Psychosis, Neurosis, Perversion

Raymond Bellow
Barthes said to me the other day: basically,
when you give someone something to read, you
give it to your mother.
Philippe Sollers

I.

Psycho is undoubtedly the most obscure of Hitchcock’s films. Obscure,

first of all, in a literal sense, because in none of his other films does night
seem so black and day so somber. There is, of course, The Wrong Man:
exactly like Psycho (inscribed between the colorful symphonies of
North by Northwest and The Birds), it left a trail of shadow, three years
earlier, between The Man Who Knew Too Much and Vertigo. The two
films do have in common a kind of nocturnal excellence which penne-
ates the gestures, faces and image tones: Hitchcock sought, in one case,
to endow them with documentary value, and entrusted them, in the
other case, to a television cameraman. However, this material obscu-
rity-fuller and duller in the realism of The Wrong Man-seemed
eventually to dissolve away, or at least be balanced out by the ex-
emplary linearity of the screenplay and by the ultimate resolution of the
error, restoring to Christopher Balestrero the certainty of his identity,
and to his wife the hope of a fragile mental balance. In Psycho, on the
contrary, to the extent that a surrender to the codificationsof romanti-
cism and horror is always possible, the role of shadow grows inces-
santly, according to the interplay of ordering and disruption that guides
the film from its beginning to its end.
The principle of classical film is well known: the end must reply to
the beginning; between one and the other something must be set in
order; the last scene frequently recalls the first and constitutes its
resolution. Psycho’s opaqueness is contradictory in this respect: the
end, apparently, in no way replies to the beginning: the psychiatrist’s
commentary on the case of Norman Bates has little to do with the love
scene between Marion and Sam in the Phoenix hotel. The specific
obscurity of Psycho is thus, above all, a rhetorical obscurity. It denotes
the fact that the film, in a sense, contravenes the classical model of
-Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock, 1959)
106 narrative-as well as that more singular model which is both an eccen-
tric and exemplary version of it: the Hitchcockian system. Obviously, it
does so not in order to elude the system, but rather-through a greater
degree of abstraction-to determine its regime(s): the system here
performs displacements with respect to itself, designating with extreme
clarity the mechanisms that govern its operation.

11.
The first sign of this is the radical displacement of the investigation.
In the Hitchcockian fable, investigations conform to two major modali-
ties, complementary and interchangeable, in which the relationships of
identification are established by the position of knowledge that Hitch-
cock reserves for himself (and thus for the spectator as well), as opposed
to the various subjects (supports) of the fiction. The inquiry represents,
first of all, an ideal testing-ground for the hero (or the heroine as
mirror-image, or the couple-as-subject), who, constrained by chance
and necessity, learns to acknowledge a certain truth about his own
desire after a dramaturgy of violence based on the search for the secret.
To achieve this the riddle must be solved, and the mistaken identity in
which it was cloaked revealed; these two questions may then be traced
back to their common origin, resulting in a final equilibrium between
desire and the law. This renders possible, through the inclusion-exclu-
sion process of the terms of the destructive drive, the ultimate integra-
tion (whether successful or not) of the imaginary into the symbolic by
means of a general dovetailing of the textual operations. Such is the
exemplary itinerary of North by Northwest, but the same model is used
in The Thirty-nine Steps, Saboteur, Foreign Correspondent, To Catch a
Thief, and, in a slightly different form, in Strangers on a Train and Rear
Window. In Notorious, by displacement, it is the hero, the man of the
couple, who is the secret agent invested with the knowledge and initia-
tive usually paradoxically divided up between the police and the false
culprit. In Spellbound, of the two characters which make up the couple,
it is the woman who leads the investigation of which the other is
the object. And in Shadow of a Doubt the investigation is led by both
the woman and the policeman, who eventually make up the final
couple. Thus, most of Hitchcock’s films can be seen as multiple varia-
tions o r distortions of this same basic model.
Conversely, the second modality consists of denying the hero (or
heroine or couple-subject access to the truth of the investigation: even
though they may share its diegetic benefits, they are dispossessed of this
knowledge by some external factor. Take, for example, Dial M for
Murder, in which neither the husband nor the wife lead the investiga-
tion of which both are the object; or Under Capricorn, whose highly 107
improbable plot follows the same model; or even I Confess, in which
the presumed culprit is, paradoxically, the only one who knows the
secret, but can say nothing. However, these narratives in which the hero
is deprived of the truth-seeking initiative are, in general, all the more
constrained by a uniform dynamic leading from the riddle to its solu-
tion (The Wrong Man, for example). In addition, they often depend,
very naturally, alongside the main couple, on a third important charac-
ter: in Under Capricorn,Charles Adare, the outsider and friend; in Dial
M for Murder, the Chief Inspector Hubbard, who unravels all the
elaborately tangled threads of the plot.
Psycho, however, apparently conforms to this second model, while
breaking the system apart at its very core. Neither of the two main
characters is invested as subject during the progression of the investiga-
tion; its indices of truth are divided up among Arbogast, the sheriff,
Sam, Lila and the psychiatrist. The former two, a private detective and a
policeman, share the partial and misleading truth that is so often
allotted them in Hitchcock’s films: Arbogast succeeds in tracing
Marion but gives credit to the fiction of the mother; the sheriff denies
this fiction without being able to account for its effects. Sam and Lila,
for their part, seem to fulfill-amidst the scattered functions of the
second model-a function proper to the first, that of the couple whose
action solves the riddle and opens the way to truth. This is actually due
to a displacement, since the solution brings about nothing that concerns
them directly (thus Sam and Lila merely mimic the diegetic couple,
marking out its absence). In addition-and as a result-their solution is
only a half-truth; it immediately requires the mediation of a superior
truth. This is provided by the third important character, here embodied
in the psychiatrist, with the significant difference that in this case he
intervenes, very deliberately, as deus ex machina, a stranger to the
action, strictly exterior to what is at stake. This is why the final
explanation has sometimes been considered a useless appendix, where-
as it is the ultimate result of the work of displacement that has taken
place throughout the film. Thus, from an original dispersion of truth
and its diegetic effects, a veritable split occurs between the materiality
and the awareness of experience: the division of the investigation
merely reproduces the central division organizing the film and deter-
mining, at all levels, its regime.

