The Night of the Hunter

The film

Charles Laughton read and admired Davis Grubb’s 1955 novel, The Night of the Hunter, and he wanted to make a movie version of it. This distinguished British-born actor (he received an Academy Award in 1933) had recently directed several Broadway plays, but this would be his first outing as a movie director.

For the script he turned to James Agee, who had collaborated on the screenplay for The African Queen and was a noted film critic. However, the script Agee submitted was 293 pages long. What was he thinking of — an eight hour movie? Maybe the problem had to do with Agee’s physical and mental health. He was drinking heavily, and he would die of a heart attack (at age forty-five) before the movie came out. Although parts of his script were used, an enormous amount of cutting and rewriting was required — mostly done by Laughton. Still, he gave Agee sole credit for the screenplay. Maybe this was an act of generosity, but he also knew that Agee’s name carried weight.

Laughton made two choices that were crucial to the film’s success. He selected Stanley Cortez, who had done Orson Welles’s The Magnificent Ambersons, as director of photography. The unique look of the film is one of its major strengths. Though the studio wanted it to be in color, Laughton and Cortez wisely insisted on black and white.

Then there was the cast. Lillian Gish and Shelly Winters did their usual capable jobs, but the standout performance was Robert Mitchum’s Preacher. Several other actors were considered first, notably Gary Cooper, but he turned it down because he thought the role would be detrimental to his career. Mitchum had no such compunction. When Laughton described to him the character he would be portraying as a “diabolical shit,” Mitchum responded with “Present!” What was it in Mitchum that enabled him to create two of film’s most frightening monsters (the other being Max Cady in Cape Fear)? I think it was sheer talent. In three movies — The Red Pony, Holiday Affair and The Sundowners — he plays roles in which he interacts closely with young boys, and he’s an amiable and understanding presence in their lives. In Hunter he’s a child’s worst nightmare.

Anyway, folks, there you have it — the primary ingredients of what turned out to be, on its initial screening in 1955, a commercial and critical flop. The studio lost money on Hunter, and Laughton would never direct again. He returned to acting; in his last performance, in 1962, he played a southern senator in Advise and Consent. He would die one year later.

Laughton never lived to see the acclaim that his film would receive. How did it rise from obscurity? As for that obscurity, the studio was not at all pleased with the finished product and they didn’t put much money (or care) in promoting it. Not helping matters was the format of Hunter: wide screen and color had become the big attractions for audiences. None of the actors were, at the time, major box office draws. The two children, John and Pearl, were played by Billy Chapin (age twelve, though his character in the book was nine) and Sally Jane Bruce (age five). They’re central to the film, and they present a problem. Chapin was able to express rudimentary suspicion and fear, but often he seems wooden (and, possibly, intimidated); Bruce could do no more than follow directions. Also, like the studio, people were taken aback by the film’s arty aspects, including German expressionistic touches. And the portrayal of a preacher as a homicidal maniac may have been objectionable to some. At any rate, the audience in theaters — those who showed up — weren’t accepting. It needed time for a reappraisal. This came gradually. After its disappointing release it was quickly moved to second billing on double features; then — significantly — it was bumped to late night TV. There it would reach a new audience, many of them young and impressionable, and who would watch the film in the intimacy of their living rooms. Word of mouth kept Hunter alive, then came showings at universities, museums, art film houses. By the 1970s prestigious critics, such as Pauline Kael, began writing articles lavishly praising it. At this point the film had acquired a romantic aura: A masterpiece that was so unappreciated that its director never made another movie. People were primed to place themselves among those who would have appreciated it. Through these gradual steps, the film rose to the status of a classic. In 1992 the United States Library of Congress selected it for preservation in its National Film Registry.

But, really, how good is The Night of the Hunter? A flop or a masterpiece? I think the true evaluation lies somewhere in between. Though it initially got many highly negative reviews, those writing in the top publications were not lacking in discrimination; in fact, I’ve found that back in the fifties they were acute in their sensibilities and less susceptible to outside influences than current critics. And they were not outright dismissive of the film. One example: Bosley Crowther, in his New York Times review, called it a “A weird and intriguing endeavor,” but he found the “tangled traffic with the melodramatic and allegorical” to be “too pretentious” for his taste. His appraisal cannot be discounted.

To write this essay I watched the film again (for, possibly, the fifth time). Which is unfair. No film stands up to multiple viewings; virtues lose the luster they had in one’s memory, faults emerge. And I was no longer in a “I can appreciate genius” frame of mind. Nor do all those now calling it a masterpiece have an affect on my opinion. I’ve reached the point where I don’t rely on so-called “authorities.” Too often I disagree on what they like and don’t like.

