#BBQueue

[stannisbaratheon]

- Maybe there's a way to make a profit in this. Bet on Logan. - I would, but who'd bet on you?

BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID 1969, dir. George Roy Hill

[bb-bare-bones]

Transformations in Re-Animator: Body Horror at its Finest

By Tabby Knight (Instagram - tabby.knight6)

Artwork by Dy Dawson, @xgardensinspace

I love Re-Animator. I’m in love with it. Seriously, disgustingly, violently in love with it. If I could marry a film, it’d be Re-Animator (and I’d be sure to court it first—flowers, chocolates, disembodied hearts floating in jars, the works). If I could marry a character in a film, it’d be Herbert West, which probably indicates—not that I needed an indication—that there’s something really very wrong with me as a human being.

But the heart wants what it wants, and ever since I watched Stuart Gordon’s 1985 splatter-fest as a bloodthirsty undergrad, streaming the film in low quality on my cracked, ageing iPhone, my heart has wanted Re-Animator. I love everything about the film, from its lead characters to its buckets of blood to its ridiculous, oh-so-quotable moments of barefaced comedy (“You’ll never get credit for my discovery. Who’s going to believe a talking head? Get a job in a sideshow.”) and I know just about everything about it, too. I’ve seen its sequels (Bride’s a messy triumph, we don’t speak about Beyond) watched interviews, deleted scenes, actor and director commentaries, the works. I’ve also tracked down just about every other horror film featuring the dynamic duo of Jeffrey Combs and Barbara Crampton, seeking something of the same calibre to scratch that gory itch. A few films have come close, but none so far have surpassed it. As a lifelong viewer of 80’s corn-syrup gore, I can assure you that Re-Animator is unmatched. It stands alone.

There’s a lot of talk about Re-Animator as a cult classic, and rightly so. There’s also talk about it as a comedy (true) a splatter film (also true) and a landmark of Lovecraftian canon (absolutely). But what I don’t see talked about as much, is that it’s a pretty impressive piece of transformation horror—verging on body horror, really—in the same vein as Jekyll and Hyde, The Fly, or American Werewolf in London.

At its core, Re-Animator is a film about uncontrollable, transforming bodies, both the obvious and the subtle. From its opening sequence (Doctor Gruber’s freaky, bulging eyes that explode right out of his head) to its final, blood-soaked showdown, the body is a constant site of change.

There is, first and foremost, the transformations brought about by Herbert West’s re-agent: the re-animation of the tranquil dead to aggressive, violent zombies. By that same token, the re-agent also transitions Dean Halsey from a rational human being into a creature who mindlessly kidnaps, restrains and strips his own daughter, and aids Doctor Hill’s transition from a creepy, unethical professor to an all-out, murderous sexual predator (albeit a decapitated one).

But there are also the subtle changes. Dan’s patients are always in motion, crossing over from life to death (it’s funny to think that in a film set primarily in a hospital, none of the patients on display actually make it out alive) and the bodies in the morgue are always shown in transitional states of rot and decay. Almost every shot of a body (or its parts) displays these changing states in full detail, a constant reminder of human fragility—our own lack of control over our own bodies, and the inevitable breakdown of the flesh.

But my favourite transformation—and perhaps the most criminally overlooked—doesn’t actually occur in the body at all. Or at least, not at first glance. It’s the transformation we see in All-American good guy Dan Cain: our squeaky-clean med student protagonist, and eventual accomplice to Herbert’s maniacal experiments. At the start of the film, Dan appears to have it all. Good career prospects, a super cute girlfriend (Megan Halsey, I’m in love with you) and what appears to be a fairly concrete spot on the Dean’s List: Dean Halsey even goes so far as to describe him as one of Miskatonic’s most promising students—no mean feat, considering he’s regularly bedding the ultra-conservative Dean’s only daughter. The only identifiable flaw in his apple pie life would appear to be his inner struggle with mortality. Not his own, you understand, but that of his patients. He refuses to accept that dead is emphatically, irrevocably dead. And of course, it’s this struggle that sets up the rest of the film.

