Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock, 1960)
Psycho should be seen at least three times by any discerning film-goer, the first time for the sheer terror of the experience, and on this occasion I fully agree with Hitchcock that only a congenital spoilsport would reveal the plot; the second time for the macabre comedy inherent in the conception of the film; and the third for all the hidden meanings and symbols lurking beneath the surface of the first American movie since Touch of Evil to stand in the same creative rank as the great European films. — Andrew Sarris 
It would seem I’ve filled my quota. I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again, because it seems that I am cursed: while I genuinely love Psycho, I might just have to blow my brains out if I have to sit through it one more time in class. From the very first second, Hermann’s iconic score drills into my brain, all-too familiar and frustrating as it seems I will never be allowed to let this film sit in my memory longer than a year. It is also a painful reminder of how little Hitchcock’s I’ve actually seen, something I promised myself I’d fix this year. So today, I tried, enjoyed it all over again to an extent (it is after all, irresistible filmmaking), but my brain-body fought back and I passed out as soon as Marion Crane hits the road — only to be woken up in a panic by her shrieking under the shower.