Academia tells us that art–for lack of a better word–allies itself with life, it helps us to make sense of the ambiguities which perpetually surround us, the trademark example being the musician inserting the beat which thereby makes the bird’s song perfect. Thus, no matter if a work is overly complex, such as James Joyce’s Ulysses, or comes in the form of a simple parable, such as Aesop’s famed tales, a narrative sets out to interpret life writ large. However, there is an inherent paradox in the Annals of Higher Learning’s critical assessment of aesthetic purpose: If art is to reflect life and life is admittedly a quagmire of confusion, how can one legitimately file a complaint that a work which posits no explicit stance or reading of its own subject matter? What of the works which replicate life so exactingly that, in their essence, they–like life–just are?
It is such cases as this, and in particular Robert Harmon’s The Hitcher, that we come to find this logistic inconsistency manifested. Roger Ebert complains that the film never issues a motive for its serial killer so as to flesh him out and give his audience a greater understanding of why he so willingly slays. Yet, herein lies the Shakespearian rub for, like life (and many killers for that matter), sometimes a rationale or m.o. isn’t present, unequivocal or otherwise. (Such criticism becoming ironic in that we are content with the impetus for zombism being vaguely hinted at in George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead as we sidestep and readily excuse how Hannibal Lecter retrieves the fountain pen in Jonathan Demme’s The Silence of the Lambs while never bothering to stop and question why we are under an ornithological attack in Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds . . . .) Therefore the deduction can be made that, by such a decree, the unspoken stipulation is that art is to imitate life, but none too much. Art can only be removed in so far that we can aptly discern that it is art. Perhaps this is why the medium of the documentary took so long before being recognized as an art form onto itself.
This isn’t to imply that the film is a work of staunch realism. As Ebert acutely observes, the feature is exaggerated to a nearly exploitative degree. The extents to which our stalker goes, and his successes along the way, almost snaps the thread by which our suspension of disbelief hangs. Yet this is more of the solution than the problem for all of the gruesome acts committed by our killer is no greater than the depravities found within the lives of Jeffery Dahmer, Albert Fish, or Armin Meiwes or the consistency and duration in which they perpetuated their crimes. Thus, by critical legislation, the unwritten rule is, if you must slaughter, do so mundanely so as to not make it alluring to an audience (perhaps a subconscious motive for the favoritism among academes for John McNaughton’s Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer given the general distain for the genre as a whole, and especially for the slasher/serial killer faction of film). And we wonder why, outside of the obvious God complex, why such acts and their perpetrators have mass appeal in lieu of the fact they are so far removed from the routine normalcy of an average individual’s life. On this note, I would venture to guess that most any murder bares at least a minuscule degree of the atypical. I’ll even go one more and state that Ebert was perhaps too conservative in his assessment of the production’s proceedings and state unequivocally that the events contained in the film are indeed exploitative, to the point of gratuity yet, even at this, few would argue that, more often than not, life itself is grossly superfluous.
The Hitcher is a picture which flies in the face of the seeming omniscience of academia for one senses that the work is good. (Yet another sign of a work’s greatness, it triggers a positive reaction on a subconscious level while the reasons for such cannot be readily observed.) It is obvious that Eric Red’s screenplay (which would be seconded in its competence the following year with Kathryn Bigelow’s vampire classic, Near Dark) is well written, controlled, acted, paced, shot, lit, and scored, yet does not exhibit the girthy requisite elements which would readily qualify it for greatness, i.e. the Aristotelian Universal. There is no overriding metaphor, philosophic insight, or psychological examination. Nary a juxtaposition occurs, nor are there wry instances of dramatic irony, an Achilles Heel, or even audience identification. (Note: The exception being that there may, or may not, be a very subtle undertow of homosexuality running throughout the work.) However, we do have character development but, natch, it goes in the opposite direction than what standard dictates a work must in order to house value as hope and redemption fall by the wayside before the final frame. With this in mind, Harmon’s work, much like life itself, merely is. Fortunately for the viewer, it is an instance in which its rhythms and beat coincide with its occupant where, just as readily (we often call these “off days”), everything could go wrong (the artistic equivalent frequently labeled the failed “art film”).
Ebert grumbles that bookend parallelism occurs as our protagonist and antagonist are aligned by the striking of a match. His grievance is that, though scathingly ironical placement has occurred throughout cinema’s long history, Harmon’s artistic presentation as such does not lend itself to anything in particular, that is, it does not get us any closer to an “answer” per se. Yet, this is the same individual whom, much like the upper echelons of thought (i.e. academia once again, for which he is the celluloid figurehead), demands that a work not be formulaic but nevertheless, when deviation from the standard cause-and-effect scenario does occur, a hand never raises in protest upon the appearance of an inherent contradiction. Interestingly, steadfast interpretation proves, once again, to be a perplexing monster in and of itself because, moreover, we can readily read the situation as being symbolic of the nonsensical coincidences which occur every second of the day. By attempting to apply stagnant, forced, molded readings upon a work, we find ourselves at a loss when something labeled “X” refuses to fit succinctly into the box labeled “X.” Such is the consequence of rote criticism for, though such esteemed individuals as Ebert renounce black-and-white state of affairs (the Chicago critic even tosses in the phrase “good and evil” during his Zero Star review), they petulantly refuse to accept that just because Hitler wore pants that not everyone who wears pants is a fascist dictator. So it goes.
