with sanity, in a conciliatory manner.

La Strada (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: What are you afraid of, if I may ask?

FF: I’m afraid of solitude, of the gap between action and observation in which solitude dwells. That’s a reflection on my existence, in which I attempt to act without being swept away by the action, so as to be able to bear witness at the same time. I fear losing my spontaneity precisely because of such testimony or witnessing, because of my habit of constantly analysing and commenting. I also fear old age, madness, decline. I fear not being able to make love ten times a day...

BC: Do you make films because solitude ranks high among your fears?

FF: Making films for me is not just a creative outlet but an existential expression. I also write and paint in isolation, in an ascetic manner. Perhaps my character is too hard, too severe. The cinema itself is a miracle, though, because you can live life just as you tell it. It’s very stimulating. For my temperament and sensibility, this correlation between daily life and the life I create on screen is fantastic. Creative people live in a very vague territory, where what we call ‘reality’ and ‘fantasy’ are disjointed – where one interferes with the other. They both become one and the same thing. In sum, I enjoy telling stories with an inextricable mixture of sincerity and invention, as well as a desire to astound, to shamelessly confess and absolve myself, to be liked, to interest, to moralize, to be a prophet, witness, clown... to make people laugh and to move them. Are any other motives necessary?

BC: Not really! Let’s talk now about the description of your early films as socially realistic, while your later ones are described as more hallucinatory.

FF: You could call hallucination a ‘deeper reality.’ Critics have a need to categorize and classify. I don’t see it that way. I detest the world of labels, the world that confuses the label with the thing labeled. I just do what I have to do. Realism is a bad word, in any event. In a sense, everything is realistic. I see no line between the imaginary and the real; I see much reality in the imaginary.

La Dolce Vita (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: Critics also have termed your characters ‘grotesque’ and ‘exaggerated.’ How do you react to such accusations?

FF: To answer this question, I must see my films, which I never do. People say that I’m a bit too much, that I exaggerate. Maybe they’re right. But even if it’s true, it’s not intentional on my part. I’m delighted when I come across an expressive face, however bizarre. I am, after all, a caricaturist, and I have to accept the limitation this imposes on me. A creative person has something childish about him: He both loves to be surprised and wants to do the surprising. So, I choose to show whatever is too big or too small or simply unfamiliar. I try to express the feeling of surprise in the way I myself felt it. The world of Picasso, for example, could be described as strange and monstrous, but not for him. I, too, don’t see my characters as strange. I simply try to go beyond appearances, to unveil what lies behind what we call ‘normality.’ Maybe I overdo it. People ask me, ‘Signor Fellini, where do you find such strange characters?’ So I respond, ‘That’s what I see in the mirror every day... a monstrous face indeed!’

Look, I’m not cruel. It’s not true what some critics say, that I hate humanity. For me, curiosity and amusement are proof of my affection for what I depict. When I choose a certain face and have it made up in a certain way, it’s not because I want to ridicule, but because I want to convey in an immediate manner something that isn’t psychological. My characters never undergo psychological development. My films are a bit more innocent than that, and the characters have to be themselves as soon as they appear. So the need to be expressive is immediate.

La Dolce Vita (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: You show beauty – of women like Claudia Cardinale and Anita Ekberg – alongside the grotesque: for example, a huge woman like Saraghina in ‘8 1/2’. Isn’t there a dichotomy here after all?

FF: Beauty is not limited to beauty in the classical sense. It can be everywhere. I must admit that I don’t recognize the category of the grotesque; to me even the grotesque is beautiful. You mention La Saraghina. In Rimini, near the seminary for priests, there was in fact a big prostitute like that who used to expose herself. When I show something like that, it’s usually through the eyes of a boy, and sometimes I exaggerate just to show the astonishment or fear or ecstasy of that boy. Also, if I use a big or fat woman, it’s because I’m telling a story about an Italian boy who is hungry for women and wants a lot of woman, so to speak. Just because the Catholic Church has described women as something to put out of your mind, Italian males of a certain generation developed an appetite for them and not just for food. So the big women indicate the big appetite of these men – or boys.

BC: How do you feel about the relations between the sexes today, when a certain role reversal seems to be at work?

FF: Man has always been unsure of women. A woman for a man is the part that he doesn’t know about himself, so he’s always afraid of her. He feels weak and vulnerable with her, because she may cause him to lose his identity. Just by projecting the part of himself that he doesn’t know on a woman, he loses a lot of himself. So he knows he can be destroyed, devoured... That’s a natural law.

He also probably remembers the very ancient matriarchal society in which man was nothing and women thought they became pregnant just because the wind blew some seed into their vagina, or the seed came from the ocean or from the moon. A thousand years passed before man and woman had a relationship and discovered orgasm. Suddenly someone started thinking, ‘Wait a minute, why does it take nine months? Which kind of wind is it? What ocean started it all nine months ago?’ In those matriarchal societies, if men were to assert themselves, they had to put on false breasts and dress like women, complete with wigs. Men, as men, didn’t exist at all – worse than rats. When the queen decided to take a companion, he would last a year, after which he was killed, cut to pieces like an animal, and eaten.

8 1/2 (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: What society was that, Signor Fellini?

FF: Now. It’s today... And then, for centuries, man took advantage of women to avenge himself for what he had suffered for thousands of years. Now women want to be considered as persons, not as mere projections, and their attempt to escape the image to which man has confined them frightens man. But finally he understands that he won’t be free until women are free as well. I tried to show all that in City of Women.

BC: Do you see yourself as a romantic?

FF: I don’t think I have a romantic view of the world, because I don’t recognize a particular view of the world. I probably have a romantic conception of the artist and art, but of life, no. I like to probe behind appearances and discover what’s really there, like a naughty boy. In this I recognize the skeptic, who tries not to put too much faith in façades, who tries to unmask falsehood. I think that’s the most important thing: I have no ideology, but if I had to identify myself with one, it would be that the beauty of art is in its unmasking of falsehood; in educating; in planting in people’s minds the suspicion that reality is something more complex than it appears to be; in giving people the pleasure of suspicion, not just the burden of doubt; in keeping them from feeling too protected by taboos, concepts, ideologies. Life is more complex than all that. If, in my pictures, I were asked to recognize a motif – a thread that runs through them – I’d say that this is the only one. It’s an attempt to create emancipation from conventional schemes, liberation from moral rules: that is to say, an attempt to retrieve life’s authentic rhythm or mode, its vital cadence, as opposed to all the inauthentic forms life is forced to take. That, I believe, is the central idea to be found in all the films I have made.

BC: Does this mean that you avoid judgment?

FF: That’s not really possible. We are slaves of our culture, prisoners of our emotions. We always have a subjective point of view. Subjectivity means that we’ve had a certain education, that we read certain books, that we have cultivated certain emotions. All these mysterious and contradictory things serve as the basis for our judgment. Even when you can pretend to be just a witness, you can’t ignore this subjective element. I try to be open and not to be schematic, but always in terms of what is commensurate with my background.

