The Night of the Hunter (1995) Review
Landen Fulton
Love and hate ground the contrast between America’s protestant roots and its amoral obsession with monetary gain, as folktale-turned-nightmare The Night of the Hunter (1955) weaponizes religion — the all-encompassing facade that masks the nation’s violent underbelly. Charles Laughton’s sole directorial feat is a timeless and necessary thematic precedent for contemporary cinematic narratives that aim to undermine the quaint prosperity of small-town USA by exposing its malevolent interior. Narratively, the film foregrounds Christianity’s clutch upon America’s Depression-era heritage, as it follows reactionary, religious-obsessed Preacher Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum) and his murderous pursuit of a stolen 10,000 dollars.
Set against rural (but increasingly industrial) West Virginia, the archetypes of the early twentieth century, shaped by the hopes of a booming “American Dream,” reflect a fundamentally traditionalist population whose protestant values and trusting goodwill make them vulnerable to manipulation. The Preacher’s outward charisma and alleged purity of faith win over the affection of nearly every resident as he travels along the Ohio River in search of the money. He easily cons naive widow Willa Harper (Shelley Winters), yet when he realizes only her two young children, John and Pearl (Billy Chaplin and Sally Jane Bruce), know the prize’s true location, his religious front fractures, and he targets them with violent force.
The Night of the Hunter originally debuted as a 1953 best-selling novel by author Davis Grubb, who was inspired by a series of true events in Quiet Dell, West Virginia. Esteemed writer and prolific film critic James Agee then sought to adapt the screenplay, bringing his Anglo-Catholic background, well-documented wavering faith, and ethnographic experience with the Depression-era American South to inform the cinematic portrayal. Unfortunately, Agee, an Appalachian native himself, died just months before the film’s theatrical release, but his bible-soaked script was translated into a gothic folk-horror masterpiece and American cinematic classic.
Laughton and cinematographer Stanley Cortez’s efforts visualized Agee’s screenplay with a high-contrast black and white film that transcends its folk origins, using inflated silhouettes to compose the sinister atmosphere that overshadows the otherwise modest small-town West Virginia. The co-existence of this optimistically credulous setting and its malevolent transgressor, between notions of innocence and corruption, hunter and prey, and, ultimately, good and evil, is ingrained in the very ethos of the atmosphere. These harsh distinctions are further stylistically reinforced by the German Expressionist-inspired lighting that foreshadows the coming horrors in the second and third acts.
Religion is weaponized implicitly, but the Preacher’s direct violence leads him to kill Willa with a small switchblade, hiding both her body and Model-T at the bottom of the Ohio River. His reverend-persona never prompts any questioning surrounding her disappearance, leaving him alone to “take care” of the children. John and Pearl, cautious of the Preacher’s intentions since his haunting stalker-like introduction, narrowly escape with the money hidden in a rag doll as they attempt to sail down the river in a small wooden boat. Consequently, the night of the hunter begins with the Preacher creeping along the shoreline, following the children and ready to resort to violence. Laughton’s poignant direction makes Powell’s presence always identifiable as his eerie silhouette and hunting call echo in the distance. “Leaning, Leaning,” he hums in an ironic gesture that villainizes the recognizable protestant hymn, Leaning on the Everlasting Arms. Again, the overarching presence of religion is haunting, as god is always watching, but only through the malevolent preacher’s eyes.
The film alludes to violence as the natural, alternative side of the same American coin. This sentiment is reiterated in later cinematic examples that examine the ignored interior of picturesque, thriving Americana. David Lynch’s coming-of-age, psychosexual nightmare, Blue Velvet (1986), for example, echoes this premise as it seeks to unmask not religion but suburban tranquility. This inquisition into the facade of popular hegemony has seeped into various cinematic movements, but its effectiveness in Night of the Hunter is rarely paralleled. The film is irregularly nuanced and disturbing in its complex approach to the role of religion, gender, the law, and the familial institution.
At times, Laughton’s symbolism is a bit heavy-handed in its portrayal of predator and prey. As Powell, essentially a wolf in shepherd’s clothing, follows the children down the river, regular cuts to small animals interlude their journey. With frogs, rabbits, foxes, cows, goats, and owls all intermixed, the prominence of the natural fauna is comparable to the level of later anti-industrial, ecological films, such as Walkabout (1971) and Days of Heaven (1978). Yet, while The Night of the Hunter does not directly adopt their same thematic premise, these inclusions only emphasize the pure indifference of nature and its distinction from the increasingly godless, commercial world. Whether or not this is an attempt to subtly undermine traditionalism or biblical motifs is unclear, but the film eventually addresses the hunter-huntee dynamic, directly stating, “It’s a tough world for little things.”
Still, this sentiment is only partially supported as the film’s all-too-neat conclusion feels marginally disjunctive from its generally bleak narrative. Powell’s iconic, blood-stained, tattooed hands, each spelling out ‘L-O-V-E’ and ‘H-A-T-E,’ are handcuffed and locked away, thanks to the introduction of the foster-mother figure, Miss Cooper (Lillian Gish), who rivals the preacher’s radical godlessness with an equally intense devotion to Christianity. In an interesting nod, the effectiveness of law enforcement is dismissed by collective action, and the townspeople revolt, calling for the Powells’ hanging. Yet, with concealment as the film’s most prominent motif, this act of violence (or justice) is sheltered from the children’s eyes. Characteristically, in its final moments, The Night of the Hunter both resolves its unpleasantness and penetrates the idealization of religion — perhaps not all sins are forgiven.
