Sixty years on and we're still as obsessed as a boy with his mother – and by 'boy', I mean Norman Bates, and by 'mother', well... let's not spoil the fun for the uninitiated. 'Psycho', the crown jewel in Alfred Hitchcock's suspense-laden tiara, refuses to gather dust in the annals of film history. Instead, it's out there on 'best movies of all time' lists, flaunting its black-and-white charm like a peacock in a hen house. But why is this relic of cinema's yesteryears still topping charts and chilling spines? Let's try to unravel this mystery without developing a split personality disorder.
The film that rocked the nation more than Elvis's hips didn't just break the mold – it shattered it, swept it up, and dumped it in the swamp out back. Who else but Hitchcock would have the audacity to send his leading lady to the great shower stall in the sky halfway through the film? It's like the Beatles deciding, 'Hey, let's just do the rest of the concert without Paul.' It was audacious, it was shocking, and it made us realize that no one in a Hitchcock film was safe – not even the star billing.