Anyway, this time around I concur with a lot of the gripes early viewers had. Take the opening scenes, so important in engaging an audience. First we have Lillian Gish reciting homilies from the Bible; it’s as if she’s suspended in the blackness of outer space, and at one point we get cameos of five children, also in space. Then we have a long shot of boys playing in a field, which ends with one of the them discovering a woman’s body (we only see her lower legs); at this discovery we get clobbered by a portentous clap of music. This is followed by scenes of the Preacher riding in a Model T, talking to God about killing widows; he does it in a jovial way, as if they were longtime pals. It’s obvious that the car is stationary, with the scenery being streamed in the background; it seems so cheaply done. And Mitchum sort of hams it up, which he was prone to do at points throughout the film. Next we see the Preacher at a girlie show, watching the gyrations of a scantily clad dancer, his face filled with disgust; his hand goes into the pocket of his coat and the blade of a knife snaps through the cloth. Well, what about that? We’re hit with a mishmash of oddities.

I could go on citing weaknesses, missteps, but Hunter is replete with striking virtues. When we get done with the preliminaries, and the Preacher begins his dogged pursuit of the $10,000 he believes that John and Pearl possess, the film rises to an intensity that’s gripping. Mitchum becomes a truly frightening presence. Some scenes stick forever in the memory, scenes of strength and beauty which were still strong and beautiful to me on my last viewing: The dead woman in the car submerged in the river, her long hair undulating in the current; Mitchum standing outside the house where the orphaned children wait, calling, “Children. Chillldren”; the escape by the riverbank, with John struggling to get the skiff off into the water’s current, as Preacher slashes his way toward them, and ending with Mitchum’s animalistic howl of frustration and rage. And, having escaped, the skiff drifts through a moonlit landscape, and Pearl begins to sing (“Once upon a time there was a pretty fly . . .”); we see closeups of a spider’s web, a frog; at one point the camera shifts to look down on the calmly drifting boat, where John lies, exhausted. Eerie, otherworldly — and simply brilliant.

Yes, the film deserved to be rediscovered. Despite any flaws, it’s an wholly original and powerful work with touches of genius.

The novel

Davis Grubb was born in Moundsville, West Virginia in 1919, which would make him twelve years old when the Great Depression set in. So he knew the country and its people, and he knew the affects of the economic downturn on an area already suffering hardships. He saw homeless children roaming the roads, foraging for food, or begging for it, or stealing it. He also was aware of the deeply ingrained religious fundamentalism that the people clung to; he saw outdoor revival meetings with Bible-thumping preachers. All these elements form the setting of The Night of the Hunter, his first novel, written when he was thirty-four. 

It was an immediate success — an excerpt from the review in the New York Times is typical: “Make no mistake about it, The Night of the Hunter is a thriller which commands one’s frozen attention. It is also a work of beauty and power and astonishing verbal magic.” It was nominated for a National Book Award. The public also took to it; it was best seller. Though its reception was the opposite of what the film received, it has been eclipsed by the film. The novel has slipped in and out of print, and who remembers Davis Grubb? None of his nine novels that followed Hunter got much attention. The story of the novel and the film is one of Fame/Obscurity and Obscurity/Fame.

Before he started production Laughton spent five days visiting Grubb, who would supply him with sketches which Laughton used for the storyboard. Some sources claim that Grubb was consulted on aspects of the filming, but it’s highly doubtful that he had actual participation in the making of the movie; directors almost always take full control. I found one source which said that Grubb was not pleased with the film version; he didn’t believe it was a true adaptation of what he had written. This one source is not substantial verification. But I reread the novel before re-watching the film, and I can understand why Grubb would be dissatisfied. An author — a good one, and in Hunter Grubb was very good — has a thorough conception of his characters and situations and the mood, atmosphere he’s after. When that conception is violated, he rebels. Of course, an author must acknowledge the limitations of film — primarily, it cannot enter the minds of the characters. Some plot driven novels are easily suitable for adaptations, but the emotional complexity of Hunter presents problems. The mind we occupy most intimately is John’s, and, as I noted, the twelve-year-old actor playing him had limited range in expressing emotion. But I believe that Grubb’s most pressing objection — one I had — concerns Mitchum’s Preacher. There are jarring moments throughout the film in which he acts the buffoon. It begins with his jokey manner in that opening segment. Grubb’s Preacher never joked; yes, he talked with the Lord, but it was done with seriousness. And, as the film progresses, Mitchum has Preacher manipulate the people of Cresap’s Landing by very transparent means; we see through his tactics — such as fake grief at his wife running off, which is obviously fake to us, but which the “rustics” accept. Grubb’s Preacher was a subtle, wily manipulator, and the “rustics” were no simpletons. There’s nothing funny in the novel. Nightmares give us no comic relief.