Psycho contains two narratives, slipping one under the other, one
into the other. This relationship must be conceptualized in order to
108 penetrate to a structural perversion to which Hitchcock opened the way
by deciding to “kill the star in the first third of the film.”There is, first
of all, the story of Marion. The opening scene in the hotel room calls
attention to the problematic: marriage; the ensuing theft produces its
dramatic effect. This is a weakened version both of Strangers on a Train
(as regards marriage, Marion and Sam occupying the place of Guy
Haines and Ann Morton, with the third person being a first wife, not yet
divorced in Strangers, already divorced in Psycho) and of Mamie (as
regards the theft). The story could have various outcomes along its own
axis: one of these, the meeting between Marion and Norman, has the
ambiguous function of ending the story in order to transform it. The
second story, that of Norman, might thus be said to begin when Marion
arrives at the motel and to continue, slightly altered (because of the
persistent pressure of the first story), to the end of the film. Such, indeed,
was the case in the novel by Robert Bloch used as a pretext for the film:
Hitchcock immediately broke up the overly-simple structure of the
book, and later justified this in a singularly underdetermined way.2

In fact, the first part of the story was a red herring. That was
deliberate, you see, to detract the viewer’s attention in order to height-
en the murder. We purposely made that beginning on the long side,
with the bit about the theft and her escape, in order to get the audience
absorbed with the question of whether she would or would not be
caught. Even that business about the forty thousand dollars was
milked to the very end so that the public might wonder what’s going to
happen to the money. . . .
The more we go into the details of the girl’s journey, the more the
audience becomes absorbed in her flight. That’s why so much is
made of the motorcycle cop and the change of cars. When Anthony
Perkins tells the girl of his life in the motel, and they exchange views,
you still play upon the girl’s problem. It seems as if she’s decided to go
back to Phoenix and give the money back, and it’s possible that the
public anticipates by thinking, “Ah, t h s young man is influencing her
to change her mind.’’ You turn the viewer in one direction and then in
another; you keep him as far as possible from what’s actually going to
happen.3

This statement focuses on what constitutes, properly speaking, the

center of the narrative, its moment of extreme fascination. However, it
denies the fact that, from this very moment onwards, the constitution of
the “first story” is supported by its inscription within the “second,”
both at the level of narrative identifications and at that of the logic of its
occurrences. Denied, too, is the subtle movement by which the narra-
tive both masks and accentuates the division constituting its paradoxi-
cal unity. The singular genius of the film consists of indissolubly mixing 109
together the two narratives that it is composed of by using the meeting
of the two characters as the means of their substitution.
Everything contributes to this.
1. The time allotted to the meeting, which by itself takes up, strictly
speaking, one-fifth of the film (more, in fact: a third, counting the rather
short sequence that leads Marion, caught in the storm, to the Bates
Motel, and the much longer sequence between the murder and the
disappearance of Marion’s car in the marsh).
2. The violence that concludes the meeting, which is so incredible
that it obfuscates its own secondary effect: namely, the determiningfact
of the passage, in a sense, from one character to the other.
3. A major rhetorical shift contributes to this displacement and
facilitates the reversal. Whereas the segmentation of the rest of the film
systematically employs, in a highly classical manner, the three criteria
of segmental demarcation,“ the scene of the meeting (in the extended
sense) is devoid of all punctuation: there is not a single fade-out be-
tween the moment Marion abruptly leaves the garage where she has
traded in her car and the moment her new car sinks into the marsh. This
does not mean that 35 minutes of the film make up a single segment;the
two other criteria of demarcation do intervene, although much less
distinctly than in most classical films. It is as though the sudden absence
of punctuation were responsible for creating the illusion of segmental
continuity, isolating the time of the meeting within the construction of a
whole in order to give it a greater fluidity and the logical evidence
necessary to carry out the substitutive shift.
4. Finally, “naturalness” acts like the musicality of a fiction, inte-
grating with misleading obviousness the elements of the first narrative
which contribute to the construction of the second.

Iv.
The perfection of the ternary composition both conceals and re-
veals the binary division between the narratives and the characters.
Three movements, reiterated to harmonize term-to-term in coupled
oppositions, reinforce the unfolding of the fiction and its organic co-
hesion by establishing a very stable hierarchy of repetition and differ-
ence. All three involve an itinerary leading to the motel, and all three
end in a murderous aggression punctuated by strident music. The first
takes Marion Crane from her room in Phoenix to the motel room,
where she is assassinated by “the mother”; the second takes Arbogast
from Sam’s store in Fairvale to the motel and then to Norman’s house,
where he in turn is assassinated by “the mother”; the third takes Sam
110 and Lila from Sam’s store to the motel and then to Norman’s house,
where Lila only escapes aggression by “the mother” thanks to the
intervention of Sam, who recognizes Norman through the disguise.
It is immediately clear, limiting the discussion at first to murder,
what movements 2 and 3,1 and 2 have in common, respectively and by
pairs: the aggression is a response, in the two latter cases, to an intru-
sion into the house, first by Arbogast, then by Sam and Lila (whereas
Marion’s assassination takes place at the motel); but-conversely-in
the first two cases the murder is accomplished, whereas its failure in the
third case lifts the veil of mystery and carries the film to its resolution.
Thus, with the benefit of an equivalence by pairs (1=2,2=3),the third
movement recalls the first, thus accentuating the repetitive circulation.
Nevertheless, on closer examination it can be seen that an intrusion
into the house is suggested during the first movement, though in unlike
manner, when Norman invites Marion to share his meal, provoking the
indignation of “the mother” and, eventually, the murder and every-
thing that ensues. Thus, by a regulated difference, the circularity of the
fiction is ensured-what might be called its narrative (dis)similarity. In
the same way, just as movements 1 and 3 are organized around the
repeated motif of the rooms rented first by Marion, then by Sam and
Lila, the second movement includes Norman’s very natural proposal of
his room to Arbogast (and later, failing that, his less natural proposal
that Arbogast come and help him change the beds).
Again, one could evoke the three scenes of shot-reverse shot,
identically distributed throughout the three movements, in the small
motel office (with Norman on one side of the counter, Marion, Arbo-
gast, Sam and Lila on the other, reflected in the mirror). However, in the
third case, there is a repetition: Sam is later seen alone with Norman in
the office (while Lila is on her way up to the house). Thus, the third
movement constantly doubles back on itself to emphasize, within the
regulated difference, the progression and accomplishment of the nar-
rative. It has been seen that movements 2 and 3 are defined by an
identical trajectory: from Sam’s store to the motel and then to the
house. However, in the third movement this trajectory is split in two by
the emergence of the mystery, which constitutes a turning-point.5
When Sam goes to the motel the first time to look for Arbogast, he sees
“the mother.’’ He undertakes the same visit with Lila in order to initiate
her fully into the secret; thus they follow, together, the whole itinerary
leading from their rented room to Marion’s, and then, separately, from
Norman’s office to the mother’s room, and from Norman’s boyhood
room to the cellar where his mother is concealed. The (dis)similarity
ensures the circular identity of the narrative by guaranteeing its unpre-
dictable advance toward a final result.
 Within this regulated succession, this elaborate interplay of iden- 111
tities, separations, intimations and revelations that correlatively ensure
the superimposition and interchangeability of the two narratives, the
second movement, much shorter than the first, has a specific transitive
value: following Marion’s disappearance, it emphasizes the role of
Norman, progressively establishing him as the new hero of the narra-
tive before making him the center of the mystery. The latter is accom-
plished by the third movement, for which Hitchcock cleverly reserves
the sheriff‘s revelation concerning the mother’s death-since, logically,
if Sam and Lila were only preoccupied with Marion’s fate and the stolen
money, the spectator could only expect, and dread, the solution of the
undoubtedly horrendous mystery hidden within Norman.