8 1/2 (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: Is that partly why you don’t make films in other countries? Because you’re so very Italian?

FF: Yes, in the same way that you’re so very American despite your Sicilian last name... When I go to a foreign country, everything is a mystery to me. I see images, colours, lines, but they don’t add up to anything. I could make a picture about New York, but in Cinecittà, not in America. I’d have to remember what I saw in New York and what emotions it triggered in me, and then I would try to recreate them here in Italy with the same colours and lights. I was so presumptuous as to say several times to American producers that I wanted to make such a film about America in Italy, where I would be protected by an atmosphere in which I could move without being unsettled or even mortified by laws I don’t know and a language I can’t speak.

Your question, by the way, is evidence of a reductive attitude toward the movies. No one ever asks writers why they don’t write in other languages. The equivocal birth of the cinema was indeed technical – the camera, the lens, the lights, and then you develop the film — but that’s purely a mechanical point of view. If I want to try to express what’s going on here during this interview, however, I can’t just put a camera in front of us. I would have to recreate the feeling of our meeting: what I feel about the fact that you are an Italian-American, about the fact that Fiammetta is trying to create a bridge between us by helping you with your Italian and me with my English, about the décor of this hotel lobby, the colour of the sofa on which we sit... To think that the camera can take all that in by itself is highly reductive, just as it is to think that an Italian like me could make a picture in New York simply by turning on a camera and filming what’s in front of me.

People ask me, ‘Signor Fellini, why do you recreate Venice in a studio instead of using the real one?’ And I’m always a bit surprised by such questions. I have to recreate Venice, because that’s the way I put myself in it.

8 1/2 (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: The décor becomes expressive of your vision, then.

FF: Of course. In America, I’d have to depend on information culled from others – such as the kind of tails a Chicago lawyer wears. Maybe I’m just trying to look for pretexts – the real reason for not filming in other countries being that I’m too old and lazy – but I think it’s more sincere to say that I can’t create from life that I am seeing more or less for the first time. I need a period of long and immersed reflection. I could do a wholly impressionistic report on a place like New York, seen from a newspaperman’s eye as it were, but that would mean absolutely nothing.

BC: Do you feel transformed when you’re on the set, or are you always the same?

FF: I’m always the same confused man. There’s no difference. When I work, I am perhaps healthier because the pressure to do, to escape, to be alive gives me added neurotic energy. When I’m in between pictures, I’m a bit weaker. But I’m always in the same situation of not knowing what I’m doing.

BC: How does such confusion evolve into a unified, focused vision?

FF: That’s a very difficult question to answer. I don’t want to appear too mystical or too mysterious, but there’s a part of me that sometimes comes out at the last moment. The more confused I am, the more I’m ready for this new tenant that inhabits my imagination to take possession of me. This is what makes everything fall into place. The more I feel lost, the more I believe I can be helped by this unknown source of knowledge or understanding. It’s magic. Perhaps I’m being a bit superstitious with this trust of mine in the unknown. Of course, what I really mean by saying that I don’t know what I’m doing is that my knowledge comes after I have tried everything. For example, I look at a hundred faces to choose one that will just inhabit a dark corner of the screen, and only for a very short period of time. That’s the kind of effort I’m talking about.

8 1/2 (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: You’re saying, then, that this knowledge of yours goes beyond reason.

FF: That’s right. You can get lost by being too rational. But if you work with faith, and you know your limits – at the same time as you are modest, humble, and also arrogant, like a real man — you can arrive at the truth. If you’re as true to yourself as you possibly can be, you will be helped, and you’ll come closer to artistic truth. Still, I don’t claim to know all the secrets.

BC: Does any one of your films represent you more completely than the others? Is any one of them more key than the others – a film to preserve, as they say?

FF: Two of them: La Strada and 8 1/2. La Strada is really the complete catalog of my entire mythical or shadow world, a dangerous representation of my identity undertaken without precaution. The point of departure of that film, apart from the spectacle of nature and the fascination with gypsy-like travels, was the story of an enlightenment, a shaking of conscience, through the sacrifice of another human creature. 8 1/2 is meant to be an attempt to reach an agreement with life, an attempt and not a result or conclusion. I think the film may suggest a solution: to make friends with yourself completely, without hesitation, without false modesty, without fears but also without hopes.

BC: Critics have often complained that you end your films in a vague, general way: the appeal to hope in ‘Nights of Cabiria’, the reminder of the little girl’s purity in ‘La Dolce Vita’. Your thoughts on this subject?

FF: This is one of the criticisms that I’ve never understood, for as far as I’m concerned the public writes the ending. The storyteller shouldn’t say, ‘Here the story ends,’ if he doesn’t want his story to be reduced to the level of an anecdote or a joke. If the story has moved you, the ending is up to you – the viewer who has seen it.

Juliet of the Spirits (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: How does a project of yours come into being in the first place?

FF: The real ideas come to me when I sign a contract and get an advance that I don’t want to give back, when I’m obliged to make a picture. I’m kidding, naturally. I don’t want to appear brutal, like Groucho Marx, but I’m the kind of creator who needs to have a higher authority – a grand duke, the pope, an emperor, a producer, a bank – to push me. Such a vulgar condition puts me on the right track. It’s only then that I start thinking about what I can, and want to, do.

BC: Why do you think you decided to start using colour – first for the episode in ‘Boccaccio ’70’ and then for ‘Juliet of the Spirits’? Was there an external factor, such as an offer from a producer, the sheer possibility of doing a film in colour, or was this your own aesthetic choice?

FF: The two cases are different. For the episode in Boccaccio ’70, the choice wasn’t mine. It was an episodic or anthology film, and the producers decided that it was to be in colour. I didn’t object at all. The playful air of the whole undertaking and the brief form of the episode seemed just right for an experiment with colour without too great a commitment on my part. I didn’t think about the problem very seriously; I didn’t go into it deeply. In Juliet of the Spirits, on the other hand, colour is an essential part of the film; it was born in colour in my imagination. I don’t think I would have done it in black and white. It is a type of fantasy that is developed through coloured illuminations. As you know, colour is a part not only of the language of dreams but also of the idea and feeling behind them. colours in a dream are concepts, not mere approximations or memories.

That said, I certainly prefer a good black-and-white picture to a bad one in colour. All the more so because in some cases so-called ‘natural colour’ impoverishes the imagination. The more you mimic reality, the more you lose in the imitation. Black and white, in this sense, offers wider margins for the imagination. I know that after having seen a good black-and-white film, many spectators, when asked about its chromatic aspect, will say, ‘The colours were beautiful,’ because each viewer lends to the otherwise black-and-white images the colours he has within himself.