Ebert even hints in his statement that the work is not a “standard story of teenagers in love,” a plot which he obviously would have preferred because we have pre-set ideas, expectations, and demands for such a storyline. A similar desire for work which obliges cookie-cutter expectation occurs in the concluding paragraph, when the critic laments that a “real relationship” (how non-descript is that?) is never set forth between the sparing parties (again, we get the idea that a cowboy and Indians dichotomy of right and wrong is being, not requested, but demanded). This is when you begin to realize that just because it isn’t included in an introductory film text, it doesn’t mean that such doesn’t exist and, more importantly, is any less devoid of merit if it usurps the status quo and has the audacity to rear its ugly face. Though the author escapes me at this time, as the old adages attests, a methodology, cinematic or otherwise–like a book–is to serve as a guide, to clarify and aide much like spectacles, but the mistake should never be made that one’s eyeglasses are the sole source of what is being witnessed, for such action will create, as we have seen and continue to see all too often, shortsightedness.
And, this is why a work like The Hitcher is a ready-made failure for such audiences as the Harmon’s production flies in the face of posterity as it adamantly persists in gaining new audience members throughout the years, much to the critic’s chagrin (but not confusion, for such people innately know there is a problem with their dogmatic aesthetic systems of interpretation but are too prideful to admit that the basis for their being is flawed). The true joy comes when, after such works continue to persevere and, over time, gain in popularity, the critic may feel obligated to “reevaluate” the work, as Ebert has notoriously done with Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner. (Maybe it merely comes down to Roger just not liking Rutger Hauer, who plays the villain both the sci-fi epic as well as in The Hitcher.)
Perhaps the most perturbing aspect of Ebert’s stereotypical, predictable disenchantment with Harmon’s film is that he pauses ever-so-slightly, possibly sensing that, like Blade Runner, he might be forced to humble himself at a later date if he posits an absolute assessment concerning The Hitcher despite the fact that a Zero Star rating pretty much speaks for itself. (Such is succinctly and readily exhibited in his excessively ambiguous review of Quentin Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction–another work which readily, contentedly resides outside the easily controlled, normative realm of critical assessment, as least upon its first cursory glance). Toward the end of his diatribe upon Harmon’s film (he quickly reverts back to his lambasting, the sequent line including the phrase “diseased and corrupt”), Ebert states that the work is an allegory. He does so without following up with an explanation of such as he hurriedly shuffles to his conclusion. Many critics did the same with Tarantino’s masterpiece (long ago Ebert became the litmus, not just for audiences, but critics), in most cases justifying their vague applause via the filmmaker’s obvious creativity and genius with dialogue, the only steadfast facet of the feature which such reviewers could readily pinpoint as being phenomenal while never attempting to state anything else of merit in which to support their accolades. We ignore the theme of redemption being one of Pulp Fiction’s overriding motifs but, alas, such individuals clocked in, said their piece, and have proof that they too showed up for work that day. Just in case . . . .
And it doesn’t hurt that Pulp Fiction, one of American Film Institute’s inclusions in its “100 Years, 100 Films,” isn’t a product of the bastard genre called horror.
So, in the end, one could easy ask, “What’s the point?” If The Hitcher mimics life so exactingly that the line of demarcation cannot be cast between the film and its source material, i.e. life, why bother? In my humble opinion, I believe the question begs the point and, thus, might well contain the answer as to why the feature has such prowess. As such, it seem as if some assessors of cinema are only willing to work an 8-hour day, regardless if the job requires overtime. The misfortune is instances such as The Hitcher where people come to the likes of Ebert for reliable, insightful criticism and are instead met with lethargic, limited analyses which deprive, not only the artist, but his audience of a great experience.
Now, considering that the specifics of the film, even its plot, have been eschewed for over 1,000 words, I will leave with this: It is often said that many avoid the field of the thriller or horror altogether because it is seemingly impossible to hit a high note and hold it for the duration of a feature-length film. (To be fair, it takes the director a full six minutes before he pounces upon his audience, thus the tension is maintained for 131 of 135-minute running time, only 97 % of the film proper.) Only Hitchcock (Ope, did you hear that? That was the sound of elitist ears pricking up.) is regularly given such credit and, at that, only sporadically. Yet, though no one can say that Robert Harmon doesn’t accomplish such in The Hitcher, we nonetheless had to invest the largest portion of the review examining why the production, not only defies convention, but sidesteps interpretation itself while continuing to transfix audiences. So, should you see the picture?
But then again, the film might just be another piece of escapist schlock which just happens to fall together in the right order, creating an atmospheric, enchantingly claustrophobic (via being set amid the deserts of Texas in that, though we have the Great Wide Open in which to roam and escape, the desolation of the landscape leaves us naked and exposed at every turn) enigma unlike any before or since. Who’s to judge?
-Egregious Gurnow
- Interview with J.R. Bookwalter - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Andrew J. Rausch - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Rick Popko and Dan West - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Director Stevan Mena (Malevolence) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Screenwriter Jeffery Reddick (Day of the Dead 2007) - January 22, 2015
- Teleconference interview with Mick Garris (Masters of Horror) - January 22, 2015
- A Day at the Morgue with Corri English (Unrest) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Writer/Director Nacho Cerda (The Abandoned, Aftermath) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Actress Thora Birch (Dark Corners, The Hole, American Beauty) - January 22, 2015
- Interview with Actor Jason Behr, Plus Skinwalkers Press Coverage - January 22, 2015