V.
This circular orchestration, by the very progression of its three
movements, has a secondary effect: it sets off all the more plainly the
segments bordering it on either side (the opening and closing scenes),
and, within these segments, rigorously heterogeneous and yet connec-
ted, the speech of the psychiatrist and the love scene in the Phoenix
hotel.
The speech of the psychiatrist, in the course of which those parts of
the mystery still remaining obscure are finally illuminated, is the logical
consequence of the radical exclusion of the first narrative. The speech
concerns Norman; it is a commentary and explanation of his case: it
says nothing about Marion, who has become the pure object of a
murderous desire, and even less about Sam, who can only listen, at
Lila’s side, to an analysis that excludes him from the diegesis of which he
too, through Marion, had been the subject.
This raises a series of questions. Why is this film about psychotic
dissociation organized with respect to an original plot which, while
supporting it to the point of appearing indispensable, nevertheless
remains, in a sense, totally foreign to it? In this highly classically
orchestrated film, whose three movements recall the hermeneutic tri-
partition of North by Northwest, how is the internal principle of
classical film satisfied-namely, that the end must always reply to the
beginning? In what way does the last scene provide a solution, or even
an echo, to the first? I think it is necessary, here, to conceive of
Hitchcock as pursuing, through fiction, an indirect reflection on the
inevitable relationship, in his art and in his society, between psychosis
and neurosis, inscribed respectively in narrative terms as murder and
theft. These are general instances, fictional rather than clinical, those of
a civilization in which a certain subject, who is both a singular subject
122 and the collective agent of enunciation, finds a way to structure his
phantasy and determine his symbolic regime. What appears from the
fact that the subject of neurosis is offered up in the logic of the narrative
to the violence of the subject of psychosis, man or woman, mutually
interchangeable throughout the course of the narrative, is the obscure
numinous point of a fiction which carries to a vertiginous degree of
duplication the fascinated reflection on the logic of desire.
This position is a familiar one within the twists and turns of
Hitchcock’s labyrinthian scenarios. It is already enunciated with in-
credible precision in Shadow of a Doubt by the doubling of uncle and
niece, manifested in the Christian name they share as well as in the
repeated motif of the bedrooms (the uncle’s hotel room and the niece’s
family room: both characters are revealed, lying in bed, by a single
movement of the camera, and, in a pure mirroreffect, there appears in
the first shot, from the left, the woman who runs the hotel, and in the
second, from the right, the young girl’s father; thus is prepared the
substitution that will later place the uncle in the niece’s room). On the
one hand, there is Charlie’s-the niece’s-profound, inexpressible dis-
satisfaction, the neurotic lack which she hopes will magically disappear
thanks to Uncle Charlie; on the other, there is the uncle’s psychotic
split, the return of his childhood trauma that is compulsively acted out
in the murder of widows, and that ultimately, due to the progression of
the inquiry, turns upon the young girl as the logical object of its deadly
desire. Thus, as in Psycho, woman, the subject of neurosis, becomes the
object of the psychosis of which man is the subject. This is a fundamen-
tal aspect of the Hitchcockian constant according to which, given a
certain order of desire, it is above all women that get killed.
This is not to say:
1. That women do not kill. But the murder they commit is always
the reverse side of the “psychotic” aggression of which they are the
object. It is thus that, in Shadow ofa Doubt, the uncle, in his struggle,
falls off the train from which he had tried to throw his niece; in
Blackmail the young woman kills the painter who had tried to rape her;
and in Dial M for Murder, the husband’s murderous desire having
replaced, as in so many of Hitchcock’s and other films, the psychosis he
conceals, the woman kills to defend herself from the assassin he has
hired. This is why, in a rigorously complementary manner, women
may-or must-seem in the position of symbolic murderers: thus, in
North by Northwest, Eve’s fictitious murder of Thornhill is woman’s
response to the murderous desire she awakens in man-if only meta-
phorically, as a sexual object.
2. That women cannot “manifest psychotic tendencies” (as can be
seen in The Wrong Man or in Under Capricorn). But that they do so
 only to the extent that the hero has suffered a loss of identity, and never 113
from the same demented object-desire as he. This is why women can
only tolerate madness in men if they can save them from it (Spellbound:
even at the cost of awakening their murderous desire; or, in a totally
different way, Rebecca). This modality may also be that of men
(Mamie),but it then involves only, so to speak, a semi-madness, and
this at the price of a fetishistic position that reinforces love and is
related, through scoptophilia, to murderous desire, of which it is the
mitigated, possessive form.
Vertigo constitutes, in all respects, a marvelously complex counter-
example. The woman is the object of an illusory psychosis; she is an
image of psychosis, turned toward death in a twofold manner, through
the image-painting of Carlotta Valdes. She awakens a passion in the
man: the desire to see, mesmerized by death; this is the moment when
Scottie tears Madeleine away from what fascinateshim. Later, after the
false-real death of Madeleine, the man wanders on the borderline of
madness (between neurosis and psychosis: narcissistic neurosis, mour-
ning and melancholia). Still later, when the false living woman reap-
pears, the desire to kill re-emerges: an image must be modeled so that
the “real” can at last be transferred onto it, thus accomplishing-with
the help of God if necessary (the appearance of the nun diegetically
motivating the second fall)-the subject’s desire, sublimated in the
scopic drive that transfixes the male subject.
3. Finally, this is not to say that men cannot be the subject of
neurosis. Such, indeed, is their most common lot. Neurosis is what
occurs when an encounter with the extraordinary, by way of the
inevitable ritual testing of murder-psychosis, determines for the hero
the resolution of the symbolic. There is always a “madman” who lulls
for the hero, turning the subject of neurosis into a false culprit, and thus
inciting him-through a displacement in which neurotic guilt is re-
solved in the reality of action-to rediscover a certain truth of his desire.
Here again, the itinerary of North by Northwest is exemplary.
So, in another manner, is that of Strangers on a Train, through the
meeting of the characters and the fiction of the exchanged murders. The
issue of marriage, or in this case remarriage (elsewhereit is the question
of stabilizing or restabilizing the couple: Suspicion, The Man Who
Knew Too Much) serves to sustain what can be called Guy’s ‘heuro-
sis”: the basic neurosis of American cinema. By a diabolical twist, this
issue-in the interests of its own resolution (the final marriage)-pro-
vides psychosis with its object. Because of the exchange of murders,
Miriam, Guy’s wife, comes to occupy the place of Bruno’s father, whom
Bruno has vainly appealed to Guy to murder. As a part of the phantasy
of the murder of the father, necessary to the symbolic resolution of
114 neurosis, Miriam thus embodies the complementary phantasy that
indicates, for Hitchcock, the psychotic’s access to the real: the murder
of a woman (and through her, of the too-well-loved mother; such films
as Shadow of a Doubt, Strangers on a Train and Frenzy are directly
connected around this motif).
These, then, are the terms that Psycho sets into play, frontally,
through a reversible effect of the articulation between the two psychic
structures, grasped in a doubling relationship carried by sexual differ-
ence. The criterion used here to associate and dissociate neurosis and
psychosis remains, overwhelmingly, the one used by Freud:6 both are
avatars of desire which bring about an unsettling of the subject’s
relationship to reality. But whereas in psychosis the Ego is at the service
of the Id and eludes what it finds intolerable in reality, in neurosis the
Ego is the stage of a conflict between the Id and the Superego, such that
the loss of reality “affects precisely that piece of reality as a result of
whose demands the instinctual repression ensued.’” This is Marion’s
situation in Psycho: the theft which draws her into this loss is her
response to the socio-sexual aggression on the part of the “millionaire”
in Cassidy’s office, of which she was, metaphorically, the object. But on
a much deeper level, it is her response to Sam’s aggression, of which she
feels herself to be the object, in the sordid clandestineness of the hotel
room, when the conflict between the intensity of her sexual demand and
her wish to have it legally sanctioned by marriage (continually post-
poned due to Sam’s financial position) comes to a head.8 This explains
the focus, just as later on in Mamie, on money, that polyvalent signifier
of desire (sexual or social) which also serves, even better than hysterical
conversion and perhaps with greater conformity to unconscious logic,
the logic of the f i c t i ~ nThis
. ~ is what Marion’s theft attempts to resolve,
magically, “by a sort of flight,” as Freud says of neurosis, dodging the
fragment of reality that psychosis, for its part, simply denies in order to
reconstruct a better reality.