Juliet of the Spirits (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: You seem to be saying that you prefer black-and-white to colour cinematography, period.

FF: Well, making films in colour is, I believe, an impossible operation, for cinema is movement, colour immobility; to try to blend these two artistic expressions is a desperate ambition, like wanting to breathe under water. Let me explain. In order to truly express the chromatic values of a face, a landscape, some scene or other, it is necessary to light it according to certain criteria that are functions of both personal taste and technical exigency. And all goes well so long as the camera doesn’t move. But as soon as the camera moves in on the faces or objects to be lighted, the intensity of the light is heightened or lessened, and all the chromatic values are intensified or lessened as a result. In short: The camera moves, the light changes.

There is also an infinitude of contingencies that condition the colour, aside from the grave errors that can occur at the laboratory, where the negative can be totally transformed by its development and printing. These contingencies are the innumerable and continual traps that have to be dealt with every day when you shoot in colour. For instance, colours interfere or clash, set up ‘echoes,’ are conditioned by one another. Once lighted, colour runs over the outline that holds it, emanating a sort of luminous aureola around neighbouring objects. Thus there is an incessant game of tennis, let us say, between the various colours. Sometimes it even happens that the result of these changes is agreeable, better than what one had imagined; but this is always a somewhat chancy, uncontrollable occurrence.

Finally, the human eye selects and in this way already does an artist’s work, because the human eye, the eye of man, sees chromatic reality through the prisms of nostalgia, of memory, of presentiment or imagination. This is not the case with the lens, and it happens that you believe you are bringing out certain values in a face, a set, a costume, while the lens brings out others. In this way, writing with a camera – or caméra stylo, as Astruc put it – becomes very difficult. It is as if, while writing, a modifying word escapes your pen in capital letters, or, still worse, one adjective shows up instead of another, or some form of punctuation appears that completely changes the sense of a line.

Juliet of the Spirits (Directed by Federico Fellini)
BC: Tell me about something not unrelated to the subject of colour: the relationship between your films and television in Italy. I saw ‘Nights of Cabiria’ on television here a few nights ago, and I’m glad I saw it first in a movie theatre some years ago.

FF: Ginger and Fred, my latest picture, was made for television, but it was shown in theatres first. Not many such theatres remain in Italy, however. They’ve just closed 2,117 of them, and there are now many cities, like Perugia – which is the size of Boston – which had three or four theatres but now have none. In Italy, we have over two hundred private television stations. You could watch two hundred pictures on two hundred TV sets at the same time, but that’s not all that’s wrong.

The movies have suffered not only because of the direct competition of television, but also because television has created a different relationship between audiences and images. For example, they can switch off the image whenever they want. Moreover, you watch TV in a small room, in the light, where you can talk. Thus all the ritualistic attention that movies used to command gets canceled. And the fact that you can change channels by remote control every thirty seconds – or less – has created an impatient audience, even a very arrogant and superficial one. Anything it finds annoying, it eliminates. Add to this the fact that television is available twenty-four hours a day, every day of the year, and that images are deployed electronically – they’re doubled and squeezed onto the small screen – and you’ll see that the image as we once knew it has been destroyed.

We are no longer used to being seduced by a pure image. We have no interest in following a story from an author’s point of view. And since telling stories is what I like to do, I must admit I feel frustrated. The man with the remote control has become director and exhibitor. The audience has gained power at the expense of the movies, such that the cinema has become a tainted old lady teetering on the verge of extinction. I would very much like to please the audience, but in the end, I find, I must be faithful to the picture.

– ‘An Interview with Federico Fellini’ in Bert Cardullo: Soundings on Cinema – Speaking to Film and Film Artists (2008, State University of New York). © 2008 State University of New York

Tuesday, 18 September 2018

Writing ‘Psycho’: Interview with Joseph Stefano

Psycho (Directed by Alfred Hitchcock)
When Alfred Hitchcock began pre-production on his forty-seventh picture, it was evident that he was no longer surrounded by the familiar certainties of recent productions. Gone were his long-term associates, high production values, major stars and established screenwriters of the calibre of Samuel Taylor (Vertigo) and Ernest Lehman (North by Northwest). Out of necessity Psycho would mark a significant break with Hitchcock's movie-making past and alert Hollywood that, at sixty years old, Hitchcock was still capable of producing work that was both shocking and innovative.

Adapted from Robert Bloch’s potboiler novel Psycho was loosely based on the real-life exploits of serial killer Edward Gein. Hitchcock was disappointed by the first draft screenplay from tyro screenwriter James P. Cavanagh, so Hollywood agency MCA suggested to Hitchcock another young client, Joseph Stefano, a thirty-eight-year-old former lyricist-composer. Described by critic Stephen Rebello as ‘exuberantly cocky, volatile, and streetwise, Stefano, who had only owned a television for two years, had harbored no writing aspirations outside of music. Then, he had watched a live telecast of Playhouse 90, at the time a leading showcase for promising playwrights, directors, and actors, and thought; “I can do that.”’

After writing a one-hour teleplay, within two weeks, he had a deal with producer Carlo Ponti and won respectable notices for his first produced screenplay The Black Orchid, a Mafia soap opera, starring Anthony Quinn and Sophia Loren. He also won awards for his own Playhouse 90 script, Made in Japan, also a relationship story. 

Bemused by how quickly things happened, Stefano was offered a seven-year contract at Twentieth Century–Fox, and so abandoned his music career and moved to Hollywood. 

In an interview with Creative Screenwriting, Stefano discussed the process of adapting Bloch’s novel and working with the legendary master of suspense:

CS: In his famous interview with Francois Truffaut, Alfred Hitchcock explained that ‘Psycho’ was undertaken as a personal and professional challenge: ‘Could I make a feature film under the same conditions as a television show?’ Others have suggested that Hitchcock also wanted to ‘out do’ at the box office all those popular, low budget horror films of the late fifties like the ones produced by William Castle and Roger Corman while, at the same time, making a more intelligent and astonishing film in the vein of Clouzot’s ‘Les Diaboliques’. Were these objectives clear to you when you first became involved with the project in 1959?

JS: In our very first meeting, Hitchcock told me that he’d been impressed by a company called American International which was making movies for less than $200,000 apiece, and he was especially impressed with what the films were doing at the box office. His very words to me at the time were, ‘What if somebody good did one?’ In putting it that way, he wasn’t criticizing American International and the other low-budget production companies; he was just issuing a challenge to himself. Since he was already set up as a production company at Universal for his television series, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, he was in the perfect position to attempt such a project. So right from the beginning, every single consideration was guided by his idea of doing ‘a low-budget movie’ – not really to prove anything, but simply to make a lot of money. Hitchcock’s movies had always made astonishing amounts of money, but he felt that they were beginning to cost far too much to make. North by Northwest, which he made right before Psycho, starred Cary Grant and had a huge budget, and Hitchcock felt that he wasn’t being appropriately rewarded financially for what he was doing. So he decided that a low-budget success would change all that.

