THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER (1955)
Dir. Charles Laughton / 93 minutes / Cert 12

Fifty-seven years on and this classic early noir thriller stands the test of time. Contemporary directors such as David Lynch, the Coen Brothers and Martin Scorsese have all acknowledged its influence on their work and it is clear to see why; to this day, it remains hauntingly unsettling (everybody knows that things are automatically more terrifying in black and white) and features one of the all-time great screen psychopaths in the form of Robert Mittchum’s corrupt preacher Harry Powell.

Powell gets his kicks by fleecing vulnerable widowers for every penny they’ve got and after sharing a cell with Ben Harper, a convict about to be hanged, he moves in for the kill on Willa, the easily-susceptible wife Harper leaves behind, intent on taking the money he has bequeathed her. All in the name of God, of course. Fooled by his religious credentials, Willa trusts Powell implicitly and they are swiftly married. However, Powell doesn’t reckon upon Willa’s two young children – John and Pearl. Fiercely protective of his sister, John is smart, plucky and instantly sees through Powell’s holy disguise and conceals the money in Pearl’s favourite doll. What follows is a taut, tense, chilling chase, as the children flee upstream with their mother’s killer in hot pursuit.

I’m quite surprised that this film only carries a ‘12’ certificate, as certain scenes are genuinely scary. This is due largely to Mitchum’s mesmerizingly sinister central performance; his presence is felt even when he’s not on screen; there’s a pervading, palpable sense of dread, an unshakeable anxiety that he’s somewhere close-by, lurking in the shadows, which makes the entire viewing experience nail-bitingly uncomfortable. Mitchum’s voice – phlegmatic, deep and commanding – further reinforces this (his delivery of ‘children’ is just gruesome), as to do the infamous and often parodied ‘L-O-V-E’ and ‘H-A-T-E’ tattoos on his knuckles. Watching him interact with the children is particularly disturbing – veering erratically from jovial and good-humoured (though there’s still something inherently creepy watching him fussing young Pearl on his knee) to murderous and crazed (I’m thinking the scene in the cellar with the knife…)

With the text containing all the ingredients required to make a nightmare, it seems appropriate that the film feels quite dreamlike – Harry Powell is the monster under your bed, the big bad wolf in the forest, the fairy-tale figure lurking in the shadows that all little children fear. The use of eerie, mournful, hymn-like songs (sung by Mitchum himself; who has a soft, oddly soothing voice) adds nicely to the fairy-tale atmosphere, as to do the long, lingering shots of nature in bloom - rabbits, owls, frogs, birds, gargling streams – which serve to remind us that darkness dwells beneath even the most misleading of surfaces (surely a metaphor for Powell himself).

The Night of the Hunter may have appalled critics and audiences upon initial release, but as with many great films, it often takes time to appreciate their greatness.

Nine and a half kernels of popcorn out of ten.