Throughout Re-Animator’s speedy 90-minute runtime, we see Dan transition almost seamlessly from an upstanding member of society to a man who willingly injects a volatile substance into the corpse of his dead girlfriend, despite knowing full well what the consequences will be. In essence, he transforms from a regular guy into an all-out monster. Granted, he’s a monster with a conscience (we see that very clearly in Bride of Re-Animator) but arguably, so are your American Werewolves and Brundleflies.

In fact, you could argue Dan’s a little bit worse than most transformative monsters: Dan’s conscience, such as it is, always seems to disappear when faced with the prospect of his own self-interest. Despite all his prior reservations, his reluctance to revive Dean Halsey (until it suits him) his fury at Herbert’s murder and resurrection of Doctor Hill, all of it seems to dissipate in the face of Meg’s death. Then, suddenly, there’s no hesitation, no ethics. He barely hesitates in retrieving the reagent, measuring up the dose, or injecting Meg in the brain stem. His transformation—man to monster—is complete. And he didn’t even have to shed his skin to do it.

This is, in part, what I think is missing from the 1989 sequel, Bride of Re-Animator (aside from Stuart Gordon in the director’s chair). Bride’s a good movie, and I like it a lot, even if it does lag a little somewhere around the middle. But what really lets it down is the absence of that underlying transformative arc – we as an audience aren’t particularly unnerved by Dan’s second descent into medical madness, because it’s not exactly shocking or new. We’ve already seen the very worst he could do first time around, and anything Bride tries to offer us naturally falls short. A better direction for the sequel might have been a role reversal—maybe Herbert gains something of a conscience while Dan continues to lose his? But then of course, there’s the risk that Herbert might also lose some of the callous edge that makes him such an iconic anti-hero (and makes me love him so, so much). It’d be a fine line to walk, and interestingly some fanworks do a great job of it, but it’s never quite transferred to the realm of sequel film.

For me, it’ll always come back to that final shot—the plunge of the Re-agent filled syringe before Barbara Crampton’s iconic scream and the dramatic cut to black. There’s only one ending that comes close to scratching the same depraved itch in my strange little brain, and that’s the closing line in Stephen King’s Pet Semetary:

“…Darling.”

[transglennder]

Coolest Conga Line Ever

siphonophores will never not freak me out. stop doing that its SCARY but also please don't ever stop doing that you ethereal marine cryptid

[stannisbaratheon]

You came into this world together, and you go out of it together.

Bruce Greenwood as Roderick Usher and Mary McDonnell as Madeline Usher in THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER (2023)

[humblemooncat]

Wolgraha Week - Day 1, First Kiss

Enjoy your continuation of this. <3

It was what felt like an age and a half before Ki'to relaxed his grip on G'raha, pulling back ever so slightly to look at him.

"I was so afraid I'd lost you to the tower..."

"Ki'to... I understand, truly I do" he touched his forehead to Ki'to's, hoping to comfort him somewhat, "But I had faith that what we had created there would bring us back together"

"Thank Menphina's grace it did. I could not bear the thought of losing you" He nuzzled his forehead against G'raha's, his nose softly brushing against Raha's own.

G'raha let out a soft, shaky chuckle, "You will not be rid of me that easy..."

"Good" a barely audible whisper before his lips pressed against G'raha's. A kiss eagerly reciprocated as a hand wove itself through his hair.

[bb-bare-bones]

Beating a Dead Crop: A Children of the Corn Retrospective

By Tabby Knight (instagram - tabby.knight6)

Artwork by Dy Dawson @xgardensinspace

If you’ve seen all of the Children of the Corn films in the franchise (dear God) I’m both somewhat impressed and also vaguely concerned for your mental wellbeing. I counted a total of 12 entries in the series, including the 2020 reboot and the 1983 short film Disciples of the Crow. Not bad, considering Stephen King’s original short story clocks in at approximately 10,000 words, and ends with a degree of finality that doesn’t exactly invite a sequel.