When you first became involved with the project and read Robert Bloch’s novel ‘Psycho’, you clearly disliked the fictional Norman Bates. He was an unpleasant, obese, and balding drunk not to mention his other problems. And you felt it was crucial to make him more sympathetic in the movie. You also felt the same way about the Mary character, later renamed Marion. Did Hitchcock agree with these changes from the start?

Absolutely. My take on how to adapt this book into a movie, which I explained to Hitch in our first meeting, was that it should be about a girl who’s in a dead-end love affair with a man who has serious financial problems. She loves him, but she doesn’t want things to continue as they are – shacking up in cheap hotel rooms over her lunch hour whenever he can get to town. So I described to Hitch what this woman was going through in her sordid life when a wealthy, smarmy man unexpectedly walks into her office at the bank and hands her $60,000 in cash to deposit. And the temptation is just too much for Marion as she later realizes in the parlor scene with Norman. As she says to Norman, we all dig our own little traps, and when she made the decision not to deposit the money, she sealed her fate. It’s a true moment of impulsive madness, but quite different from Norman Bates’s madness. Norman’s madness is a ‘convenient’ madness which works to keep him out of trouble, and which also works to prevent him from confronting his ghosts. Marion’s madness is more like one of those moments when somebody bumps into you on an elevator and you go temporarily mad. Marion irrationally thinks, at that moment, that she can solve all her problems by taking the money, packing her suitcase, and going to her lover and saying, ‘Look, everything’s O.K. now’, which is, of course, insane.

Since you wanted the film to begin with Marion unlike the novel which begins with Norman you conceived and wrote for Hitchcock the opening sequence in which a wide angle shot pans over the Phoenix skyline, gradually moves down to a seedy hotel, enters through one of the windows, and finally finds two lovers concluding their lunch break assignation. I understand that Hitchcock was very pleased with the sequence, but that, unaccustomed to praising writers, he used his wife, Alma, as a ploy to let you know how he felt?

Yes, the notion of starting with Marion was my idea. And before I wrote it, I described to Hitchcock how the film would begin from a POV moving over the city, then descending into a hotel room and revealing two people shacking up during lunch hour. Hitchcock liked the idea very much, and he also liked the idea that it was initially a movie about Marion. Eventually, of course, Marion was going to be killed and taken away from the audience, and then the film would encourage the viewers to sympathize with Norman – who would turn out to be the very person who’d actually killed her. So the film, as I’d initially conceived it, had a kind of structural trick going for it that the book didn’t have, and Hitch liked it very much. At the time, he was scheduled to take a two-week cruise with his wife, and he asked me to write the opening while he was gone. As soon as he got back, he took it home and read it, and the next day we had a meeting, and he said that ‘Alma loved it’. It just wasn’t his way to say it directly.

Subsequent to this, you had several weeks of story conferences with Hitchcock. Could you describe what happened at those meetings?

Strangely enough, we rarely talked about Psycho at all, but he always gave me the feeling that he somehow knew that I was going to write a good script which he could shoot effectively. This, of course, is the rarest gift that a producer or director can give to a writer: total confidence. So in our meetings, we rarely talked about anything specifically relating to the film. I still have my steno notebook from those meetings with maybe three pages of little odds and ends: notions that I had, or something Hitch might mention about something he didn’t like, so I’d make a note of it. But most of the time, we talked about other things. He was extremely interesting, and he was a wonderful person to work with. I was in analysis at the time, and I would go to his office directly from the couch and tell him all about it. He was very interested, and he seemed delighted that I was, I guess, a different kind of animal than he’d worked with before. I was very informal and very expressive, and he seemed to enjoy that.

If, in any of those meetings, Hitchcock ever seemed distracted or disinterested, I would ask him to show me a movie, and when it was over, I’d ask him two-hours worth of questions, and he’d explain everything – even draw diagrams of things. It was quite unbelievable. I remember once asking him why he told the audience the truth about Madeleine halfway through Vertigo, and he explained that there was nowhere else for the audience to go because they would have gotten bored if he didn’t reveal the truth. And that was Hitchcock’s greatest bugaboo: boredom. It was about the only thing that he was really afraid of, and I made a note of it. The whole experience was incredible. There was no place else in the world I could have gotten a better education about filmmaking. Yet, despite all that he taught me, Hitch never interfered with me as a writer. He was perfectly willing to tell me everything I wanted to know, but he clearly felt that the writing was my job. A lot of directors don’t do that, but he had every confidence that I’d come in with a good script.

Was it the opening that gave him such confidence in your abilities? After all, you were a young writer at the time, a former songwriter, with only one feature film, ‘The Black Orchid’ – a family drama about Italian Americans to your credit.

I think so. Fortunately, at our first meeting, he discovered that I had a sense of humor. I know he was a bit concerned about meeting me because he thought The Black Orchid was ‘kitchen sink’ drama, and the only other thing I’d done was a Playhouse 90 – Made in Japan – which had to do with the racial intolerance surrounding a young soldier who gets involved with a Japanese girl in occupied Japan. I guess Hitch thought it was kind of ‘heavy’, and he actually resisted meeting me at first. This was because Hitchcock hated to say ‘no’ to anybody. I later made the mistake of asking him to do something that he didn’t want to do, and I was sorry afterwards. I asked him to look at a film that a friend of mine had made, and it was very awkward. His feeling was, ‘What if I don’t like it?’ He’d rather leave town than tell someone, even an absolute stranger, that he didn’t like his movie. When I realized this, I resolved things and pressed on with the script.

When you began on the full script, were you writing it with Anthony Perkins and Janet Leigh in mind?

Tony Perkins, yes, but Janet Leigh wasn’t locked in yet. Hitch had Perkins in mind mainly because Tony owed Paramount a picture and his price for the picture was much less than his normal rate. In one of our earliest discussions, when I was complaining about the Norman Bates character in the novel, Hitch let me go on for a while, and then finally he said, ‘We can get Tony Perkins.’ And I was delighted. I’d just seen Tony in New York during the final run-through of Look Homeward Angel, and when Hitchcock told me that Tony was Bates, I had this powerful image of Perkins on stage, and said to myself, ‘That’s Norman Bates! That’s exactly who I want it to be!’

Did you ever read the earlier screen adaptation done by James Cavanagh, which Hitchcock didn’t like?

No. I never read that screenplay. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t even aware that it existed. The general Hollywood policy at the time was that the studio was supposed to inform the writer’s agent that there’d been an earlier script. But very often, back then, the agent wouldn’t tell the writer, and that’s what happened in this case. Only much later, when somebody at Universal told me about it, did I learn there was an earlier version.

