A Night's Tale

I watched Night of the Hunter this weekend, which was by turns one of the eeriest and most beautiful movies I've ever seen. NOTH tells the story of Harry Powell, a psychotic self-proclaimed preacher portrayed to creepy perfection by Robert Mitchum. Fresh out of prison and on the trail of his executed cellmate’s stash of stolen money, Powell briskly finds and marries the cellmate’s widow (Shelley Winters). He then sets to terrorizing her two children, John and Pearl, hoping to learn from them where the money is hidden.

After disposing of the wife in a very un-preacherlike manner, Powell pursues the children as they escape via rowboat, setting up a dreamy trip downriver away from the evil of Powell and into the loving care of Rachel the good (Lillian Gish), a surrogate mother for scraggly looking orphans and runaways. Supposedly, Night of the Hunter is an adult version of a child’s fairy tale, and that is perhaps the best way to describe it.

Night of the Hunter will be shown on TCM on November 20. I’m trying to come up with a “Night of the Rachel Hunter” joke, but it’s not working.

Twelve years ago, Mr. Moran, an English teacher and drama club advisor at my high school, lent me his copy of the movie. I returned it a few weeks later, never having bothered to watch it. After I graduated, he accused me of never returning it, and finally admitted almost a year later that I had. I’ve always been kind of annoyed at him for not believing me, but now I’m more annoyed at myself for never having watched the movie, which was complex and at times confusing—and I can imagine Mr. Moran dissecting it for me, arms flailing, voice raised, Chesire-cat grin from ear to ear. It’s a conversation I would have enjoyed. And a few years ago, Grandpa Al Lewis smiled at me while we were both waiting to board a flight to Orlando. That's another conversation I regret not having.