For those unfamiliar with the source material, Children of the Corn was originally published in Penthouse Magazine in 1977 and later reprinted in King’s short story anthology, Night Shift (1978) and follows a young married couple who accidentally hit a child with their car while driving through rural Nebraska. Burt and Vicky, who are road tripping to California in a last-ditch attempt to save their marriage, decide to put the boy (dead) in the back of their car and drive to the nearest town, Gatlin, for help. The shock of hitting the boy has been abated, somewhat, by the fact that he was likely already dead when they went over him — his throat's been slit from ear to ear. They are a little disturbed, however, to find a crucifix made of corn husks in the boy’s suitcase.

They arrive in Gatlin only to find it deserted, and the only building showing any sign of recent activity is the church, which is defaced, trashed, and decorated with corn. Inside, Burt also finds a record of births and deaths, and manages to piece together the town’s dark history: some twelve years ago, all the adults in town were massacred, and the children appear to have created a corn-worshipping cult in their absence. Since then, every registered death in town has occurred on the victim’s nineteenth birthday.

By the story’s conclusion (Spoilers) Vicky’s been mutilated and crucified on a cross of corn, and Burt finds himself trapped in Gatlin’s cornfields, pursued — and ultimately consumed — by a mysterious entity that lives amongst the rows. It ends with the children, who are informed by their nine-year-old cult leader, Isaac, that He Who Walks Behind the Rows is displeased with their inability to dispatch Burt, and has lowered ‘the age of favour’ from nineteen to eighteen as a punishment. As a result, the town’s eighteen-year-old residents march into the corn to sacrifice themselves to their god. One of those dispatched, Malachi, leaves behind a pregnant girlfriend, who fantasises about setting fire to the corn in retribution. We end with a line that still sticks with me years after I first read it: “Dusk deepened into night. Around Gatlin the corn rustled and whispered secretly. It was well pleased.”

And there you have it. It’s not King’s best short story by any means, but it’s far from his worst, and it has its own grim, mystical charm that appealed to me as a teenager and still appeals to me now. The cult operating in Gatlin works primarily because of its elusiveness, and its ambiguity. We don’t see the children overthrow the town, we see very little of the entity that lurks in the corn, and there’s no flashy final showdown. There’s a tragedy to the children that fails to translate to the films, a quiet sort of helplessness emphasised by their final march into the cornrows. The conclusion feels inevitable – this is the way things are in Gatlin, and it’s horrendous, but it’s unstoppable. It just is.

To the best of my knowledge, none of the film adaptations manage to capture this same sense of quiet horror, the idea that those who commit such atrocious evil are themselves victim to a larger, far more powerful force that cannot be overthrown or disobeyed.

It’s a shame, then, that the very first film adaptation – a 1984 venture starring Linda Hamilton – dispatches this sense of ambiguity and dread entirely. Instead we are left with a standard, far less eerie narrative structure, in which Burt rescues Vicky, teams up with a couple of the less murderous children, and manages to set fire to the cornrows, ostensibly killing (at least temporarily – 5 sequels and several reboots, remember) He Who Walks Behind the Rows. Instead of the quiet despair of the short story, emphasised by the pregnant Ruth’s secret desire to see the corn burn, we get a final jump scare and a happy ending as Burt, Vicky, and the two kids they appear to have adopted set out for Seattle on foot.

There are merits to the first film, at least. John Franklin makes an iconic and genuinely menacing (if a little campy) villain out of Isaac, who outshines the elusive creature behind the rows as the primary antagonist. Courtney Gains makes for a memorable Malachai - morally grey and surprisingly likeable, far more fleshed out than his literary counterpart. The supporting cast of Gatlin kids are suitably freaky, at least until Sarah and Job are established as good kids, which diminishes the effect somewhat, especially when the short story did so well as to establish the children as equal parts good and bad, victims of a larger system as well as perpetrators of violence.

