The Night of the Hunter: Redefining "Childlike Innocence"

In the early 1960s, American professor and psychologist, Lawrence Kohlberg developed what is now considered to be a fundamental cornerstone of understanding humans and morality. He introduced a model by which human beings start out determining what is right and wrong based on which course of action elicits the least punishment. Successful movement through this model sees a person gradually becoming motivated by principles, not simple reward or punishment, and Kohlberg anticipated that a person did not achieve this stage until adulthood, if ever.

How the Grinch Stole Christmas (2000)

    This is interesting because the media likes to cast children as vessels of uncompromised goodness that adults could only ever hope to emulate. Their purity forms the bedrock of much of American conversation. Because the future hinges upon their innocence, efforts to preserve their unblemished state can go to any length. You can justify any number of actions as long as you are doing it “for the children.”

The incentive to ban the teaching of critical race theory and the history of slavery in the U.S. in public schools, for example, is often done under the guise of protecting children from the darkness of the world, even though there are more discernible motivations for doing so. This is why some media scholars, like Henry Jenkins, adopt the stance that childhood innocence is mostly a construct invented for and weaponized by adults.

None of us were really self-aware enough to measure at the time whether we had a greater reserve of virtue before we could do algebra, and I don’t know if any of us as adults really know how to access the mindset of our childhood now. But it is perhaps useful nonetheless to track where this image of childhood morality comes from, whether or not it has any root in reality, and what it has to do with the world that adults leave for children.

Which brings us to Charles Laughton’s 1955 film, The Night of the Hunter. 

Though this film was written off as a critical and commercial failure when it premiered, it is widely recognized today as a masterpiece. David Kehr wrote of the film in 1985, "...it is a film without precedent and without any real equals." If there were only one film that made the case for black and white movies (there definitely isn’t), it would be this one. Here, the competing lights and darks amplify the overarching conflict between good and evil at work in this story. Because at its heart, the film is a look at the nature of good and evil and where children fit into it.

Based on the novel by Davis Grubb, The Night of the Hunter both indulges in this mindset of childhood innocence while also demystifying it. On the one hand, the film leans hard into the notion that children are these living temples of goodness. The film’s final scene has Lilian Gish's character remarking to herself, “When you're little, you have more endurance than God is ever able to grant you again. Children are man at his strongest. They abide.”

    That sentiment isn’t itself anything new. What makes this film’s thesis on childhood so remarkable is how it exposes an irony in the way childhood strength emerges--usually it's despite the involvement of adults, not because of it.

Here, childhood isn’t a tranquil garden. It’s a battlefield. If children are in fact helpless, it is because they are left to fend for themselves by systems that claim to defend them from malicious forces. Is there anything more frightening for a child than the possibility that the people who are supposed to protect you might choose not to simply because it is inconvenient? 

    There’s a scene in the movie, for example, when the bad guy has our child protagonist alone in the house and is trying to pressure him and his little sister to give up a secret. This looming figure says these words to the eight-year-old: “Speak, or I'll cut your throat and leave you to drip like a hog hung up in butcherin' time.” This is probably the most terrifying thing a child can hear from the baritone chords of Robert Mitchum, even if your face isn’t stuffed on top of a barrel with the blade of a knife on your neck. But it’s even more frightening because the audience knows that if he were to tell a grown-up that a well-loved member of society said these words to him, they would not believe him. The kid is a very specific kind of helpless here.

So today we’re going to use The Night of the Hunter as a springboard for our discussion on childhood innocence: where does it come from, and what actually threatens it? And does that maybe say something about what it actually means to be a kid in today's world? And to help assuage some of our adult guilt, we’ll parse through some thoughts about how adults can make the world a place that is genuinely safer for children. 

Intro to Night of the Hunter

  At the heart of this story are two children, John and Pearl, living on the riverbank during The Great Depression. Their world is changed when their father robs $10,000 from the bank, killing two men in the process. Their father hides the money in Pearl’s doll, forcing both of them to swear to never tell anyone where the money is hidden, before he is taken away to be executed.

            The driving force in this film is that of a ruthless murderer, Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum), who wanders along the Mississippi river under the guise of a noble preacher. He marries helpless widows and then kills them for their money, all the while under the belief that he is doing God’s will. When Powell catches scent of the money, he makes John and Pearl’s widowed mother, Willa (Shelley Winters), his next target. 