Did you know of William Pinkard’s Paramount memo that described the novel as ‘impossible’ for film adaptation?

Not at the time, but he was right. The novel opens with Norman having a dialogue with his ‘mother’, and there’s no way to shoot that unless you want to show that he’s talking to a corpse. So the novel couldn’t have been adapted as it was, not without major changes.

Did you ever look into the real life case of Edward Gein which, in outline, was far more shocking than either the novel or the eventual movie?

At the time I wrote Psycho, I didn’t know there was such a person. I didn’t find out until a couple of years later when William Friedkin told me about it. He had collected all kinds of information about the real case, and he took me into his office at Universal and showed me. I had no idea that Bloch had loosely based his novel on a real person.

What did you think of the odd structural challenges of the story, particularly the peculiarity you mentioned earlier: the murder of the main character before the film’s half over, and the subsequent shift from Marion’s situation to Norman’s problems?

When I first read the book, I didn’t have any definite thoughts about how to deal with this. All I knew is that by page three or so, it was clear to me that I couldn’t start the movie like the novel. Then on my way over to meet Hitchcock, the idea of making it into a movie about Marion Crane came to me, so I pitched it that way to Hitchcock, and I think that he instantly appreciated that I was solving the big problem with the book. I believe that every audience wants to grab onto somebody almost from the first frame; they want to care about someone. In this film, it was going to be this young woman who steals the $60,000 and then is killed unexpectedly. That was the shocker. My hope was that in the scene between Marion and Norman in the back parlor at the motel everything would be set up right for the audience to deal with the loss. During the parlor scene, when Marion learns about Norman’s life, she gets a renewed perspective on herself. She sees this pathetic guy who’s stuck in something he can’t get out of, and she realizes that she’s also in a similar situation. But she remains sympathetic to Norman, and the audience needs to feel the same way. The scene has to properly prepare the audience to like this pathetic guy because they’re going to lose Marion very soon and unexpectedly.

In the real world, murders happen all the time, and nobody seems to give much of a damn about the victim, and that’s why I felt it was important for the audience to like Marion and sympathize with her before she dies. Then, in the middle of the shock of her death, the audience needs to shift its sympathies to Norman who, we believe, knows that his mother committed the murder. What a horrendous situation for a young man to be in! So the audience, which already kind of likes him from the scene in the parlor – for his shyness and so on – is hopefully prepared to shift its loyalties to Norman. And it worked. If the audience could have gotten on screen and helped Norman get rid of the body, they would have done so. When the car stops sinking in the bog, there was often an audible gasp in the audience because they didn’t want him to get caught. I think that’s the most magical moment in the movie for Tony Perkins as an actor because of the way he stood there and chewed on that candy corn waiting for the car to go down. It was terrific. You just knew there were a lot of other cars down there!

You developed a great deal of personal sympathy for Marion as a woman motivated by love who finally realizes that she can’t buy happiness, especially with stolen money. Did you feel, as Janet Leigh did, that Marion loved Sam more than he loved her?

Janet Leigh thought that?


Well, that’s right. I wanted it clear that Sam loves to come down to Phoenix and see Marion and have sex with her. But he doesn’t seem to think that anything more than that is absolutely necessary. This was not such a strange thought for a man, even in 1959: ‘Shouldn’t we both be happy? We’re having sex after all’. But I don’t feel that Marion stole the money just for Sam; I think she felt she was in a desperate situation, and her sense of morality was giving her ulcers. She didn’t think she could go on shacking up anymore – having sex on her lunch hour in sleazy hotels where the people didn’t care about her when she checked in, but they wanted her to check out on time. Marion felt disposable and demeaned, and when the chance came, she tried to do something about it.

In the Truffaut interview, Hitchcock described the first part of the movie as a ‘red herring’ as a way of distracting the audience’s ‘attention in order to heighten the murder’. He found the film a ‘very interesting construction’ and felt that the ‘game with the audience was fascinating’. Did he really approach the film in that way?

Well, that’s certainly true in the sense that Hitchcock felt that everything one does is a game. And he also loved theatricality. He always wanted to stimulate his audiences, and he clearly liked cinematic tricks as so many of his films have shown. He especially liked Vertigo because there was a great trick in it, yet, at the same time, I don’t think that he was unaware of the psychological or emotional aspects of whatever he was filming. But with a number of his films before Psycho, like To Catch a Thief, for example, there’s not much characterization involved, with the astounding exception of Vertigo. He’d gotten into what I call his ‘marshmallow Technicolor’ period in which the characters acted just like the movie stars portraying them. They were big, lush movies – a pleasure to watch – and you could sense the good time they all had making them, but there wasn’t much depth. Then just before Psycho, with North by Northwest, Hitchcock got back to his strengths again. He put a man in such a harrowing situation that it would make you scream if you were in it, and then made the man work through it somehow. In a way, this is what Marion was also trying to do. She was trying to work through this awful situation she was in, but she just happened to end up in the wrong place at the wrong time. So Psycho had both the Hitchcock tricks as well as the depth of some of his earlier films.

One of the many themes in ‘Psycho’ is voyeurism, most clearly portrayed by Norman’s looking through his peephole as Marion undresses for the shower. Many critics feel that the film is not only an indictment of voyeurism in general, but a specific indictment of the voyeurism of movie viewers what Hitchcock called ‘Peeping Tom audiences’. The film seems to manipulate the viewer into rooting for a thief hoping she’ll escape from the policeman, for example and then shifts the viewer’s allegiance to the seemingly pathetic soul who covers up her murder going so far, as you’ve mentioned, to hope that the car with Marion’s corpse will sink completely into the swamp. The film’s clever manipulation of audience identification seems to make the viewer unusually involved and even complicit in the main characters’ guilt. How do you feel about all this?

That’s true right up until the murder, but then the audience, amazingly, forgets completely about Marion. One reason that we’re so quick to nullify the victim is because we can’t stand the thought of the death and loss, so the best thing to do is turn our attention elsewhere. I became even more aware of this after the film was made, and I watched it with a general audience. Despite our previous concern for Marion, we don’t want to worry about her dead body, and we’re ready to move on. In a more general sense, I think a fundamental essence of watching films is voyeuristic because we intrude so deeply into the characters’ lives – while sitting in the dark. It’s not necessarily sexual, although it can be, but its power to involve us with the characters is incredible. The very first movie that I can recall seeing was Greta Garbo’s version of Anna Karenina where she dies at the end. As a child, I was horribly upset because I thought that Garbo had actually died, so my mother had to explain that she was just pretending to die. That helped a lot, but I was still greatly affected. The intimate situations that we watch movie characters deal with are utterly personal, and the more personal, the more successful the film. Hitchcock clearly understood this basis aspect of film, and he knew how to exploit it.