VI.
The long segment during which Marion and Norman are face to
face in the small reception room of the motel thus places face to face,
fictitiously, two psychic structures: man and woman, the latter destined
to become the prey of the former. The mirror arrangement that or-
ganizes their dialogue in a regulated alternation of shot-reverse shots
ensures, between the two characters, the interchangeability necessary to
their future substitution. It is here that Norman’s family romance is
presented, in the deceptive form in which it has been restructured by his
desire, by the truth of his delirium,1° thus echoing the more disparate
 elements of Sam’s and Marion’s family romances, scattered throughout 115
their dialogue in the hotel room. Thus, the two mental forms are
brought together by similarity and exclusion: Marion grows aware of
her own derangement because of the much more absolute derangement
she senses in Norman. Their differential assimilation is concentrated in
a metaphor with endless ramifications. “Norman: You-you eat like a
bird.’’ The metaphor is no sooner spoken than it is denied. “Anyway, I
hear the expression ‘eats like a bird’-...it-it’s really a fals-fals-fals-
falsity. Because birds really eat a tremendous lot.”ll Marion has to be a
bird, in order to be constituted as a body potentially similar to that of
Norman’s mother, object of his desire, stuffed just like the birds who
survey their exchange. But Marion cannot really be a bird, because the
bird’s “psychotic” appetite has been reserved for Norman, as the body
transformed into the mother’s body (even if, by a remarkable reversal,
Norman eats nothing during the entire scene: “It’s all for you. I’m not
hungry.”).
The reception room scene is meticulously organized to lead up to
the murder scene. After an opening shot during which Norman appears
amidst the stuffed birds disposed about the room, there are four shots
showing Marion, standing, in alternation with the birds: the order of
these shots (bird a-Marion-bird &-Marion) denotes her feeling that
she is seen by the birds as much as she sees them, and that this disturbs
her. After a repetition of shot 1 (Norman standing), there is a shot
showing Norman and Marion together, seated on either side of a tray of
food prepared by Norman. Then a classical alternation is established,
dividing the shot between the two characters to distribute their dia-
logue. At the same time, a formal opposition emphasizes the fact that
Norman, in this second alternation, has come to occupy, with respect to
Marion, the place of the birds. In the various ways in which Norman is
framed, he is associated with the outstretched beaks and widespread
wings of one or several of the stuffed birds. Conversely, Marion is
defined successively in two framings: she is beneath an oval painting
whose theme was clearly visible during the second bird shot of the
preceding alternation. The painting distinctly shows a band of angels,
or, more precisely, a group of three women in which the central figure
seems to be rising up to heaven, wings outspread. Next to the painting,
in the same shot, the menacing shadow of a crow is projected onto the
wall, penetrating the picture like a knifeblade or a penis. It is this
complex whole that rivets Marion’s attention, then splits apart when
she takes her seat beneath the painting and becomes-through a
double, metaphorical-metonymical inflection-defined by it, just as
Norman is later emblematically defined by the birds. Thus the differen-
tial assimilation is continued: Marion, angel-woman-bird; Norman,
116 bird-fetish-murderer. And thus is prefigured, in the intertwined motifs
of alternation, the aggression of which she is soon to be the object
(announced, when she rises, half concealing the painting, by the black
beak of the crow that reappears inside the frame).
A few shots later, the alternation between Norman and Marion
recommences, this time through an apparatus that mimics the cinema-
tographic apparatus itself. Norman is concealed, significantly, by a
painting which prefigures the effect he is to produce: Suzanne and the
Elders, virtually at the moment of the rape. Beneath the painting is a
large hole that reveals, in the wall itself, the tiny luminous hole to which
Norman puts his eye, creating-just like the projector’s beam-an
image which is for us virtual and for him almost real: Marion undres-
sing, once again in the proximity of two birds, the portraits hanging on
the wail of her bedroom near the bathroom door. The alternation then
continues, obsessively marking the insert of the bulging eyeball, and
shifting from the relationship between shots to the relationship between
segments (or subsegments).
The next double series of shots, postponing voyeurism, intensifies
it to the extreme:
a) Norman, under the influence of what he has seen, goes back to
shut himself up in the house in order to imagine what will happen
next-or better yet, what will happen metaphorically for him, given the
premises that catalyze his desire.
b) Marion, in her room, soon gets into the shower: the spectator,
by this advance intrusion, is witness to the scene for which Norman’s
obsession has prepared the way.
The moment of the murder marks the invasion by the subject (hero
and spectator together) of the constituted image of his phantasy. Here,
alternation must be abandoned; it is ruptured by the brutal inscription
on the image of the living body-knife-bird of Norman-the mother, the
reiterated fragmentation of Marion’s body, the insert of her mouth
agape in a horrendous scream and that of the dead eye that answers-at
the opposite extreme of this very long fragment-the bulging eye of
Norman gven over to the inordinate desire of the scopic drive.

