Review - The Hitch-hiker (1953)

January 10, 2018

The Hitch-hiker – U.S., 1953

In Ida Lupino’s 1953 film, The Hitch-hiker, the faces of the lead characters are crucial to the film’s themes of survival and resilience. Perhaps this is why for the first few minutes, we see almost no faces at all, the first one being that of a suspect in a wanted poster. And what a face he has – rectangular; scared by a rough, yet mostly unexplained set of awful life experiences; one eye permanently open, making it difficult to make out whether he is asleep or awake, a perfect symbol of the permanent presence of danger in post-World War II America.

Early in The Hitch-hiker, the villain, later revealed to be Emmett Myers (William Talman), accepts the generosity of two men traveling somewhere near the Mexican border, and their faces are equally telling. When we first see them, their eyes and head seem to hang low, and there is an exhaustion in their bodies and almost joylessness in their expressions. These are men who have been worn down, first by the war and then by the peace. In them, we see loss and perhaps longing. The first smile we see spreads across one of their faces as he thinks about his previous jaunts in Mexico. In other words, the past, not the present, is his source of satisfaction.

As the film progresses, Emmett’s face remains recognizable, giving us a sense of the permanence of evil and credence to the notion that some of those that embrace it are utterly irredeemable. The faces of the two victims, Gilbert Bowen (Frank Lovejoy) and Roy Collins (Edmond O’Brien), become almost unrecognizable, and in the utter disappearance of the features we saw initially, we get an excellent assessment of the mental changes each character is undergoing. In the case of Collins, that change is particularly drastic.

As the film progresses, the focus expands slightly. While the majority of screen time is devoted to the plight of Bowen and Collins, Lupino intersperses their story with the perspective of law enforcement in both the United States and Mexico. We watch as they pick up clues, talk to the few witnesses there are, and form a picture of their location and possible destination. Interestingly, we, as well as Myers, also learn a lot about Bowen and Collins from these scenes, and while the film does not ask us to make a moral judgement of them, it does give their situation an added sense of tragedy. If they had only gone where they told their wives they were going…

In a surprise, Lupino and her writing partner, Collier Young, never fully explain Myers’ ultimate goal. In fact, he ends the film no less of an enigma than he was when it began. To me, this was a wise choice. Without a motive, Myers becomes a symbol, a physical representation of the horrible fate that may await us even as we go about doing what should be safe, routine actions – in this case, picking up hitchhikers. In a way, the film is the horror version of Jack Kerouac’s 1957 novel On the Road, a tale prophesizing the end to Sal Paradise’s “naïve” way of traveling cross-country, as well as an early precursor to Javier Bardem’s killer in No Country for Old Men.

Lupino gets excellent performances from her lead actors, yet what is most remarkable about the film is her crafting of a noir-ish world of light and shadows. At key moments in the film, faces are almost entirely obscured, and what light we do see streaks across just enough of the face to reveal the characters’ eyes or disheveled beards. The result is eerie. We feel as if we are watching something authentic. Add to it, the chilling dialogue that comes out of Myers mouth (at one point, he tells his prisoners that they are going to die – it’s just a matter of when), and the sense of dread is palpable. And it says something about Lupino that she was willing to end the film with ambiguity. Our heroes walk away not into the safety of authorities or the waiting arms of their loves one, but rather into the pitch black night, into an uncertain future, and a world utterly shattered by the ever-present nature of evil.

The Hitch-hiker is often referred to as the first noir film to be directed by a woman. Frankly, we’ve lost too many films for this statement to be verifiable. However, what is particularly galling about it is that it seems to suggest that The Hitch-hiker is some sort of novelty act, one more important for its place in history rather than its quality. Do yourself a favor, and rid yourself of such notions. The Hitch-hiker should not be watched as if it were a museum artifact; it deserves to be seen and felt for what it is – a tense, gripping film that gets under your skin and makes your heart race. I felt for these characters, and I found myself concerned for their well-being. Lupino created that, and in doing so, earned a place in film history not as the first female so-and-so, but as a skilled storyteller and an accomplished crafter of worlds. I can’t wait to discover her other films. (on DVD)

3 and a half stars

Review – High Sierra

July 28, 2011

High Sierra – U.S., 1941

The 1940s saw the release of two films that would later be called prime examples of film noir: Billy Wilder’s 1944 masterpiece Double Indemnity and Raoul Walsh’s High Sierra, released three years earlier in 1941. What further connects these films is the fact that they were made at a time when film studios were under strict orders to follow a list of restrictions that came to be known as the Hayes Code, The code essentially spelled out what could and could not be depicted on screen. How Wilder got Double Indemnity through, I’ll never know, but the film remains as powerful today as it did upon its initial theatrical release. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said about High Sierra.