By creating a binary in which children like Sarah and Job are “all good,” while those such as Isaac and Rachel (the crazed adolescent responsible for that final scare) are “all bad,” we lose that sense of dread. Worse still, we lose the last remaining shred of realism in a film that has Burt pursued through the corn by a tunnelling monster right out of Tremors. As I said, we essentially lose the very point the source material is trying to convey.

That’s not to say it’s a wholly unlikeable film, of course, or that it’s universally hated by horror fans. Lots of people, myself included, look at the film with a great deal of fondness. But that doesn’t change the fact that it falls into that famed category of questionable Stephen King adaptations. It also doesn’t change the fact that it didn’t warrant a sequel, let alone five, and a string of ill-fated reboots with sequels of their own.

Horror movies and sequels go hand in hand, obviously, but unlike the other sequel machines of the 1980’s, the Children of the Corn franchise lacks the same fanatical following. When quizzed on franchises and their sequels, diehard horror fans tend to have very specific preferences. They have a favourite Nightmare on Elm Street, (Mine’s 3) a preferred Jason Vorhees (8-bit video game Jason, though I suspect I’m an outlier) and strong opinions on the superior Child’s Play film (It’s Bride). But with Children of the Corn, that level of diehard devotion appears to be lacking. I’ve met a lot of horror fans, and I’ve never had any of them tell me that Children of the Corn V: Fields of Terror, for example, is the best of the lot.

I don’t want to generalise, of course, because I’m sure someone out there is getting ready to contact me and tell me of their undying devotion to Urban Harvest. I only mean that as a collective, horror fans are incredibly tolerant of sequels, and often can discuss the merits of part six over part ten. A cursory glance at cinema attendance for the new Halloween and Scream sequels alone indicates a market for the same formula over and over again. I would argue, however, that Children of the Corn doesn’t necessarily fit into that category. With the possible exception of 666, which promises the return of the first film’s Isaac, none of the sequels on Wikipedia’s handy-dandy list either catch my eye or spark my memory, and I can’t be the only one.

The question, then, is why keep churning them out? Let’s not forget that this isn’t just a case of a one-off direct-to-video sequel, or even a trilogy. We’re talking about five direct sequels to the 1984 film, plus three maybe sequels (Revelation, Genesis, and Runaway) and two reboots (2009 and 2020/23).* The obvious answer is of course, money, but you can’t seriously tell me all these direct-to-video sequels are churning out bucketloads of profits. They’re certainly not churning out rave reviews, either from critics or audience members.

My best guess is that, like me, people continue to be drawn to and affected by the original source material, and want to create a film in that same vein. But if that’s the case, why the continual failure to accurately adapt that same source material? Why create a narrative in which He Who Walks Behind the Rows is easily dispatched by outsiders, when the real terror of the story (at least in my opinion) stems from His unrelenting hold over the children, even in the face of their growing resentment?

The 2020 adaptation, much like those that have come before it, has received mostly negative reviews, with an 11% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, a 22/100 on Metacritic, and a staggering 1.6/5-star rating on Letterboxd. While I haven’t seen it myself (yet – if I do, it’ll bring my total number of CotC films up to…3) what I can glean from Wikipedia, Bloody Disgusting, and Letterboxd is that once again, the film fails to either accurately adapt the source material or, at the very least, capture the same spirit of terror the original story managed to convey.

In a perfect world, such universally abysmal reviews would signal a long-overdue death for the franchise, and I’d like to say I’m optimistic enough to hope for its end. But this is horror we’re talking about, and we appear to be in an age of unrelenting sequels for all genres regardless. And worst of all, there’s a backlog of twelve films whose very existence leave me pessimistic and cynical.