In adapting the novel, you made quite a few significant changes beginning the film in Phoenix, eliminating Norman’s interest in the occult, showing the shower murder in detail, substituting the telling piece of ripped paper for an earring, having ‘Mother’ confront the insurance detective at the top of the stairs rather than at the front door, and so on. I’d like to ask you about a few others. One was using the voice overs to let the audience know what Marion was thinking as she was driving away from Phoenix.

One day, when we were talking about the film, I said to Hitch, ‘It’s a shame that we don’t have time to show what’s happened back in Phoenix’, and he said, ‘Yes, it would really be something to show how they’re all reacting back in the city’. So I thought, what if we did it – what if I wrote those scenes as Marion might have imagined them. This was especially enjoyable because Marion could give her own characterizations of the people she left behind – like the wealthy guy who made a pass at her who she now imagines is saying that he’ll get his revenge on ‘her fine soft flesh’, and so on. Of course, it’s something we all do. We leave a party, and we wonder what they’re saying about us now that we’re gone – a kind of fantasizing. So I wrote up those scenes, then cut down the dialogue, and then we used them as voice-overs. For Psycho, as I always do, I wrote many scenes which didn’t appear in the final screenplay, and, in this case, they turned out to be especially useful.

In the later parts of the novel, there’s clearly a romance blossoming between Marion’s lover, Sam, and her sister, Lila, but it’s not really there in the movie?

Yes, I felt that would be distracting, but I also didn’t want to do that to Marion. I didn’t want to show Sam meeting with her, loving her on whatever level he loved her, having sex with her, and then, as soon as she’s killed, just turning around and saying, ‘I wonder if there are any more like her at home?’ I felt it was too cheap and crappy, and I always appreciated the fact that neither Vera Miles nor John Gavin ever gave any indication of a romantic attraction in their performances. Even though it wasn’t actually in the script, actors could still project it anyway – with a look or gesture. But Vera and John didn’t, and I was very grateful. Ironically, the only scene that Hitch cut from the screenplay was a three-minute scene in one of the motel rooms between the sister and the lover where they finally realize that Marion’s really dead. They’ve both lost somebody very important in their lives, and it’s a moving scene, but Hitch felt that it slowed the narrative down too much for the audience. I don’t think he would cut that scene today.

At the very end of the movie, the psychiatrist attempts to explain Norman’s condition, whereas in the novel, Sam and Lila speculate on Norman’s problems.

Yes, I didn’t feel that they would know enough to explain things properly. Not only weren’t they aware of many things, but where would they get all the technical information? On the other hand, I felt it was absolutely necessary to have things explained to the audience. I never believed the film should end with Norman weeping in the cellar, and the audience going, ‘Oh, it’s Norman!’ Then blackout, ‘The End’. The audience, I believe, would feel cheated and unresolved, so I had the film shift quickly to the authorities. I also didn’t want Sam and Lila driving off in his truck and talking things over because I wanted to keep the audience within the world of the crimes, and the subsequent legalities as well, in order to help them resolve their feelings.

But that scene, as you know, is probably the most criticized aspect of a movie that’s generally considered an overall masterpiece. How do you feel about that now?

My own opinion is that the problem with the scene is the way it was performed by the very actor that I recommended for the part! Simon Oakland orated the scene which wasn’t at all how I’d envisioned the psychiatrist explaining things. My feeling was that the police had already given this doctor all the facts, and that he’d talked to Norman, and that he’d put it all together. But Simon did stuff that was a little too broad for the role, and Hitch was always afraid that the scene was what he called a ‘hat grabber’. But I disagreed. No one was going to grab his hat. Everyone wanted to know what happened. It just needed to be performed a bit more naturally.

I read somewhere that Hitchcock required only one sequence rewritten from your original screenplay and that was making the highway cop less flirtatious and more threatening?

Yes, I originally had him as a sort of charming guy who was coming on to Marion. Hitch originally liked the idea, but then he felt it wasn’t right for this particular movie because he needed the cop to be more threatening. And he was right because we needed the audience to feel frightened that the cop would pull Marion in and catch her with the stolen money. The irony, of course, is that later you realize that you were frightened about something that would have saved her life.

One of the great peculiarities of the script is that Marion goes through with the car transfer even though she knows the policeman is watching her. The English critic Robin Wood suggests the reason is that Marion, in her theft of the $60,000, has lost control of herself that she’s gone a ‘little mad’ as Norman puts it later. Is that correct?

Absolutely. I also used it as a way to show that, at this point at least, absolutely nothing can stop Marion from proceeding with things. If she can’t stop the transaction of the car when a cop is watching her, then she clearly doesn’t have the sense to get into her car and drive back to Phoenix. At that point in her flight, Marion should have turned around, gone home, and deposited the money where it was supposed to be. But she can’t. She’s lost control. She can only dig herself in deeper and deeper.

After her talk with Norman about the ‘traps’ that human beings get caught in, Marion finally decides to undo what she’s done, drive back to Phoenix, and return the stolen money. Then she goes to her motel room and symbolically washes away her guilt in the purifying, baptismal waters of the shower. In the Truffaut interview, the French director asked Hitchcock, ‘What was it that attracted you to the novel?’ and Hitchcock replied, ‘I think that the thing that appealed to me and made me decide to do the picture was the suddenness of the murder in the shower, coming, as it were, out of the blue. That was about all’. But there’s very little detail about the shower murder in the novel.

That’s right, there’s just a few lines at the end of the third chapter. Mary, the Marion character, is in the shower, the door opens, a butcher knife appears, and it cuts off her head. That last part was especially appalling and unbelievable – the murderer cutting off her head. If Bloch had said, ‘stabbed her and stabbed her and stabbed her’, I would have been sickened enough by it, but to cut off her head was way too much, not to mention unlikely, since I’m sure it isn’t very easy to cut off someone’s head with a single blow.

The shower scene is one of the most famous scenes in motion picture history, and it’s probably been analyzed more times than the famous ‘Odessa Steps’ sequence from Battleship Potemkin. On the set, Hitchcock broke from his fast paced, low budget schedule, and spent seven full days shooting this single scene, using over seventy camera setups for forty five seconds on the screen. Were you aware, while you were writing the script, of the attention that would be paid to this one scene by the director?

Naturally, I knew that it was a crucial scene in the movie, but I also knew that there was no way that I could actually write out in the screenplay everything that we wanted to show on the screen. So Hitchcock and I, despite his usual reticence about discussing the picture, talked about the shower scene at great length, especially the absolute terror of being naked and wet when you’re suddenly attacked, completely helpless, and unable to defend yourself. Nevertheless, despite all our discussions, when I actually watched the scene being shot I was amazed that Hitch was doing so many setups. The original shooting schedule gave no indication of a seven-day shoot, and everything had been carefully arranged by Hitchcock to make it look like a single afternoon of filming. Naturally, there was a great deal of secrecy surrounding the scene, and Hitch didn’t want anybody to know a damn thing about it – or the rest of the movie for that matter. Very early on, he’d told me point blank that he didn’t want me to discuss the picture with anyone. Not exactly in those words, but his meaning was clear. So when people would say, ‘I hear you’re writing a movie for Hitchcock?’ I’d have to say, ‘Well, it’s not really settled yet’, or something evasive like that.

