I arrived at Sacha Gervasi’s Hitchcock prepared for an underwhelming big screen depiction of the Master of Suspense during the making of his most famous film, Psycho. Muted praise and been awarded both Anthony Hopkins’ embodiment of “Hitch” and Helen Mirren’s performance as his loyal wife and collaborator, Alma Reville, but the film as a whole had been more of less dismissed outright as a poorly-judged trifle. Perhaps because of these low expectations, I ended up enjoying it quite a bit, while still acknowledging its many failings.

Following the box office success of North by Northwest, Paramount Pictures wanted Hitchcock’s last film for them to be something similar, whereas the corpulent Englishman had become obsessed by Robert Bloch’s novel, Psycho. The story, largely based on the real-life atrocities of serial killer Ed Gein, was deemed unfilmable and passed over by every major studio, but Hitchcock offered to finance the production himself if Paramount would distribute it.

The studio agreed and Hitch got to work, fawning (as usual) over blonde bombshell Janet Leigh (an impressively competent and likeable portrayal by Scarlett Johansson), while providing closeted leading man Anthony Perkins (James D’Arcy) with a career-defining role that also addressed some of his own insecurities, and reuniting him with Vera Miles (Jessica Biel), who would put family before fame, much to her director’s chagrin. Meanwhile, Alma begins working on a script with friend Whitfield Cook (Danny Huston), and their frequent close proximity clearly rattles her husband’s cage.

Adapted from Stephen Rebello’s book by John J. McLaughlin (Black Swan), Gervasi’s film frequently attempts to ape Hitchcock’s style in its moments of high tension and sly humour, with varying degrees of success. The chronicling of Psycho‘s production is too often interrupted by inconsequential sojourns between Alma and Whit, or ill-advised sequences in which Hitchcock fantasises about conversing with Gein himself.

The film is at its best when recreating Hitchcock and his work, and Anthony Hopkins’ performance is nothing short of remarkable. It is a rare treat to see the actor do comedy, but he plays the great director as a curmudgeonly, self-effacing artist who loves nothing more than indulging his ability to entertain and manipulate an audience. Hopkins captures this brilliantly and makes the entire uneven exercise a success by his very existence. Whether scoffing down a tin of fois gras or leering over photographs of Grace Kelly, Hitchcock is hugely entertaining whenever Hopkins is onscreen, and infinitely worse when he isn’t.

Helen Mirren, normally so dependable in everything from weighty period dramas to knockabout action movies, here seems to struggle to find the right tone. While it could be argued that the film suffers from the same inability to maintain consistency, Mirren is noticeably weak. Her relationship with her husband is clearly portrayed as complex, from its very beginnings, through decades of collaboration, to their current tiff and pangs of jealousy, punctuated by Alma’s obvious attempts to cling to her looks while Hitch balloons. But in Hitchcock, none of this is explained or even explored, meaning little about the film’s central relationship makes much sense. As some recompense, however, the other actresses – Johansson, Biel and Toni Colette – fare better, albeit in less-developed roles.

For all its failings, Hitchcock nevertheless proves a frivolous confection, helped enormously by Hopkins delivering a performance as good as anything he has ever committed to screen. If the scene of Hitch conducting the screams of Psycho‘s opening night audience from the seclusion of the foyer doesn’t make you crack a smile, then I question your love of Cinema as an artistic form of expression. If nothing else, Hitchcock should inspire you to revisit the director’s horror masterpiece, a film that dared to do something different, and which ironically, has been copied relentlessly ever since. For that alone, we are forever in Hitchcock’s debt.