    The community at large is instantly taken by Powell’s charisma and commanding presence, while John is immediately distrustful of his surface-level gentility. His suspicions are quickly proven right as Powell starts to pressure John into telling him where the money is hidden. John is resolute, but Powell only encroaches further, even convincing Willa to marry him--only to kill her once she grows too close to the truth. Powell fabricates a story about her running off, and the town immediately hails him as a salvific figure for taking in her kids, and suddenly there is nothing standing between Powell and the children.

Powell torments John and Pearl until Pearl confesses that the money is hidden in the doll, but John and Pearl make an escape and flee down the river in a small raft. They are eventually found by an elderly woman named Rachel Cooper (Lilian Gish) whose home has become a refuge for orphaned children. Rachel takes both of them in and keeps them safe for a time, but Powell eventually closes in on John and Pearl. He attempts to invade Rachel’s safehouse in the middle of the night, but Rachel holds her ground. Powell is brought to justice, and John and Pearl are finally free to live their lives in peace.

    The story itself takes place during The Great Depression along the riverbanks of West Virginia. But the film aspires for a dreamlike texture in its cinematography that counters the dustiness of the story’s backdrop. You see that with the film’s striking use of light and dark, in its liberal use of mist, in the way it plays with forced perspective, in those unearthly shots like when we see Willa’s hair sprawling around her lifeless body in the water like the river weeds.

Arguably the film’s most iconic sequence has John and Pearl drifting down the river after escaping from Powell. You’ll get these really haunting shots that have small creatures like frogs or dragonflies really close to the camera, magnifying their size relative to the raft far out in the river and creating this distorted landscape that feels caught halfway between a dream and a nightmare.

    The film has been described as a fairy-tale set in the real world. That extra layer of magic supplied by the visuals and tone is what allows the story to access that experience of being prey to a real-world monster. Moreover, that coalition between reality and fantasy further exposes the artifice of its own divide: the grown-up mind says, "there are no monsters, kids," and this is precisely what allows monsters like Powell to terrorize the voiceless and vulnerable here in the real world.

Act of Violence (1948)

    It is thought that part of maturation is learning to deal in nuance and not sorting people or ideas into strict binaries, especially concerning such multi-faceted machines as good and evil. This is sometimes true. Maybe even often true.

    Other times, though, this impulse only works to obscure certain realities--to diminish a character's true wickedness by couching it in "complexities." It's only when the story unfolds in this dark fairy-tale that we see things as they really are. A creature like Powell cannot be accurately described as the complex product of a thousand psychoses or as the natural conclusion to certain conditions predicted by his socio-economic station. He is simply a monster. We see him at his clearest when he is crowned in the jagged shadows raking the frame, his thundering footsteps echoed in the pounding of the brass orchestra. Harry Powell is a monster.

   But The Night of the Hunter also takes a different angle on childhood compared to something like To Kill a Mockingbird. Both situations juxtapose the innocence of childhood with the violent ecosystem of adult living. But "Mockingbird" assumes that children remain in a state of obliviousness until awakened to its harsh realities--say, the aggressive racism of smalltown America--by their environment. The Night of the Hunter puts children ahead of most adults in their social awareness by exposing how the machine of grown-up living is fueled by the intentional obliviousness of adults.

    Which brings up the question ...

Why Do Adults Suck?

Part of the media’s worship of the moral purity of children can be traced to an adult envy of the way children are free of the burden of having to earn their keep. In theory, children have all their needs met by their parents and do not have to brave the social, political, and economic battlefield to stay afloat the way their parents do. Because of this, adults are more in a position to take an "ends justify the means" mindset that opens the doors to moral shortcuts or compromises.

Beasts of No Nation (2015)

     In stories that do feature children being forced into taking disturbing actions out of self-preservation, the shock factor is magnified by our context of children being incapable of such moral depravity by virtue of their innocence. Children should not be capable of doing the things their parents do, right?

For adults, staying a part of the economy entails a lot of things. Actually attaining work is only the first step. You have to continually renew your good-standing in society by proving to everyone else that you still belong in the game. In a perfect society, this would be as simple as just doing your job well, or just being a good person, but that’s not the world we live in. You have to say the right things and to the right people. Staying in touch with the “in” group can compel a person to comply with any number of absurdities or paradoxes if that’s how the whims of the ruling party sway. 

