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Virginia Psycho
We've seen this movie before.


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Everybody remembers Hitchcock’s Psycho concluding with John Gavin wheeling Mrs. Bates around and she’s a skeleton and then Norman in drag comes rushing out of the darkness and eek-eek-eek-eek goes Bernie Herrmann’s score, and then…

This is where it ends.

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But it doesn’t. There’s still five minutes left in the movie — five long minutes, in which Sam the Explainer, in the form of the psychiatrist played by Simon Oakland, tells us all about Norman’s schizophrenia — how his split personality was finally overcome by Mother until there was nothing left of poor Norman at all.

Norman, you see, was really a victim. Which makes him a hero.

Today, we let the media do our dirty work for us. We let them “explain” the killer. We let them tell us about his “manifesto,” as if he were the love child of Karl Marx and Betty Friedan. His rantings and ragings run in an endless loop on the cable channels: bad movie dialogue, bad movie poses, bad knockoff “Voice of Doom” intonation.

We let them “agonize” over the morality of showing it, all the while assuring us that this is part of the “healing process.” Deep down, every reporter yearns to be a screenwriter — after all, we’re both in storytelling business, aren’t we? And after the week NBC News prexy Steve Capus has had, Elysian Fields and Echo Park are probably looking better than Park Avenue right about now.

So, as Matt Damon says in Good Will Hunting: Let the healing begin!

Just don’t blame us. In our movies, we don’t agonize. We let the bodies pile up harmlessly. We don’t care what motivates Michael Myers or Freddy Krueger or Jigsaw or Leatherface. We just unleash them and have them kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out. And if we get a few laughs along the way, well, good for us.

This is where it ends.

Sure it does.

 



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