Incidentally, if you’d like to catch a Children of the Corn film that kind of captures the spirit of the original, consider checking out the aforementioned 1983 short film Disciples of the Crow. It’s not a perfect adaptation (Burt and Vicky still manage to escape unscathed, god damnit) but it goes a long way towards establishing that eerie sense of mindless violence and inevitability I talked about. It’s campy as hell, of course, terribly acted and not exactly scary, but it is only 18 minutes and free to watch on YouTube, and not too bad for a student film. At the very least, Burt isn’t pursued by a tunnelling monster as he attempts to set fire to a cornfield.

*In light of the pandemic, the 2020 rendition of Children of the Corn didn’t receive either mass distribution or a theatrical release until 2023. Interestingly, it was apparently the first film since the 1984 adaptation to even receive a theatrical release. Go figure.

[transglennder]

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO RBS THIS SJDBDKDB my only regret is not using spellcheck. +1 Lollipop from Astarion. (Rare)

i urge you to please check out my other posts on palestine !!! esp mutual aid and educating yourself. i have resources queued for accessibility including this masterlist. if even half of you lovelies who liked or reblogged would read through and reblog resources - it would mean the world 🙏🍉

My anemic ass is NOT surviving Baldurs Gaye 3 😭🤣🤣🤣🩸🩸🩸🩸🧛‍♂️🧛‍♂️

[toscapringle]

You know those posts where people are like "mutual this" "mutual that"? I have no idea who my mutuals are and I'm afraid to look, I see them as reblogging from my blog on my dash but I'm like no! It's too good to be true!

[l-art-stuff-l]

maybe getting worse will fix me. have you ever thought about that

[unbridled-clownery]

i love scrolling through the notes on a post and seeing everyones queue tags

times queue roman, mmm bbqueue (this is one that made me cackle), a queue hope

[jhope-brainrot]

@raplinenthusiasts 🐯

what’s up, he’s a tiger!

[candiliam328]

not me filling my queue with a bunch of kurapika posts as if im hiding so well that he has now consumed all my waking thoughts

[lifeondevilshollow]

The true southern BBQ that has been making my hometown famous for over 50 years.

[stannisbaratheon]

Oh, my favorite girl.

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER (2023)

[humblemooncat]

#Auraugust - Day 6, Floral Fantasy ♪

I wanna do some self-indulgent Wolianger, but I ain't bringing out my 'buncle and re-posing this. So, have some Ori napping in the flowers & sunshine before her favorite astrologist comes to scoop her up and bring her inside.

[bb-bare-bones]

How We Make Our Psychos: A Psycho Retrospective

By Rebecca Smith

Artwork by Dy Dawson @xgardensinspace

Psycho. For a great many people, that single word is enough to conjure up Bernard Herrmann’s iconic screech of violins and Janet Leigh’s screaming face as a knife arcs towards her in the shower. Whether or not a person has actually seen Alfred Hitchcock’s 1960 psychological thriller won’t spare them – in the more than six decades since its release, Psycho has become a cultural touchstone for America and the horror genre. The pivotal spoilers Hitchcock went to much effort to conceal – if you didn’t know, the conventions of cinemas having start times and no late admissions policies are thanks to Psycho – are now so well entrenched in our collective cultural psyche that I wouldn’t be surprised if newborns’ shrieks these days are actually baby speak for “IT WAS NORMAN!!”

It's perhaps unsurprising that Hitchcock’s Psycho, which was named the greatest movie ever made by Variety in December 2022, is not exactly unexplored territory when it comes to analyses. Whilst the legendary shower scene is one of the most famous movie scenes in history, virtually every shot of this suspenseful masterpiece is familiar to us and, as such, has had interpretation after interpretation, and symbolism after metaphor after allegory, applied to and teased out of it. Fortunately, I’ve still been allowed to write something about Psycho anyway, so do indulge me and read on.