     The Emperor’s New Clothes folktale by Hans Christian Anderson models this dynamic clearly. In this story, the pressure to prove that one is special motivates not only an entire kingdom but also the king himself to believe that there are invisible clothes which can only be perceived by the most elite. It takes a child, unencumbered with the need to prove one’s status, to point out that the king is actually naked.

    You also often see this phenomenon parodied in sitcoms where the characters have to put on some embarrassing charade in order to advance or even just hold onto their career. Pick an episode of FRIENDS or New Girl, and if the conflict isn’t about a one-night stand, it’s about adults having to abase themselves to keep their apartment or their paycheck. This scenario is often played for laughs, but there is a real darkness to this model as well. Adults will go along with almost anything if it keeps them on the lifeboat.

     Meanwhile, children remain subject to a state of helplessness by the simple fact that for the adults in their lives, it does not advance their station to believe their cries for help. If it comes down to protecting those most in need of their help or staying with the in-group, children are almost always left hanging. This is exactly what happens with John and Pearl when the big bad wolf comes knocking.

           Powell assimilates into society so well because he has learned how to play into its appetite for prosperity and elitism. His made-up gospel is the “new clothes” that only the most sophisticated are supposedly able to see. They don’t want to see this man as anything but upstanding because he has them convinced he will lead them to heaven. It is by this logic that the adults in Powell’s crowd convince themselves that this charismatic, eloquent stranger is a worthy tether.

    And Robert Mitchum's casting is an essential thread here, bringing a very specific kind of charisma. Not the electricity of a rock star that would capture the imaginations of the young, but a sort of authoritative magnitude that would sink their parents. Harry Powell knows just how to charm that generation which believes itself to be impervious to charming. 

    I used to think that the ill-intended actors of the world used primarily eloquence and fanciful language to build their empire. But part of what life has taught me is that sometimes it doesn't even take that much for charlatans and demagogues to capture the minds of their flock. Powell's "hate and love" charade is ... there's just nothing to it. But he performs it with such gusto that the entire ice cream shop is convinced that this is just Homeric level mythology.

    John is able to see through Powell because he has no interest in status or his own elevation. But one thing that makes The Night of the Hunter stand apart from other media depictions of children is that it doesn’t draw a straight line between literal children and this kind of purity.

    The character of Pearl has fascinated me since my first viewing of the film. As the younger of the two children, you’d think that Pearl would be even more in touch with this transcendent innocence that seems so intrinsic to childhood, but even though she can’t be older than five, Pearl seems to be already infected with a sort of worldliness. Pearl is constantly seeking after the approval of adults who gift her sweets or tell her what a sweet little doll she is, and she is generally one step away from telling Powell where the money is.

What we learn from Pearl is that innocence can be stamped out of a child if the adults in their environment condition them a certain way. Pearl has been taught to seek after the approval of adults who care little for her interior life and just see her as this little doll they can dress up. Yet even as Pearl’s world has fitted her to be a little adult, she is still naive to the predations of forces that would do her harm, which leaves her vulnerable to someone like Powell. None of this is really Pearl’s fault, she is doing exactly what her culture has trained her to do, which only further reveals how adults disempower children through their own pursuit of status.

    Pearl’s characterization makes further sense when you look at her mother, Willa. She has little sense of autonomy or even individuality, and, perversely, this is exactly why she thrives so well in her corner of society. Her community prizes passive wifehood as the ultimate aspiration for a woman, leaving little space for individual identity.  

    The tragic thing is that Willa does show signs of awareness, but her environment actively quashes her questioning spirit and cauterizes the means by which she might defend herself. Why should she question why this handsome stranger wants to graft her to him so suddenly? So Willa does exactly what her community expects of her, which is tragically very little, and this ultimately plays into her downfall.

In media that looks honestly at the plight of children, a recurring theme is the way in which children become casualties in the wars waged by adults, often having to pay for the sins of their fathers themselves. In this film, John becomes the inheritor of his father’s cross when his father makes him promise to never tell where he hid the stolen money.

