The master of suspense is left hanging.

Hitchcock is a bad film about the making of a good one. It’s the movie equivalent of six battle re-enactment nerds emulating the D-Day landings by assaulting a French beach in a swan-shaped pedalo. Which is to say that while it’s definitely interesting, you’ll spend most of the time wondering why they bothered.

Hitchcock is not a broad ranging biography, but a film that examines the making of Psycho and the strained relationship he shared with his wife during its production. Anthony Hopkins dons distracting prostheses to play the eminent director, with Helen Mirren doing her best to make something of the part of his long suffering spouse, who is shown as being as much responsible for his success as the man himself.

And it really is a case of watching a lot of talented people do their best in bad circumstances. Because the insipid script drains momentum from the movie and the attempt at getting us into Hitchcock’s mindset via occasional hallucinations adds nothing. It all feel obvious and amateurish, which is precisely the opposite of what its protagonist is famous for.

At best Hitchcock is a harmless, although given that it smooths over the notoriously rough edges of a prickly and abusive man, it’s difficult to even credit it with palatable blandness. It can be comfortably avoidable.