VII.
That only men are subjects of psychosis (or that women are psy-
chotic only by default, or by reflection) here implies, above all, some-
thing else: that only men are subjects of perversion (here and elsewhere,
gwen a certain regime of fiction, and a certain order of civilization).
It should be recalled that the manner in which psychosis and
perversion can both be defined-although not in the same way-is by
 their difference from neurosis, through their common allegiance to the 1 17
wishes of the Id: the former, as has been seen, by its indulgence in a form
of delirious reconstruction, through an infinitely more radical loss of
reality than in neurosis, implying a lesser subservience to repressive
mechanisms; the latter, in the sense of the famous formula: neurosis is
“the negative of perversion.” Though it must not be taken literally-as
its reversal (perversion is the negative of neurosis) would tend to define
perversion as nothing but the raw manifestation of infantile desire-
Freud’s formula does imply, however, that perversion provides a more
direct access to the object of the drive, according to its own defense
mechanisms (denialof reality, splittingof the Ego),which in some ways
link it to those of psychosis.12
More specifically, it can be seen how this twofold difference is
articulated here with respect to the inscription of the scopic drive and its
destiny. To go back to the beginning of the film: there is the first,
continuous shot during which the camera wanders down from a high-
angle over the rooftops of a city, progressively closing in on a window
with half-raised blinds, then going beneath these blinds to reveal, in a
bedroom, a couple that has just been making love. Thus, from the start,
emphasis is placed on the voyeuristic position, which deliberately con-
stitutes the position of en~nciati0n.l~ It is highly remarkable that this
opening shot, quite common in Hitchcock’s films (cf. Shadow of a
Doubt), is especially reminiscent of Rope, in which the first intermin-
able shot focuses-having passed through a similar windowhcreen-
on the cold fury of a murder.l4 In this interplay of forms based on an
endless interchangeability between murder and the sexual act (cf., for
example, the scene of the kiss in the train in North byN0rthtuest),lS it is
clearly the “unseen” of the primal scene in the hotel room which, at the
level of the enunciating instance itself (Hitchcock-thecamera), is dis-
placed from neurosis to psychosis, from the hotel room to the motel
room.
Thus, Norman obviously comes to occupy, with respect to
Marion, the place of Sam (whence the resemblance, for some striking,
between Sam and Norman, particularly during the scene of their con-
frontation across the counter in the motel office).16 However, the
substitution occurs at the price of a displacement, imputable to the
respective identifications between Hitchcock and the two male charac-
ters. In the first scene, the camera almost always remains at a distance
from Sam: he is held, like Marion, and usually with her, within the
frame, that is, within the neurotic field that the two of them circum-
scribe. An essentially diegetic identification is thus set up (for the male
spectator, who is primarily addressed),at the level of the sexual posses-
sion of which Marion has been the object, when Sam renews his
118 demand and hears it refused.
Conversely, in the shots preceding the shower scene, the camera
reduces to an extreme degree the unforseeable effect of the distance
separating it from what is being filmed: it virtually coincides with the
insert of Norman’s bulging eye, due to the metaphor of the apparatus
thus constituted. This is the point of maximal identification between
the character and the instance of the mise en scitne; it can only be
surpassed by its own excess, when the eye-camera becomes a body-
knife, entering the field of its object and attempting in vain to coincide
with it.
However, in order to go from one man to another, and from one
position to another, the camera must also embody the woman and
adopt her look, conserving a strong identification-diegetic, of course,
but more specifically specular, determined by the organization of the
point of view-with the subject it has taken as its object. (The latter can
be maintained in a position of fundamental subjection through a series
of carefully planned relays-the policemen, the service station atten-
dant-that reiterate the question of which she has been the object from
the start.) In conformity with its basic path, that of perverse structura-
tion, the transformation from neurosis to psychosis is brought about by
woman, who is both its foundation and its indispensable form.
This explains the lengthiness of the first half of the first movement,
organized around theft and escape. It also explains the systematic series
of shot-reverse shots which mark Marion’s itinerary up until the mo-
ment of blindness (a mixture of fatigue and hypnosis) that causes her to
turn off the wet highway and head for the motel. It explains, finally,
the resumption and redoubling of these shots as a preparation for the
moment of reversal, during the confrontation between Marion and
Norman. In this manner, the diegesis participates directly in the aggres-
sive potential, carried to an extreme by the reciprocity of the looks in
the alternation of shot-reverse shots. The effects of this cinemato-
graphic code par excellence evoke the structure of the cinematographic
apparatus, and thereby of the primitive apparatus it imitates, namely
the mirror wherein the subject structures himself, through a mode of
narcissistic identification of which aggressivity is an indelible compo-
nent. l 8 However, this reference only makes sense-here very specifi-
cally (as in all of Hitchcock’s films, and classical cinema in general,
particularly American)-within the global system in which it has been
constructed, that is, a system in which the aggressive element can never
be separated from the inflection it receives from sexual difference, and
the attribution of this difference to the signifier that governs it. In other
words, it is directed from the man towards the woman, and that
difference which appears due to woman is nothing but the mirror-effect
of the narcissistic doubling that makes possible the constitution of the 119
male subject through the woman’s body, ordered by a double play of
differentiated identity, based on an effect of imaginary projection sub-
jected to the constitutive pressure of a symbolic determination.l9
Between man and woman, through woman’s look as appropriated
by the camera, this mirror- or doubling-effect (hencealso one of denial
and splitting) serves to structure the male subject as the subject of a
scopic drive, that is to say, a subject who imaginarily attributes to
woman the lack he himself has been assigned, in response to the anxiety
created by the phantasized threat of this lack within his own body. This is
the classical dialectic-as described by Freud and Lacan-of the phallus
and castration; its implications with respect to perversion (the conju-
gated motifs of voyeurism and fetishism) have been astutely analyzed
by Guy Rosolato.20 Lacan refers this dialectic, particularly as regards
the scopic drive, to the lack-unevenly divided between the two sexes-
of the signifier that structures it; it is this signifier, castration, which
determines “the gaze as objet In a different perspective, the
same dialectic has been relativized by Luce Irigaray, who denounces the
fact that in men (that is, in Sam, Norman, Hitchcock, Freud, Lacan, the