At its twisted roots, Psycho poses the question of how well we truly know other people, and this unsettling thought is where its lasting horror derives from. Lila Crane, Sam Loomis, and Mr Lowrey are all shocked to discover Marion Crane has run off with $40,000 because this isn’t the Marion they thought they knew; likewise, the entirety of Fairvale are shocked to discover Norman Bates has been murdering people while dressed as his mother – who he also murdered – and for years has been looking after her preserved corpse as if she was still alive. This isn’t the Norman they thought they knew, either. As the audience, we’re positioned to be shocked by this reveal about Norman too, as we’ve been encouraged to feel sorry for him as the dutiful, unworldly son of a cruel and possessive mother. Instead, we discover the brutal violence in Psycho is a part of Norman and we were just taken in by Anthony Perkins’ innocent smile – which, of course, was one of the many reasons he was chosen for the role.

In the real world, the people of Plainfield, Wisconsin, probably felt a similar shock in 1957 when it was uncovered that one of their locals had killed and mutilated two women and was living in a house full of stolen human body parts, many of which he’d morbidly fashioned into pieces of furniture. It is widely known that this unassuming local, Ed Gein, was a source of inspiration for Robert Bloch’s original 1959 Psycho novel, of which Hitchcock’s film is an adaptation. After the initial horror of Gein’s crimes, there remained the uncomfortable realisation that something like that could happen right under a community’s nose. A story not a million miles away from Psycho can, and did, happen somewhere it would be least expected to.

In a bold move for its era, then, Psycho explores why its killer kills. Psychoanalysis – the legacy of Sigmund Freud – was popular in America around the time of Psycho’s creation, and both Bloch and Hitchcock incorporated it into their respective works, most obviously through the character of Norman. As well as being one of the most recognisable poster boys for the Oedipus complex, which Bloch actually highlights Norman’s self-awareness of early in the novel, a significant portion of Norman’s dialogue in the Hitchcock film functions as Freudian slips about the horrible truth his unconscious is repressing. The inclusion of psychoanalytic elements in Psycho is an important component in making Norman a complex horror villain rather than one who kills for the sheer evilness of it. We could spend an entire essay debating exactly which mental illnesses Norman is supposed to be suffering from, and it is clear in retrospect that their depiction does not quite hold up to the reality in any case, but the fact that Norman is not well and has been spiralling for some time – while no excuse for murder – means we understand why he is where he is mentally and why he stays in his “private trap” rather than facing reality.

Of course, it is all very good understanding the psychology behind our so-called proto slasher, but Psycho hints towards the external as well as the internal factors that go into making a deranged killer. I am referring here to the place where Norman was allowed to fester: the fictional town of Fairvale, California. In its depiction of the small town, Psycho is critiquing the type of society and community attitude that unwittingly enables someone like Norman. American society in the 1950s was repressed – look what happened when Elvis wiggled onstage – and it is this repression that has disastrous consequences in Psycho.

It is Lila who summarises the issue with Fairvale in Bloch’s novel, in a disappointed observation about Sam: “He had that slow, cautious, conservative small-town outlook.” This outlook, exhibited by both Sam and Sheriff Chambers in their insistence on waiting and not bothering Norman, is perhaps best typified by Mrs Chambers in the Hitchcock film. When Lila and Sam learn Mrs Bates supposedly poisoned herself and her lover in a murder-suicide some ten years past, Mrs Chambers adds, “Norman found them dead together. In bed.” There is a disapproving emphasis on “in bed”, as if this is the most shameful aspect of the incident, which serves to highlight the still dominant conservative Christian outlook on sexuality and marriage prevalent at the time. This societal outlook on sexuality is shown throughout Psycho to be detrimental to its characters: at the beginning of the film, Marion is unhappy she and Sam are unmarried and must meet in hotel rooms for sex; and Norman, of course, has internalised disgust and guilt with his own sexuality to such an extent that, in a misogynistic twist, he projects that disgust and guilt on to any woman he finds attractive, allowing ‘Mother’ to surface and kill her.