Since you were on the set almost every day of shooting, I wonder if you could resolve a few long standing questions about that famous scene? For example, did Saul Bass, who did the storyboards for the scene, actually direct any of it?

I truly don’t understand that bizarre story. In all honestly, Saul Bass’s claim that he directed the shower scene is the most shocking thing I’ve ever heard about the making of Psycho. We all knew, of course, that he’d been assigned to design the storyboards, which he did and did well. So maybe in some peculiar way, he came to believe that by doing the storyboards, he’d somehow ‘directed’ the scene, which is, of course, nonsense. I was there every day for seven days, and Hitchcock directed every shot. Ironically, one of my favorite memories of the making of the film is Hitch standing next to the shower calmly directing the naked model that he’d brought in so Janet Leigh wouldn’t have to perform in the nude.

Were any shots of the body double, Marli Renfro, used in the final cut?

I’m not sure. I don’t think that there’s anything shown in the scene that couldn’t have been Janet Leigh. It seems to me that we were on Janet’s face and shoulders most of the time in the scene, so I’m not quite sure where the model is – if she’s there at all.

Does the knife actually touch the flesh? Hitchcock told Truffaut and many others that ‘the knife never touched the body’, but Donald Spoto, in ‘The Darker Side of Genius: The Life of Alfred Hitchcock’, claims that one of Hitchcock’s two important additions to the Bass layout was ‘the quick shot of the knife entering the woman’s abdomen’. The film itself seems to bear out Spoto’s contention.

I don’t know, but I never saw that kind of special effect shot being done on the set. I know there’s definitely a shot in the film where it looks like the knife touches and penetrates, but I’m not sure. I don’t think Hitch would have been satisfied with a retractable knife or a fake torso. He certainly wasn’t shy about artificial things, but I don’t think he would have done it for this particular scene.

Despite the unforgettable horror of Marion’s murder and some critics’ musings about its abject meaninglessness, the scene seems to have two important meanings for someone with Hitchcock’s Jesuit training. One is that Marion has been punished for her crime in the very way that she imagined earlier in the car with her ‘fine soft flesh’. Second, and more important, is that Marion dies repentant of her crime and seemingly purified which makes her even more sympathetic to the audience and heightens her terrible tragedy. How do you feel about that?

Yes, that’s true. During her talk with Norman in the parlor, Marion realizes how trapped the young man is, and she decides to escape her own predicament, and I think that’s why the audience cares so much about her. At the time I wrote the screenplay, I was very upset by all the supposedly ‘meaningless’ murders that were happening in our society, and I couldn’t bring myself to see how any murder of a human being could be meaningless. As for Hitchcock’s attitudes, I must admit that I’ve never really thought about it before, but Hitchcock and I definitely came from similar religious backgrounds. I was raised a Catholic, and although I’d left the faith, so to speak, we both had a similar moral sense, and, for both of us, it seemed much more terrible – and affecting – for someone to be killed after she’s finally gotten back on the right track and washed herself clean.

I wonder if we could also talk about the other classic scene of terror in the movie: the death of the detective?

Hitch and I had quite a few long talks about that scene too, since it’s so crucial that the audience continues to believe that ‘mother’ is mother. In the novel, ‘mother’ comes down the stairs and kills the detective at the front door. So I suggested that we reverse things and follow Marty Balsam up the stairs and then keep the camera rising up to a high crane shot before ‘mother’ comes out at the top of the stairs. Then things would happen so fast that the audience would think that they’d actually seen the old woman as she stabs the detective and knock him down the stairs. And Hitch liked the idea very much, and he felt that it would work, but he was worried because it would cost him about $25,000 to build the crane into the set. In the end, he finally decided to do it, and the scene was very successful. Many people who saw the finished picture were absolutely convinced that they’d seen Norman’s mother in the scene, but, of course, they only saw the top of her head.

Along with these powerful moments of terror, the film is full of many themes and key images that delineate the characters for example, the notion of secrets (everyone has one), voyeurism, the stuffed birds, and the countless mirrors. Late in the film, when Lila is exploring Norman’s room, a number of specific details help define Norman’s character. One is a book with a blank cover which Lila opens up and stares at just before the film cuts away from her face. One critic has wondered if it’s a ‘family album’, but in the novel, it’s a book with ‘almost pathologically pornographic’ illustrations. Was this dropped in deference to the more sympathetic portrayal of Norman in the film, or was it just too hard to relay to the audience?

Well, I wanted the audience to see Norman as a suffocated young man who constantly seeks sexual stimulation, but I didn’t want it to come from pathological pornography – maybe just pictures of women in corsets or something like that. So it was definitely muted from the novel. Another detail in that same scene is the record of Beethoven’s Eroica, which Hitchcock got very excited about. He felt it was a very telling detail. There was, I can remember, a lot of tightrope walking in constructing that scene in screenplay format. I needed to quickly convey a few things about Norman that were further indications that something was quite wrong, but it couldn’t be spelled out or overdone.

After the film was edited by George Tomasini and scored with the masterful music of Bernard Herrmann, Hitchcock was apparently worried about ‘Psycho’s commercial possibilities and even considered cutting it down to an hour for his television show. Were you aware of this at the time?

No, I never heard him say anything like that. As a matter of fact, when he showed me the first rough cut, I was quite disturbed, and he patted my knee and said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s just a rough cut’. It looked terrible – like all rough cuts look – but this was only the second one I’d ever seen, and the editor had put in absolutely everything. There were tremendously long pauses, and all kinds of crap that was gone by the next time I saw it. When I did see the second cut, I knew it was a good movie, but a ‘good movie’ in the sense that Laura was a good movie: just one of those dark movies that it’s nice to have in your credits.

Despite some initial panning by a number of film reviewers, ‘Psycho’ proved to be an enormous success with audiences eventually turning an investment of $800,000 into over $20 million in profits. But in the wake of the film, many people felt that the career of the film’s star, Anthony Perkins, was greatly damaged by the inevitable stereotyping. Did this happen to you as well?