Part of the problem with High Sierra has to do with one of the rules of the Code, the one that states that villains could not get away with their crimes, no matter how realistic it would seem if they did. The consequence of this rule is that a character like Roy Earle, someone who goes the extra mile to avoid making simple mistakes, inevitably begins slipping up. He starts staying places too long or visiting people he shouldn’t. Perhaps obstacles begin to be thrown at him for no apparent reason – perhaps his contact is away or he has to wait an extra day for what’s owed to him - anything to prevent a getaway. It works in Double Indemnity; it just seems tired and desperate in High Sierra.

Yet there’s another important distinction between these two films. Double Indemnity never tries to be cute or funny. Its two characters go ahead with their rather fiendish plan, only to see it all come crashing down in a series of plausible, earthly events, culminating in one of the more poetic downfalls in American films. High Sierra goes down another path, one involving a furry creature who is supposedly a harbinger of bad things to come. In fact, as one character explains it, each of this creature’s former owners has met an untimely death. Does this stop our hero from picking him up and bonding with him? Of course not. Writers John Huston (yes, that one) and W.R. Burnett therefore had a choice: they could make the dog a legitimate device for foretelling the fate of the central character, or they could dispel the myth and depict fate as something that people actually have a hand in deciding. If they chose the latter, then there would actually be little point in including the creature in the film in the first place. If they opted for the former, the film would likely begin to assume a degree of predictability at some point, which is unfortunately what happens with High Sierra.

This is regrettable, for the film has one of the most promising beginnings of any film I’ve seen in a while. It begins with a convicted criminal named Roy Earle (Humphrey Bogart) being pardoned by the governor and deciding to spend his first moments of freedom walking though a park looking at the lush green grass and the tall trees. Later, we learn that he grew up around nature, and it’s clear that it holds a unique place in his heart. We get the sense that he’d like nothing more than to live out the rest of his life on a farm near a lake. Reality intrudes, of course. In no time at all, he’s off to head what he’s told will be an extremely lucrative caper at a popular hotel in the mountains. On the way, he meets a family affected by the depression and finds himself drawn to Velma (Joan Leslie), a sweet twenty-year-old woman with a club foot.

As the film goes along, we see evidence of two divergent generations. Many of the older generation see beauty in nature, value hard work, and have codes they live by. A gangster from Earle’s generation would never bring women along on a heist and would never use someone who had the nasty habit of talking too much. Times have changed. The younger generation, at least those of the male species, is more easily distracted by beautiful women and more easily unnerved by the blare of police sirens. The older generation endeavors to persevere during trying times; some of the younger generation would rather spend their days dancing to the sounds of swing than toiling for hours on a farm.

The second woman to enter Earle’s life, Marie (Ida Lupino), also belongs to the younger generation, but she does not exactly fit the description above. She has no use for petty infatuations or ridiculous acts of bravado that seek to prove just who is manlier than whom. However, she’s also in a precarious situation - far from home, alone with two gentlemen, one of whom is jealous and has a violent streak. In Earle, she sees not only a decent man but also a protector, and she makes her move at what she thinks is the right moment. He disappoints her, though, explaining, “You couldn’t ever mean nothing to me – nothing special, that is.”

It’s interesting that both of these ladies are from the same generation (Lupino was 23 when she made the film; Leslie was apparently just 16) and that both of them have had to face difficulties. One gives every indication of having retained a degree of sweetness and optimism; the other has been hardened by her dealings with some rather unscrupulous people at a “dime and dance” joint in the city. To be with one of them, Earle would have to live a lie. The other would accept him as he is – past and all. Guess which one he prefers.

Eventually, the time for the caper arrives, and it is every bit as exciting as it should be. To say things do not go off without a hitch would be an understatement. For some people, the film’s finale will be exciting; for me, it was simply predictable. However, throughout the film, Bogart’s performance is top-notch. At times, he plays Earle as if he were a wide-eyed, naïve young man who believes in the innate goodness of everyday people. At other times, he approaches things with the kind of calm, no-nonsense, calculating mind that the most skilled in Earle’s profession have. That’s the Earle that has no place for love. It’s the former Earle that believes it is possible for someone like Velma to reciprocate his affections. Lupino and Leslie are also very good in the film. However, recognition should also go out to Henry Travers, who plays Velma’s grandfather, “Pa.” Travers scenes with Bogart are particularly special, and the bond their respective characters form feels remarkably authentic.

High Sierra is well acted, and it remains interesting throughout. The dog upsets the pacing somewhat, and the role of Algernon, a somewhat stereotypical African-American character who reminded me a bit of Steppin’ Fetchit, may make contemporary audiences sigh and roll their eyes. We were truly living in different times back then. Fortunately, time has been kind to the rest of the film. It’s still rather exciting to take a trip to the High Sierra. Corny but true. (on DVD)

3 stars