In addition to this, Mrs Chambers has two other lines that provide insight into the community Norman grew up in. She mentions she helped Norman choose the dress his mother was buried in, remembering that it was “periwinkle blue”. Then, a few scenes later, she invites Lila and Sam for a meal to make reporting Marion’s disappearance and theft “nicer” for them. Both of these are kind acts, but are they inordinately helpful ones? Neither of these gestures would have illuminated what Norman had done; they were more like putting plasters over gaping wounds. This, it seems, is the Fairvale way: don’t ask, don’t know.

It is true that this effective silence around difficult or taboo subjects was a society-wide issue, but I think we can assume Fairvale, as a small town, was supposed to have its own distinct, concentrated flavour of it. If most people knew of the Bates family who lived like there was nobody else in the world, did no one ever think to query why that was? Did anyone know what Norma Bates was like? Didn’t anybody notice that Norman had lived in near isolation all his life, and wonder what effect that might have on a person? The answers are clearly no, because that was the Bates family’s business. The warning signs were therefore missed or ignored. At this time, and in this kind of place, the structural forces simply didn’t exist to avert crises of mental health, or abuse, or violence before they escalated. Psycho is pointing out the dark side of contemporary, as it then was, American society. The sort of situation that led to Gein. The story of Norman Bates is in part a warning about how pretending something isn’t happening and being unwilling to face reality – and that’s literal reality, in Norman’s case – only causes more harm in the long-term. And, once again, these external factors also do not excuse Norman’s murders. However, they do help explain how he was able to get away with them, unsuspected, for so long.

            This is not to say there is one single set of circumstances which would enable the story of Psycho to play out in some way. The whole point of Psycho is that it could happen next door, to anyone, because we might not know someone as completely as we think we do. The story could only critique the world it found itself in at that moment, but the passage of time prompts the question: could Norman Bates exist today? After all, not only have taboos around sexuality and mental health weakened considerably in a general sense over the last six decades, but there have also been huge advancements in the technology used to catch criminals. Giving your bloody crime scene a quick wipe down with some water and a mop might not cut it now. The internet too is encroaching further and further on our lives. It is fast becoming impossible to exist without at least a small online presence – and once you have an online presence, there is something about you there for people to pry into.

Then again, while the internet can be a tool to help people in bad situations, we all know what a double-edged sword it is. Never mind the overtly dark corners of the web, someone as well-established in presenting a false state of affairs to the world as Norman is would surely excel in doing the same thing in the supposedly safer online places. In fact, doing it online would be child’s play in comparison to real life. And, inescapably, security cameras would be a modern-day Norman’s scopophilic dream, there is no denying that. There are also still parts of society that cling harder to the values and social etiquette of the past. Who is to say Fairvale would have kept to the average rate of progress?

            Thus, the exact circumstances Psycho painted as aiding Norman’s murders in a small 1950s town might well have been altered in some way in the years since Hitchcock’s untouchable film first hit cinema screens, but the central fear in Psycho about how well we truly know other people remains. In Psycho, the two key characters of Norman and Marion, so often compared as two sides of the same coin, are being dishonest with those around them. Norman is even being dishonest with himself. Today, in our world of chronic oversharing, I’d wager there are still very few people who would – or even could – reveal every part of themselves to other people. Should that really be an aim for anyone? I would argue no, definitely not.

The inevitable consequence of personal privacy is that, in our imperfect world containing messed up people who sometimes do terrible things, there will be a few Normans. Likewise, not everyone can be the Lila who exposes and stops them. We can only exist inside our own heads; we can’t ever truly know the entirety of another person. In the end, the perversion of the familiar, of the people we tell ourselves we know – such as Norman – and the places we think are safe – such as our showers – is what continues to frighten and unnerve us in Psycho.

And Norman’s creepy smile at the end, of course; although that’s my favourite bit.