I have already cited Mitchum’s performance as one of the film’s strengths. But that portrayal of a monster is confined to when he’s dealing with the children. In those scenes — which form the dramatic core of Hunter — he changes gears as an actor. He becomes dreaded in his persistence, more ominous as his anger grows, and finally a raging beast. He’s the Preacher Grubb created.

How do we account for the two Mitchums? Did he read the book? — I doubt it. He was making another movie, a big budget affair, at the same time he did the low budget Hunter, and had to shuttle from one set to another (Laughton’s film was made entirely on a Hollywood lot). So this was, in a sense, a side job, and he was probably winging it. But Laughton did read the book, so he could have imposed his will on his actor (that’s what good directors do). Or did Laughton go along with the broad portrayal he sometimes got? Instead of saying “No, no, NO!” in instances of buffoonery, he may have encouraged it. Maybe he saw it as lively, entertaining, a bit of comic relief. If he did, it was a mistake. He violated the mood, atmosphere so carefully sustained in the novel. 

Though, that said, in most cases, with his shadows and askew angles, Laughton did capture the novel’s gothic feel, and in some sequences he follows the novel as if he were using it as his script. The episode that begins in the cellar and ends at the river is exactly as written. Here is Grubb’s description of Preacher’s reaction as the skiff drifts away, out of his reach: “and opening his mouth began a steady, rhythmical, animal scream of outrage and loss,” something as “old as evil itself.” Which is precisely what Mitchum gives us. And could not Grubb appreciate the beauty of what follows this scream, and which shows the ability of film to do things the written word cannot? Grubb has Pearl whisper a story to her doll, one about a pretty fly . . . Laughton has it quietly sung (dubbed by an adult, but in a childlike voice), and it becomes hauntingly beautiful. I previously described this whole sequence as “simply brilliant.” It’s not the only scene in the film that deserves that accolade. 

The novel is able to go much deeper into psychological aspects. John and Pearl are fortunate (how fortunate!) to be taken in by Rachel, that strong tree with many birds. Under her perceptive care John will recover — to some extent. But this is a boy who, at a very young age, has been traumatized. Not by one isolated incident, but by a long series of them. He makes a solemn vow to his father to take care of Pearl and to never divulge the whereabouts of the money; then he watches as the “blue men” (the police) wrestle his father to the ground; he knows that his father has been hanged for the murder of two bank employees; he hears the other children’s song (“Hing Hang Hung! See what the hangman done!”). And then comes the Preacher, and the prolonged pressure of a malignant and very determined force. 

His sense of reasoning becomes distorted. When he sees the Preacher captured as his father had been, he snaps emotionally. He grabs the doll his sister always carried, inside which the money is hidden, and rushes to where the Preacher lies on the ground; he throws the doll down, the money scattering, and screams: “Here! Take it back! I can’t stand it, Dad! It’s too much, Dad! I can’t stand it! Here! I don’t want it! I don’t want it! It’s too much! I can’t do it!” His father and the Preacher have become one. Which is, actually, in a sense true. What his father did to get the money is the precipitating act which leads to all that follows, and in this scene John rejects the role his father had imposed on him.

It’s all been a nightmare, and is, indeed, “Too much!” 

If the film has moments of beauty, so does the novel. Here are excerpts from the closing paragraph. As John prepares for sleep he senses, out in the night, a dark presence, waiting. In bed, “he lay still for a long while, heart thundering, daring not to look to see if the shadow man had been angered as before and had stayed, fixed to that white square of moonlight, watching, waiting, speculating before he moved on, singing down some fateful country lane among dream meadows that were breathless beneath the affrighted moon.” But John looks about at the familiar objects in the room, and assures himself that “the hunter was gone forever and the blue men would not come again. And so John pulled the gospel quilt snug around his ear and fell into a dreamless winter sleep, curled up beneath the quaint, stiff calico figures of the world’s forgotten kings, and the strong, gentle shepherds of that fallen, ancient time who had guarded their small lambs against the night.”