    John’s father may have stolen this money with the intent of protecting his kids, but the fact remains that if he had not stuffed Pearl’s doll with all that money, Powell would have never gone after John and Pearl. This comes back to the way that the pursuit of money, even when done in the name of children, creates a world that is perilous most to the children who are least prepared to defend themselves.

The Paradox of Children's Films

The Florida Project (2017)

When you think about what children in this world are expected to endure, it is telling that some of the most striking film depictions of childhood are themselves not “appropriate” for children. That's not a slight against the Moanas of the film world, but movies like The Night of the Hunter reveal the paradox of childhood innocence and childhood resilience.

           This is a common thread that Guillermo del Toro likes to track in his movies, Pan’s Labyrinth being a prime example. This film sees a young girl, Ofelia, in 1940s Spain coming of age against the backdrop of civil war. Ofelia and her mother move into the home of her new stepfather, the heartless Captain Vidal, just as he’s on the precipice of crushing the rebellion, and it’s there that she discovers the gateway to a magical underworld.

    This world is enchanting, yes, but it’s also filled with frightening creatures. The hanging irony being that this underworld of fairy-eating monsters is not nearly as frightening as the “real world” Ofelia lives in, one that allows monsters like Captain Vidal to come into positions of power. (Incidentally, Del Toro has also listed The Night of the Hunter specifically as one of the greatest influences on his work.) This dark and violent work of film somehow becomes the most honest window into childhood.

    To be perfectly clear, I am not campaigning that any of us try to jumpstart our kindergartner's real-world education by screening Texas Chainsaw Massacre for family movie night. The presence of gratuitous content is not really the thing we're talking about. What makes movies like Pan's Labyrinth or The Night of the Hunter remarkable exists on a more thematic level.

These films show how children are vulnerable by virtue of their lack of experience with the real world, but they are also disadvantaged by existing in a world where they are expected to sit still and never raise their voice. They are chastened for speaking against the prevailing authority, even when the prevailing authority is wrong or even wicked. John is chastised both by his mother and the other adults in the community for being cold to Powell while Ofelia’s mother doesn’t understand why Ofelia is constantly reading those fairy-tale books.

Netflix' A Series of Unfortunate Events (2017)

    Popular media has created a whole subgenre of children’s stories wherein disobedience is a duty, almost a rite of passage. In these stories, the child characters come up against the bland conformity so readily embraced by adulthood and are put in positions where they can reject it or accept it at the expense of their soul, possibly their safety. At the start, these children may even make bids for help from the adults in their support system only to be left unattended, often because the adults do not wish to believe them. 

     And this is where there is some credence to the idea that children may in fact be morally superior to adults. But the kind of moral lifeblood embodied by characters like John or Ofelia doesn’t come from “innocence,” from having never experienced anything trying. They were good in spite of the machinations of the adults in their life. They did what the older generation never would.

    Unfortunately for us all, even the most honest child is going to grow up one day and become folded into machine of adulthood. Until we can find and implement a system better than the one we are currently living in, every kid is one day going to have to figure out what it means to hold onto their light in a world that runs on darkness.

So, is there a way for a person to make the transition without losing their soul?

Childhood and Faith

    I want to talk about “faith” as a facet of childhood because that is a virtue often linked as innately childlike. The attribute is often discussed in a strictly religious context, and the channel for that link is certainly in this film's dialogue, but the movie also offers a portrait that is more comprehensive: faith as belief in anything not readily visible to our physical senses. 

    Stephen King’s IT puts forth the idea that children are in many ways stronger than adults because as kids they are more willing to believe in things. They haven’t been hardened by the economic systems that may advance one’s social standing but deaden one’s idealistic impulses. The book muses that as children grow up, they "... become either incapable of faith or crippled by a sort of spiritual and imaginative arthritis ..." Indeed, treading water in the unforgiving current of the adult economy is enough to make anyone cynical. And so it makes sense that “faith” would feature in a film about the endurance of children. But this film presents faith both in a strictly moral sense as well as a religious sense.

           If you’re like me, you’re maybe a little tired of seeing the religious figure always portrayed as a menace (or else an oaf) in mainstream media. And some Christian groups did protest the film upon its first release, but as a practicing believer, this movie has never struck me as being antagonistic toward religion. (Neither, I think, does the film look down on or exclude those who profess no faith.)  The film exposes how religious language can be twisted to serve wicked ends, but its treatise is also a lot more nuanced than certain groups were willing to give credit in its day.

