It’s no secret to anyone who spends more than a half hour or so in conversation with me these days that I have an interest in Alfred Hitchcock that could be accused of bordering on hero worship. Although he died the year I was born, he was probably the first director I was consciously aware of, thanks in large part to the syndication of his anthology television series, Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I loved the series as a child, and pursued anything I could find with Hitchcock’s name on it, including countless compilations of horror and suspense stories that he lent his name to. I didn’t realize at the time of course that his presence in everything I’d seen or read was largely ceremonial, and I’m not sure it would have mattered if I did. As good as the episodes of Alfred Hitchcock Presents typically were, his bookends on each were my main reason for watching, combining the macabre with a dry sense of humor in a way that made a huge impact on child me. So when I saw my first actual Hitchcock film not long after all this, I felt an immediate connection as I watched. This was the first time I really had a face, a voice, and a personality to connect with the actual construction of a movie, and that was that. I was hooked. The film in question was, appropriately enough, Psycho; the making of which is the subject of the new biopic Hitchcock, directed by Sacha Gervasi and starring Anthony Hopkins as Hitch himself.