Previously, when I wrote my piece on Norman's handedness, its significance in Psycho and Psycho II and, more specifically, how it manifests in Norman's telephone-answering routine in Psycho II, I did not consider a sequence that occurs at the very beginning of the film, when Norman returns to his family house and has an early hiccup involving the telephone. I omitted this because it doesn't quite fit with the pattern of Norman's actions being in response to an incoming call, but it nevertheless merits its own discussion, for it is another deceptively simple scene that establishes so much about Norman's present day dilemma, including a sleight of hand in which screenwriter Tom Holland effectively telegraphs exactly where this new chapter is headed.
When Norman first arrives home he picks up the receiver of the upstairs telephone, not to answer a call but to confirm Raymond's assurances that the phone line has been reconnected. Raymond has advised Norman that, in the absence of any formal social support, the telephone is to be his lifeline ("Any trouble, use it"). In practice, the telephone proves to be one of the greatest sources of trouble for Norman throughout the sequel, allowing the intrusions of a meddlesome outside world to seep in and attack him in his private space (it is also the vessel through which Mother mounts her slow but steady return). This trouble is anticipated in this early scene, for the mere act of turning to the telephone for that momentary reassurance that all is right within his freshly-salvaged world has unexpectedly nasty consequences. Norman does not intend to make or receive a call. Oh, but he does get a response, for he discovers a note concealed beneath the telephone, apparently written by Mother. The note reads: Norman, I'll be home late. Fix your own dinner. Love, M. On this occasion (and in contrast to the routine established throughout the rest of the film) Norman lifts the receiver with his left hand, the hand more closely aligned with his own will and identity, and is caught unawares by Mother, who is all ready and waiting to resume their dialogue.
Unlike the fraudulent notes subsequently left by Lila and Mary, this one appears to be the genuine article, the faded writing and yellowing paper suggesting that it has been lying there dormant for some time, although whether it was actually written by Mrs Bates herself is another matter (odds are good that Norman unwittingly penned this to himself). In contrast to the angry, threatening missives that Norman later receives regarding his egregious bending of the rules in allowing Mary into the house, this one has a mundane, incongruously genial message, given the source. Still, we know that any form of dialogue between Norman and Mother is a bad thing, and the discovery of the note has a detrimental effect on Norman, who immediately relapses into a flashback in which he gets to relive the horrors of his matricidal youth. Mother has already succeeded in undermining Norman's newfound determination to be the master of the household, and she does so using nothing more than the legacy she left seeded in its walls many decades ago. As fiendishly underhanded as Lila's tactics might be, they seem relatively amateurish compared to the cruelty of this accidental encounter, which after a just a few moments of running wild with Norman's imagination exposes the fragility of everything he is desperately attempting to hold together. The sequence culminates in Norman knocking his suitcase down the stairs, spilling its contents in a chaotic sprawl that simultaneously recalls Arbogast's downfall in the original Psycho and anticipates Raymond's toward the end of Psycho II (and Maureen's in Psycho III!). Norman finds that his literal and emotional baggage have been gutted messily, announcing that the battle for dominance between himself and the specter of Mother is already renewing itself. And he has barely been home for more than a few minutes.
Psycho II is a film about cycles, about reincarnation and the renewal of life but also the repetition of old traumas and the extent to which the past keeps the present so paralysed as to deny it a future. Despite the fleeting promise of redemption offered by the sweet sincerity of Norman's friendship with Mary - two characters mutually bound by the sins of their mothers (and of their aunts) - it ultimately confirms Norman's nihilistic musings in the original Psycho about being caught in private traps and never budging an inch for all of our clawing. This early sequence shows Norman as being stuck in a time loop - the note was written decades ago and refers to an evening long in the past, yet it punctures through all sense of temporal distance with a startling asperity that speaks directly to Norman in the present. It is almost as if Mother planted the note with the intention of Norman discovering it only now, after his time away. More frighteningly still, it refers to what is coming in the future. Norman's ascension up the staircase marks the end of the journey he has been making within the twenty-two year gap between Psycho and Psycho II; his long, offscreen battle to reclaim his sanity and earn the right to return home is finally over, but having made it to the top, Norman finds himself not at the peak of a figurative mountain, but treading a harrowing loop which will ultimately lead him right back down to where he started. The message itself is entirely banal, and yet deeply ominous, for we would do well to heed the implicit threat buried in Mother's ostensible pleasantries. It acknowledges the current state of affairs - that Mother has vacated the premises and Norman is required be self-sufficient for the time being - but also promises that she will return and that Norman's (relative) freedom of her is only temporary. It functions both as a warning to Norman as to what lies ahead, but also a direct communication from Mother to the audience, cluing them in as to the film's trajectory and reassuring them that the status quo will eventually be reset. There is a particularly sly bit of fourth wall-breaking in her declaration that she will arrive home late, for Mother's homecoming will indeed occur, but only at the very end of the narrative.
One final curiosity - unlike the fraudulent letters left by Lila and Mary, which are signed "Mother", this note is signed only "M", leaving some ambiguity as to whom it really refers. Norman instantly connects it to Mother, but we know that she's not the only M from Norman's past who'll shortly be returning just to make his reintegration that extra bit more difficult. In this sense, the note serves as a dual purpose, telegraphing not only Mother's return, but also that of Marion, who is currently lurking not far up the road in the renewed form of Mary. How is the message "Fix your own dinner" pertinent to Marion? Well, Norman did initiate Marion into his twisted world by convincing her to eat with him.
Oh, and a small side-note: I'd also like to take the opportunity to officially retract what I said last time about Perkins' portrayal in the 2013 film Hitchcock being "unbelievably mean-spirited". I still have my problems with Gervasi's film, and with Perkins' portrayal therein, but I realise now that I overreacted somewhat. Since writing that tidbit I've taken the time to read Split Image, Charles Winecoff's 1996 biography of Perkins and I tell you, if any depiction of Perkins deserves to be called "unbelievably mean-spirited", it's Winecoff's. Anyone interested in reading Winecoff's book should keep in mind that it is essentially one big, leering exposé of the actor's various gay love affairs and (reportedly) promiscuous lifestyle. Winecoff barely attempts to disguise his indifference toward Perkins' professional output, and while he makes a perfunctory effort to pass the book off as a meditation on the difficulties of being homosexual in Hollywood within Perkins' lifetime, it possesses neither the depth or sensitivity to pull that off. It's less a biography than a drawn-out, 466 page-long catcall. Not recommended to fans of Tony, or to those with feline allergies.
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