For one thing, the film differentiates between faith and blind faith. John embodies faith in its barest sense, loyalty to a truth that is not readily discernible to the temporal eye but reveals itself through earnest searching. You see this in the way he chooses to oppose Powell, and also take care of his sister through their trial, despite receiving little support from his environment. Meanwhile, the adults, specifically the ones who fall for Powell, demonstrate a blind faith in Powell simply because he makes them feel elect.

          Compare those adults to Rachel Cooper. Unlike Powell who preaches the gospel of flattery, Miss Cooper actually emulates Christ through her actions. She becomes a sort of haven for forgotten and abandoned children, including John and Pearl. She's not a person of religious authority, but she is a practicing believer and drops scripture almost conversationally, and not in the dainty parodic way you see almost uniformly in contemporary media. Through her, you see what it looks like when religious living does what it sets out to do. If the film casts Powell as the devil or else this monster, then it frames Miss Cooper as an angel, dressing her in lots of heavenly light, like she has her own halo.

            Rachel emerging as a vessel of genuine goodness makes sense in the context of how adults are painted in this film. Unlike other adults we see, Rachel gives very little concern to worldliness. As an unmarried woman of her age living in the 1930s, one who presumably manages her farm by herself, she is transgressing society’s space for her. She doesn’t appear to aspire to great wealth. She’s not out to elevate herself, and she’s not trying to impress anyone. She’s only here to protect those who can’t protect herself.

    This is also why she is so quick to recognize Powell for what he is. Unlike the adults who shut John down for calling out Powell, Rachel believes John’s accusations and becomes their fiercest defender. One could say she has faith in John.

    Even when you look at more straightforward children's films, the adults who emerge as genuine allies for the child characters, they tend to have certain things in common. Mary Poppins, for example, actually has a rather sterile view of ideas such as the supposed fragility of children. Rather than trying to coddle Jane and Michael, she urges them to challenge adult absurdities and conventions. Her ethos sees her making friends with the London chimney sweeps or encouraging children to see the bird lady at the steps of the bank, people Jane and Michael's father would urge them to ignore or discount. And it's this liberation from adult, capitalistic pursuits that enables them to follow her on these fantastical adventures.

The secret about childlike purity is that it doesn’t have to disappear once a person crosses the threshold of adulthood. Certainly, playing the game becomes a little harder once you have to navigate a system that rewards sycophancy over altruism. We can assume that Rachel has had some trial and error along the way (there is some subtext about Rachel being estranged from her adult children). But her emergence as a guardian to the children is encouraging to those of us looking how to not just be good but be champions of little things.

    A lot has been lost in trying to chemically preserve a child's "innocence." Perhaps instead, we ought to start trying to help kids hold onto their faith.

Leaning On the Everlasting Arm 

Society has a real hot-and-cold reaction toward childhood. On the one hand, most political battles are fought on the backs of children. At the same time “reclaiming childhood,” often reads as deliberately frustrating the maturation process in some way.

The process has also accrued some consumerist undertones which tend to turn people off of the whole idea. (Golly, if only someone would write an essay about the healthy consumption of nostalgic properties in a capitalist-driven world …) I think this is a mistake because even once you’re bogged into the swamp of adulthood, there is value in asking yourself why there ever was such moral envy of children to begin with.

Stand By Me (1986)

     I don’t think it’s as simple as kids being more naive or blissfully ignorant. I don't think that's really what we miss about childhood. Neither do I think that the solution is as simple as buying more plushy toys. It has more to do with returning to a mindset where being nice and honest just felt more natural.

  Anyone who lives long enough to make it to adulthood is inevitably forced into the battleground of moral compromise and monsters, but we can be mindful in how we play this game. We can choose to be good over savvy. We can avoid playing into the hands of the Harry Powells of the world. We can advocate for a world where children are not made to prove their goodness before their time--and not against monsters whom adults have a responsibility to fight against. 

At some point, the walls that protected us as children are inevitably going to fall down and we all have to confront the natural evils of the world. We can’t help that. We can’t even control when they fall or whether we are “ready” when it happens. What we can control is whether we carry that goodness with us, and also whether we leave the way better for the children who walk the path after us.

            --The Professor