subject writing these lines in an attempt to fissure the system that holds
him) “the scopic drive is predominant.”22
This is why, theoretically, there are no women fetishist^;^^ nor
even, more broadly speaking, women perverts: either because, in psy-
chological terms, “perverse” as applied to women connotes perversity
rather than perversion, or because theory-elaborated or directed by
men-has avoided acknowledging perversions in women, not having
discovered perversion itself.
This explains the fact that Norman’s psychosis, his inordinate
object-desire that rushes headlong into murder, is entirely structured
by a fetishistic aim carried to the point of madness. Psychoanalytically,
it might be said, Norman is a collage (whichneither confirms nor denies
his clinical possibilities, which are not in question-simply because, for
me, that is not the question). He seeks to construct a chain in which the
excessiveness of the psychotic-perversedesire of the male subject can be
structured-from the man to the camera, his true measure-during the
scene where he establishes his presence at a distance, fascinated, in
vertiginous mastery. This chain may be written: phallus-bird-fetish-
mother-eye-knife-camera. A terrifying play on words (suggested,rather
than made explicit, in the film) connects this chain to the omnipotence
of infantile desire turned towards death: Mommy, the
mother’s body, fetishized to death, so to speak, becomes the body that
murders, in keeping with the desire awakened in the eye of the subject
possessed by it. Through the incredible incorporation of a metaphor-
120 become-reality, Norman’s fascinated look carries within it it the phal-
lus immemorially attributed to the mother. But he can acknowledge it
in himself only on condition that he ceaselessly encounter it in his
mirror-image, namely in the body/look of woman (which engenders the
mirage), and as an absolute threat to which he must respond; otherwise,
it is his own body that will desert him. Such (to complete the psychi-
atrist’s speech) might be the motivations behind the genealogy of the
case: the reiterative passage from the former murder (that of the
mother) to the murder of Marion of which Norman-the mother is the
agent, emphasizing in both cases, given an original identificatory phan-
tasy, the literally impossible desire for possession and fusion that is at
stake.
This allows us to describe the distribution of the three terms
(psychosis, neurosis, perversion) within the logic of the process of
enunciation. These terms define the primordial relationship between
the two scenes which most closely circumscribe this process (the hotel
and the motel), through a “breathing-space” during which the subject
is presented as such. The possessive form used in the credits-“Alfred
Hitchcock’s Psycho”-is a mark of enunciation which may be said to
have a double meaning: this film belongs to me; this psychosis is mine,
or would be mine if. . .if it weren’t, precisely, for this film, which both
involves me in and frees me from psychosis, positioning me elsewhere.
A special lettering effect (something like the bulging eye during the
credits of Vertigo) contributes to the singularization of this rela-
tively common signifying arrangement: a vibrato twice causes the
center of the letters to shift back and forth, first for the title Psycho, and
then for the name in the final enunciation: “Directed by Alfred Hitch-
cock.” In addition, the opening scene immediately reiterates the inter-
play of black and white lines that had striated the credits from top to
bottom: the camera must pass under Venetian blinds to enter the room
at the end of its movement, and it is on the background of these
horizontal lines, in the second half of the scene, that Sam and Marion
are seen in reverse shot, separately or together. Thus, by displacement
and metaphor, what is inscribed in this space communicates an implied
relationship between the title and the name.
In the first scene, the camera’s power is intrinsically expressed by
the bird’s-eye view of the city and its rooftops, then emphasized by its
concentration on the voyeuristic point of reference: the couple in the
bedroom after love-making. The “after” is important, since, in a sense,
the camera intervenes in place of what happens between man and
woman at the literally mythical level of the primal scene: it is a continu-
ally withdrawing instance, collecting-at the purified level of vicari-
ousness-what is fundamentally perverse and psychotic, given the
 logic of this perspective, in man’s desire for woman, even within the 121
neurotic configuration that is its most common destiny. The camera
becomes, it might be said, the eye-phallus, projected and reprojected
from one sex to the other, but on the basis of a signifying privilege
assigned to only one sex, transforms the camera into pure eye, look,
dissociated from the scene, in proportion to the lack of the phallus of
which it circumscribes the representation so that-and because-it is
represented in It is this dialectic, in slightly different terms, that
emerges during the second scene, through a temporal actualization:
“that which may not be seen” seeks to show itself, to break into
awareness (into reality), but displaced from the act. The camera must
still, obviously, remain outside its object. Yet it is also doubly inscribed
within it, as has been seen: firstly by the mediation of the apparatus set
up around Norman, and secondly through the invasion, by the subject
of the apparatus, of the tableau of his own vision. From its perverse
situation, already enhanced by an identification with the subject of the
diegesis, the camera thus fully assumes the psychotic function that was
potentially circumscribed during the first scene. However, it can of
course attain only a more extreme perversion, since it is filming its
metaphorical invasion of its own field. It thus reaffirms all the more
strongly, by its very division, the unforseeable effects of distance, lack
and denial that make it up-everything that psychosis (Norman-the
camera) is at that very moment attempting to exorcize by presenting as
real, through a rape ending in murder, the imaginary and ungraspable
relation of the primal scene.
Within this configuration, one thing seems to me to be essential,
namely that it is through woman’s pleasure (jouissance)that the perverse
projection and psychotic inscription are carried out (just as it is through
her actions, her body, her look, that the film moves from one scene to
the next). The emphasis on Marion’s pleasure in the shower goes well
beyond all diegetic motivation: close-up shots of her naked body
alternate with shots of gushing water; she leans into the stream, opens
her mouth, smiles, and closes her eyes in a rapture that is made all the
more intense because it contrasts with the horror that is to come, but
also because the two are linked together. By a subtle reversal, the
pleasure that Marion did not show in the opening love scene at last
appears. However, the pleasure is for herself (even if it can only be so
for the camera, because of the image-nature assigned to her by the
camera); it takes the form of narcissistic intimacy which poses, for men,
the question of sexual pleasure itself, with woman’s body instituted as
its mythical site. The masculine subject can accept the image of wo-
man’s pleasure only on condition that, having constructed it, he may
inscribe himself and recognize himself within it, and thus reappropriate
122 it even at the cost of its (or her) destruction?6

