A wealthy San Francisco socialite pursues a potential boyfriend to a small Northern California town that slowly takes a turn for the bizarre when birds of all kinds suddenly begin to attack people there in increasing numbers and with increasing viciousness.
In 1959, Alfred Hitchcock and his wife, Alma Reville, are at the top of their creative game as filmmakers amid disquieting insinuations about it being time to retire. To recapture his youth's artistic daring, Alfred decides his next film will adapt the lurid horror novel, Psycho (1960), over everyone's misgivings. Unfortunately, as Alfred self-finances and labors on this film, Alma finally loses patience with his roving eye and controlling habits with his actresses. When an ambitious friend lures her to collaborate on a work of their own, the resulting marital tension colors Alfred's work even as the novel's inspiration haunts his dreams. Written by
Kenneth Chisholm (email@example.com)
When Alma and Whit are driving up the Pacific Coast Highway, the double centerline is yellow. In 1960, it would have been white. See more »
It's lucky it didn't reach the house.
You know, there's gonna be a lot more jobs at that factory in Milwaukee come June. I could put in a word.
You can't leave us, Henry. She needs us both.
Can you stop being a mama's boy for one second? I'm not trying to hurt you, but Jesus, you gotta live your own life sometime. That woman can take care of her own god...
[Ed hits Henry with a shovel]
Good evening. Well, brother has been killing brother since Cain and Abel, yet even I didn't ...
[...] See more »
As Hitch addresses his audience at the end of the picture, he tells us that he is bereft of ideas for his next picture... then a large, black bird lands on his shoulder. See more »
Now, when you are searching for the truth, even non philosophers out there, here is a big rule of thumb: Whenever someone proffers a highly fanciful, unlikely account that, in a stroke of amazing coincidence, happens to parallel their hyper feminist misandrist agenda: rest assured it is complete crap. The movie presents Alma as the real creative genius assisting poor feckless, giant little boy Alfie with casting, writing, funding of Psycho. I swear, I would not have been surprised if the movie showed Alma washing Janet Leigh's car and pressing Anthony Perkin's slacks. Another very fascinating scene is Alma being falsely courted by Huston, his real purpose is to push his script, under false pretenses. Oh, those simply ghastly men! They are such evil monsters! Get the drift, see why Mirren took the role? Get the idea who wrote lots of these scenes? We do get some crumbs from the great matron of the casting, writing and filming of Psycho. But, as others have written, Alfred Hitchcock is a supporting character in this feminist tome on hidden svengalis who were the really power behind those wretched men who got all of their credit, the nefarious beasts!
What really irritates me is when a great director is long dead and cannot defend himself and a tart comes along and uses his life as a substratum for pushing her extremely far fetched and ideologically congruent fantasy. The greatest director is shown raiding the fridge, soaking in the bathtub, and constantly depending on the great sage Alma who: casts, writes, edits, and produces Psycho. I was shocked Hitch wasn't shown cleaning the restroom whilst Alma finished the movie off for release. As a philosopher, I assure you, when you find an account this painfully disparate with other's accounts, that just happens to mirror, perfectly, Mirren's personal misandrist agenda: it is pure crap. Please, leave Hitch alone he is long dead. If your career is sinking because of that dreadful Indian Restaurant movie, set in France, which nobody watched, choose some other figure to appropriate glory from. I am only partly English, but if I were more of that nationality, Mirren's treatment of their greatest director would not thrill me deeply.
The acting and pacing of the film are well done. Huston and especially Johansson do very well in their small roles. Hitch really did more in his life than drool over Janet Leigh, Vera Miles and Tippi Hedren. The man's writing was one of a kind as was his direction. Maybe Ms. Mirren could play some relative of Beethoven's next and show us how he really never wrote those symphonies; he was mowing the lawn. She did it all, those dreadful men and how they never give us any credit. Hopkins gives an excellent interpretation of Hitch. If you can bear the Great Matron's odious presence and shameless misappropriation of glory that belongs to another, hold your nose and watch the movie. It is so pathetic and so indicative of a personality whose existential inner bankruptcy is equaled only by its desperation, in its vampirism, to take someone else's glory. Get Some Therapy and leave Hitch alone.
"The More Loudly He Spoke Of His Honor, The Faster We Counted Our Spoons." Ralph Waldo Emerson
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