Absolutely, throughout the sixties and seventies, I was always being offered the ‘new’ Psycho, and I seldom had a chance to write other kinds of pictures. I guess the size of the reaction to that kind of movie is just too huge. It blocks out everything else. Then I also made my own mistake, if any of this can be called a mistake, by becoming a producer and writer for The Outer Limits not long after Psycho. That put the final nail in the coffin. I remember a few years later, I was able to write a movie for CBS called A Death of Innocence with Shelley Winters about a woman who discovers that her daughter, who’s been charged with murder, really is guilty. It was a deep, heartfelt kind of movie, and about two days after it was aired, I went to a meeting at CBS on some other matter, and everyone there was talking about the fact that the ratings for the movie were fantastic and that everybody thought it was wonderful picture. Then someone said something nice about the script, and I said, ‘Thank you’. But the man looked at me strangely, so I said that I’d written the screenplay, and he said, almost reflexively, ‘No, you didn’t’. It was quite a blow to realize that even when I’d done something completely different from Psycho – and very successfully – people still couldn’t accept it. I really didn’t know that people in the industry still had such narrow mind-sets. It was like the casting of the studio movies in the thirties and the forties – where the character actors always did the same thing in every picture. Well, that was how Hollywood continually stereotyped certain established screenwriters.

Aside from ‘Psycho’, you also wrote the original treatment for ‘Marnie’ when Grace Kelly was still involved in the project. But then Hitchcock did ‘The Birds’, and you began producing and writing the very popular television show ‘The Outer Limits’. Is that why you were unable to do the script for ‘Marnie’?

Yes, Hitch put it on the shelf when Kelly dropped out, and when he decided to use Tippi Hedren, he called me up, but I was in production on The Outer Limits, and there was no way I could get out of it. So Hitchcock went ahead with Jay Presson Allen, and I was very disappointed that she made some key changes from the book which I’m surprised Hitchcock went along with. His original fascination with that book was the triangle among the young woman who steals, her husband, and her psychiatrist. But Allen unfortunately decided to combine the two male characters into one. Nevertheless, I still like the film quite a bit.

In discussing Alfred Hitchcock for Janet Leigh’s 1995 book about the making of ‘Psycho’, you said of the director, ‘I don’t think he ever recovered from ‘Psycho’’. Why do you feel this way?

I think he felt that, in a strange way, he’d made a movie that trapped him inside his TV persona. I don’t know this to be a fact, but it’s just how I see it. Audiences loved him on the TV show, and they wanted more Psycho. So he decided to make The Birds, but I felt that the birds themselves were not a good enough killer. Since I still had a two-picture deal with Hitchcock, I turned down the assignment for The Birds, and he picked a novelist to do it. Marnie was the picture I wanted to write, but he had to postpone it after Grace Kelly backed out of it. He was very angry about that at the time. I never saw him so pissed off at anyone. He was very hurt, and that’s the worst kind of pissed off to be when you hurt, too.

What do you make of Hitchcock’s numerous remarks that ‘Psycho’ was made in ‘fun’. He said that ‘You have to remember that “Psycho” was made with quite a sense of amusement on my part. To me, it’s a fun picture. The process through which we take the audience, you see, [is] rather like taking them through the haunted house at the fairground’. What do you make of that? The humorous ‘Psycho’ trailer seems to reinforce the idea.

That trailer was written by the same guy who wrote all Hitchcock’s intros for the TV show. Hitch liked this persona so much because the public liked it, and it made him a star. The truth is, Hitch was not very well treated by the Hollywood establishment, even though he’d clearly found a niche for himself, so he greatly enjoyed the public’s adulation – and he wasn’t about to give it up. So he did the tongue-in-cheek trailer for Psycho, just liked he did with the TV productions. It was all part of Hitchcock trapping himself within his television persona, but the movie itself is another matter. He might have had fun making it, but he took it seriously.

Speaking of humor, is it true that Hitchcock received a letter from a man complaining that his daughter wouldn’t take a bath after seeing ‘Les Diaboliques’ and wouldn’t take a shower after seeing ‘Psycho’, so Hitchcock suggested that the man have his daughter ‘dry cleaned’?

I’ve heard the story! But I’m not sure if it’s true.

Does it sound like Hitchcock?

It definitely sounds like him, but I can’t picture him actually responding to the letter. But who knows?

Despite Hitchcock’s well known sense of humor, ‘Psycho’ clearly represents a significant shift in the vision of his films. It’s definitely a much darker vision where violence is shown in all its horror and where sexuality is implied in an unprecedented manner. There have been many theories as to why this happened when it did some critics have even suggested that it was the result of his difficulties with some of his leading ladies but you once suggested that it was really the result of the famous director’s struggle to deal with his own mortality. Could you discuss this?

Yes. The year before he made Psycho, both Hitch and his wife had been quite ill, and he’d had a very serious surgery and lost a lot of weight. At the time we were working on Psycho, he hardly looked like the Hitchcock that we’re all familiar with. It’s very possible that this affected his overall vision, but, at the same time, I’ve always felt that his primary motive for making Psycho was the desire to make a successful, low-budget movie in which he could share heavily in the profits. Despite all his success, Hitchcock had money problems, and he wanted to feel more financially secure.

Whatever Hitchcock’s motives, critics have compared ‘Psycho’ with the ‘Oresteia’, ‘Macbeth’, ‘Crime and Punishment’, and Conrad’s ‘The Heart of Darkness’. Richard Schickel has described the film as ‘one of the crucial cultural artifacts of this era,’ and Donald Spoto has called it ‘one of the great works of modern American art’. Why do you think that this low budget, unpretentious masterpiece of cinematic horror continually inspires such serious commentary?

I really don’t know. I think it might have been a case of timing. It might have appealed to the public so much because they felt that it was saying something no one else had articulated yet. Important pieces often become so because they say something that no one else has managed to express. With Psycho, it might have been a heightened sense of mortality, societal violence, and moral responsibility. It was very unsettling to an audience to see a film where the star – one they’d come to care for – suddenly is killed halfway through the picture. Just a few years after the film came out, Americans were astonished and horrified by the much-publicized death of Kitty Genovese in New York City where she was attacked, yelled out for help, and nobody did anything – even though many people heard her chilling, desperate cries. It was very upsetting, and it made everyone reconsider violence in our society and our responses to it. Maybe Psycho did something similar to audiences. Maybe it touched a nerve – and still does. I think the film aroused in the audience some of the guilt we would all later face when we heard about Kitty Genovese and wondered what we would have done if we’d heard her calls for help. Maybe Psycho makes us think about similar things, even subconsciously, ‘I heard the girl screaming for help, and I didn’t do anything. Then I saw him bury the car, and I didn’t do anything. And then I didn’t think about her very much anymore – even though she was a human being and one I cared for’. Maybe the public was ready for that in 1960. All I know is that people still feel compelled to talk to me about that film, especially Marion’s death in the shower. And not only do they talk about it, but they seem to need to talk about it. It’s necessary somehow, and maybe that’s what we’re all responding to.

– ‘Creative Screenwriting – Interview with Joseph Stefano’. (