VIII.
Briefly, to resume and strengthen what has been said by consider-
ing several points in a spiral-like movement, i.e. together, as a text
does whenever one tries to make it appear as what it is, that is to say, as
what it becomes, virtually, always in analysis: a volume.
1. The first scene(s) is (are) programmed as a matrix whose ele-
ments are distributed throughout the whole text by effects of dispersal,
rebound and repetition. This is one of the laws of classical film (see, in
particular, the analyses of Thierry K~ntzel).~’ In Psycho, this process is
at first carried out at a very general level. The first scene, through the
shift in the screenplay, primarily serves as a preparation for the succes-
sion of scenes between Marion and Norman: their tete-i-tete in the
reception room, the series of shots setting up Norman as apparatus,
the murder in the shower. From this is derived, at the end, the scene
with the psychiatrist, which resolves not only the enigma, but the
(psychic) mystery of the murder: this final scene only replies to the first
one at the price of the initial displacement caused by the shift in the
screenplay.
There is also, however, the way in which the first scene inaugu-
rates the sequence of bedrooms: the motel rooms, Marion’s room,
Arbogast’s room (suggested), Sam and Lila’s room, and thence, at the
end of the third movement, the intrusion into the bedrooms of the
house, especially Norman’s and the mother’s, under Lila’s discovering
look.
More subtly, there is a thread which leads from the first shot, to
Norman as apparatus, to the next-to-last shot. Norman-the mother is
seen in a medium shot against the naked wall of his cell, smiling, while
on his face is gradually superimposed the skull which will make of him,
irremediably, the mother. Her voice is heard: “I hope that they are
watching, they will see, they will see and they will say, ‘Why she
wouldn’t even harm a fly.’ ’’28 This circular play on words goes from
the fly to the bird, to the body-fetish of Norman-the mother. But it
goes further still: to the omnipotence of the scopic drive. Norman’s
words are addressed to all the guardians of the law (policemen, judges,
psychiatrist), presumably gathered on the other side of the door and
peering at him through the keyhole. However, through them, his
words are addressed to the spectator, who is trapped in the mirror by
Norman’s eyes, staring right into the camera as though to conjure away
the power it exerts. The spectator is thus confronted, from within the
shot itself, with the “non-authorized scoptophilia” that places cine-
matic voyeurism “in the direct lineage of the primal scene.’’29 Thus, all 123
of the opening shots have been condensed into the body-look of Nor-
man-the mother, revealing the reflective structure of the apparatus,
before the final shot, with an ultimate effect of resolution, brings the
film to its close (in a single sweep, using a very long dissolve to link the
last and next-to-last shots through the superimposition of the skull). In
this way, two screenplays intermingle: male (Sam, Norman, and-in
both-Hitchcock) and female (Marion, the mother); and the end, after
a monstrous detour, replies to the beginning. Marion’s dead body
reappears in the white car dragged from the marsh only because it has
been, from the beginning, the object of the conjugated desire of a man
and the camera.
2. The apparatus is therefore present in the film, though not-as
in Rear Window-by a mirror effect. Here, a certain rhyming effect of
two images strikes me; firstly, on the roadside at dawn, the close-up of
the policeman coming upon Marion asleep in her car; and secondly, in
the cellar, the close-up of the mother’s skeleton. The latter is seen twice,
once when Lila puts her hand on Mrs. Bates’s shoulder and the draped
skeleton slowly swings around toward her, and again at the end of the
segment, after Norman’s intrusion. There is a similarity between these
two faces, sustained by a striking reversal: the eyes have disappeared; in
the second case they are nothing but hollow sockets, and in the first they
are totally hidden by dark glasses. This is a way of signifying, by its very
absence, the unbearably excessive nature of the look. The dark glasses
especially (like Mitch’s binoculars in The Birds) suggest a metaphor of
the photographic lens: super-vision of the law, symbolized by its re-
presentative; excess of the symbolic itself, which triumphs at the end
“in the prolixity of the psy~hiatrist.’’~~ Film, both as discourse and as
an institution, is subject to an order that is marked by the monolithic
power of its ruling signifier. However, this super-vision is also that of
disorder, the breaking of the law, of which fetishistic psychosis is the
most inordinate form. Moreover, the signifier is perpetually imaginary,
subject to denial and splitting. The hollow eye-socketsof the mother are
the verso of an apparatus whose recto is the policeman’s dark glasses.
There is an endless circularity between desire and the law, both of which,
taken to an extreme, inspire terror (in Marion, in Lila).
Here, I cannot resist associating more or less freely. When Lila
enters the cellar she sees, from behind, a woman seated. In the fore-
ground to the right, in the upper part of the frame, there is an electric
lightbulb so alive, so enormous, and disposed in such a manner that it
seemed to m e a t first sight and at each successive viewing, despite
critical distance-to simulate a spherical screen, casting a blinding light
onto the brick wall across from Mrs. Bates. The mother occupies, in this
124 virtual image, the place of the spectator, thus evokmg the real spectator,
and even more so his mirror image (the fetish inhabited by the death
wish) when she looks at him directly during the next two close-up shots.
This is particularly true the second time, when Lila’s terror causes her to
knock against the lightbulb, making it swing back and forth. The
vacillation in the lighting thus produced is repeated and amplified later
(when Norman bursts in, unmasked and overcome by Sam): the skull
seems to be animated by this vibration-this play of lights and shadows
which also designates the cinema itself.
Following this, representation dissolves into the very image of the
law (a metaphorical reappearance of the policeman): a general shot of
the courthouse introduces the psychiatrist’s speech.
3. That everything in Psycho seems immediately doubled must be
seen as the effect-with repercussions in concentric waves down to the
micro-systematic level of the smallest signifying units-of the two main
rhetorical axes that organize the film, namely its ternary composition
and its two screenplays. Other of Hitchcock’s films also manifest, by
their very structure, the specific pressure of the doubling process that
underlies all his films: Shadow o f a Doubt, with the determining super-
imposition of the uncle’s and niece’s names (Charlie); Strangers on a
Train, with the exchange of murders; Vertigo, with the mirror-effect of
the double heroine (Madeleine-Judy). However, this doubling process
is, so to speak, exacerbated in Psycho by the crisscross effects of substi-
tution, division and echo among characters. The first couple, Sam and
Marion, engenders the second, Norman and Marion: Norman has thus
taken the place of Sam. Yet he has actually, diegetically speaking, taken
the place of Marion, given the mirror dialectic between the sexes and
their psychic structurations. Lila’s appearance at the beginning of the
second movement causes this network of transformations to double
back on itself: she represents the return of the indispensable heroine,
Marion’s reappearance (likeJudy’s in Vertigo)in the form of her sister.
Thus, the film could be said to be organized in yet another way with
respect to woman’s body-look, because of the long sequencetaking Lila
from the motel to the cellar where she discovers-with an absolute
horror that obviously recalls that of Marion in the shower-the stuffed
body of the mother. Thus the diegetic couple disjoined at the end of the
first segment is reconstituted as a shadow: Sam and Lila, pretending to
be married-as Sam and Marion were intended to be-approach the
motel where Marion first met Norman on the path that was supposed
to lead her to Sam. The function of this shadow-couple reveals in an
exemplary way, through repetition and mimed (undermined) resolu-
tion, the deep structural subversion of sameness that is here carried out.
4. To conclude, we might point out the constellation of signifiers
that disseminate and recenter the differential doubling between men 125
and women to which the fiction is continually and completely subjec-
ted.
0 Norman-Marion: Christian names in mirror-relation to one another,
interchangeable but for a single phoneme (Marion was chosen instead
of the Mary of Bloch’s novel).
0 Nor-man: he who is neither woman. . .nor man, since he can be one
in the place of the other, or rather one and the other, one within the
other.
0 Marie Samuefs:the name used by Marion to sign the motel register,
derived from Sam’s first name.
0 Phoenix (superimposed on the first shot to situate the action): again,
a bird; the bird that dies only in order to be transformed (as is here the
case, through murder, of one character, one sex, one story) into an-
other. In fact, there is a double metamorphosis: a diegetic one (Marion
becoming Norman) and a formative one (Norman becoming a living
bird-mother) which renders possible the former.
Crane: Marion’s last name; once again a bird’s name. It marks her
body with the signifier that appears, to Norman, as a lack or an excess.
But the word “crane” also means something else: the machine that
embodies above all others, in the image-taking apparatus, the omnisci-
ent power of the look, what might be called the bird’s-eye view. This is
to say, once again, but here with an element of humor, that the camera
becomes one with woman’s body, and that in this sense it is itself the
fetish, adopting the forms of the bird and of Norman-the mother, going
through the whole circuit of the fiction, only to be immediately ac-
knowledged as the enunciating index, at the level of the apparatus that
makes fiction possible.
Whence, indissolubly, here, it can be said of film and cinema, that
they are the very institution of perversion.

Translated by Nancy Huston

NOTES
1. Frangois Truffaut, Hitchcock (New York: Simon and Schuster,
1967), p.-206.

2. Cf., on the relationship between the film and the original narrative,
James Naremore, Filmguide to Psycho. (Bloomington: Indiana Uni-
versity Press, 1973), pp. 23-24,33-34. I found in this short essay, after
126 having written a first, summary version of the present article (“Psycho,”
Dossiers du C i n h a , Films I 1 (Paris: Casterman, 1972), several obser-
vations along the same lines as my analysis. Some of the elements
organized around Marion during the first section of the narrative
appear, in Bloch’s novel, as mental flashbacks to scenes that comprise,
in Hitchcock’s film, the second section.

3. Truffaut, op. cit., p. 206.

4. Syntagmatic change, punctuation, diegetic unity. Cf. Christian

Metz, “Ponctuations et dimarcations dans le film de dikgese,” Essais
sur la signification atr cinha, I1 (Paris: Klincksieck, 1972), pp. 126-
128. Cf. also on this point my study of Minnelli’s Gigi, “To Analyze, To
Segment,’’ Quarterly Review of Film Studies, 1, No. 3 (August 1976).

5. Sheriff Chambers expresses this in two sentences, the second of

which closes the scene on a note of horror: “Norman Bates’s mother has
been dead and buried in Greenlawn Cemetery for the past ten years.”
“Well, if that woman up there is Mrs. Bates, who’s that woman buried
out in Greenlawn Cemetery?” Richard Anobile, ed. Psycho (New York:
Avon, 1975),pp. 193, 195.

6. S. Freud, “Loss of Reality in Neurosis and Psychosis’’ (1904),

Complete Works, Standard Edition, XIX.

7. Ibid.,p. 183.

8. Marion: Oh, Sam, I hate having to be with you in a place like this.
Sam: I’ve heard of married couples who deliberately spend an
occasional night in a cheap hotel. They say it’s very exciting.
Marion: Oh, when you’re married you can do a lot of things deliber-
ately.
Sam: You sure talk like a girl who’s been married.
Marion: Sam, this is the last time.
Sam: Yeah? For what?
Marion: For this. For meeting you in secret-so we can be secretive.
You come down here on those business trips and we steal lunch
hours a n d - O h , Sam, I wish you wouldn’t even come. . . .
Sam: I sweat to pay off my father’s debts and he’s in his grave. I
sweat to pay my ex-wife’s alimony, and she’s-living on the
other side of the world somewhere!
Marion: I pay, too. They also pay who meet in hotel rooms.
Sam: A couple of years and-the debts will be paid off and-if she
 ever remarries, the alimony stops and- 127
Marion: I haven’t even been married once yet!
Sam: Yeah, but when you do you’ll swing!
Marion: Sam, let’s get married!
Anobile, op. cit. pp. 15-16,19-20.

9. It might be added, for the pleasure of the “intertext,” that the

amount of money stolen by Marion ($40,000)is the same as the amount
spent by Mark, in Marnie, on the wedding ring he offers Marnie:
Moreover, this money was intended by the millionaire, who shows it off
to Marion, for the purchase of a house as a wedding gift to his daughter.

10. Norman’s version: Father’s death when he was five. Some years
later, his mother falls madly in love with a man who encourages her to
build the motel. When he dies, the mother goes crazy.
Sheriffs version (emergence of the mystery in the middle of the third
movement): Norman poisons the lover. The mother, in turn, poisons
herself.
Psychiatrist’s version (solution of the mystery): Norman poisons the
lover and his mother.

11. Anobile, op. cit., p. 77.

12. J. Laplanche and J.B. Pontalis, The Language of Psycho-Analysis

(New York: W.W. Norton & Co., 1973)’p. 309.

13. Hitchcock: “It also allows the viewer to become a Peeping Tom.”
Truffaut, op. cit., p. 204.

14. No contradiction is implied by the fact that in Rope it is a man who

is being killed. Men, too, are killed in Hitchcock’s films-and often-in
more or less direct or displaced reference to the murder of the father. In
Rope, the object of the murder may also be referred, in a complemen-
tary manner, to the virtually manifest homosexuality of the two mur-
derers.

15. Cf. my analysis, “Le blocage symbolique,” Communications,No.

23 (1979, pp. 251-256.

16. Cf. Naremore, op. cit., p. 66.

17. Sam: We could laze around here a while longer.

Marion: Checking out time is three p.m. Motels of this sort-are
128 not interested in you when you come in, but when your time is
Up-”
Anobile, op. cit., p. 15.

18. Jacqueline Rose, “Paranoia and the Film System,” Screen, 17, No.
4 (Winter 1976-77).

19. Cf., for an historical perspective on the symbolic constitution of the

male subject, my study “Un jour, la castration,” Alexandre Dumas,
L’Arc, No. 71 (1978).

20. Cf. in particular “Perversions sexuelles,” Encyclopedie Medico-

cbirurgicale (Paris: 1968), 37392 CIO, pp. 8-9.

21. Jacques Lacan, Les Quatre Concepts fondamentaux de la psy-

chanalyse, (Paris: Seuil, 1973). English translation by Alan Sheridan,
The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis (London: The
Hogarth Press, 1 977).

22. “Miskre de la psychanalyse,” Critique, No. 365 (October 1977), p.

900. Cf. also Ce Sexe qui n’en estpas un (Paris: Minuit, 1977), p. 25.

23. Rosolato: “This perversion is practiced exclusively by men,”

Encyclopedie Medico-chirurgicale, op. cit., p. 9.

24. I owe this to the friendship of Thierry Kuntzel.

25. On the eye-phallus relationship, cf. Lacan, The Four Fundamental

Concepts of Psycho-Analysis, op. cit., pp. 101-104.

26. Mamie, in this regard, deals with the reappropriation of the image,
whereas Psycho deals with its destruction. Cf. my article “Hitchcock,
The Enunciator,” Camera Obscura, No. 2 (1977).

27. “Le travail du film, 1,” Communications, No. 19 (1972);English

translation, Enclitic, 2, No. 1 (1978)pp. 39-64. “Le travail du film, 2,”
Communications, No. 25 (1975); English translation, Camera 06-
scurd.5 (forthcoming). cf. also my article “Hitchcock, The Enun-
ciator,” op. cit., and similar themes in my articles “Les Oiseaux: analyse
d’une siquence,” Cahiers du Cinema, No. 216 (October 1969), p. 38;
“Le blocage symbolique,” op.cit., p. 349; “To Analyse, To Segment,”
op. cit.
28. Anobile, op. cit., p. 255. 129

29. Christian Metz, “Le signifiant imaginaire,” Communications No.

23 (1975),p. 45. English translation, Screen, 16, No. 2 (Summer 1975),
pp. 14-76.

30. Roger Dadoun, in the few suggestive lines devoted to Psycho in “Le
fktichisme dans le film d’horreur,” Objets du fe‘tichisme, Nouvelle
Revue de Psycbanalyse, No. 2 (Autumn 1970), p. 238.
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