THE NIGHT OF THE HUNTER Explained: The Death of Innocence

In 1931, an anonymous neighbor reported a complaint to the police about a “bad smell” coming from Powers’ house. It quickly became clear that the crimes of this unassuming used furniture salesman went far beyond bigamy and defrauding gullible women. The Night of the Hunter.

Powers was a master of words; his letters went straight to the hearts of women craving affection. When they arrived at his doorstep, often accompanied by children, Bluebeard would immediately imprison them in his specially prepared basement. He killed the children right away, while the potential wives were starved and tortured, forced to write out check after check. He was convicted of five murders: Aster Eicher and her children, Greta (14), Harry (12), and Anabel (9), as well as Dorothy Lemke. It is highly probable that he had many more victims.

You sentenced me for five, what difference would fifty more make?

Drenth was sentenced to death and hanged on March 18, 1932. Until the very end, he remained silent, showing no emotion—neither remorse, nor fear, nor any other. During the trial, he looked at the shocked audience, as the newspapers put it, with condescension and disdain. He described the murders methodically, coldly, without any sign of involvement.

“I wanted little Harry Eicher to witness the death of his mother and sisters, but he started screaming so terribly that I was afraid the neighbors would hear. So, I quieted him with a hammer.

In 1953, David Grubb had finally accepted that his color blindness would prevent him from becoming a world-famous painter, and he fully dedicated himself to his second passion—writing. He combined the story of Powers with his mother’s memories, who, during the Great Depression, had been a social worker and a witness to many tragedies, both of adults and, especially, children. The result of this combination was the bestseller The Night of the Hunter. Thus, Harry Powell was born—the cinematic equivalent of Bluebeard from West Virginia.

Between Powers and Powell, there are many similarities, but there are also crucial differences, especially concerning motivations and character. The first noticeable difference is, in a sense, a nod to the rules governing the silver screen. While in reality, Powers had plenty of time to seduce his victims with long letters filled with romanticism and belief in true love, Powell strikes directly. If he were more like the real Powers, poor Willa would have likely run away screaming, rather than seriously considering his proposal.

However, Powell does have the advantage of first impressions: Robert Mitchum’s grim, masculine beauty, which is far more effective in a real-life encounter than the puffy face and watery pig-like eyes of the original. If someone were to create a stereotypical image of a murderous degenerate, Powers would be a perfect fit. This is how people might want to imagine a serial killer, but unfortunately, they often appear painfully ordinary or even attractive (think Ted Bundy). Powers’ lack of physical attractiveness was compensated by his charisma and eloquence, traits shared with both men. Henry Powell exerts a hypnotic influence on those around him, particularly on women. In Robert Mitchum’s portrayal, Powell resembles a sociopathic cult leader, able to convince his followers of almost anything while preaching his twisted gospel. One of the most famous examples in history of such a leader was Jim Jones, the head of the Peoples Temple, who initiated the largest religiously motivated mass suicide in history—more than 900 people died. Another was self-proclaimed prophet David Koresh—the Waco siege in Texas, during which 76 members of the Branch Davidians and four agents died, remains one of the most reluctantly recalled chapters in FBI history.

Like them (and many other inspired preachers), Powell raises the banner of God and faith high. We meet him during a casual chat with the Creator, to whom he speaks with a friendly familiarity—according to the Reverend, they are old buddies, hand in hand, fulfilling a shared mission. Powell complains to God about his fatigue, because in the service of the Almighty, he must deal with the less pleasant aspects of his work. No, he’s not referring to killing—after all, killing is an inseparable part of the Bible, so it must please God. What Powell finds unbearable is the necessity of interacting with women.

This is the first interesting element of Powell’s character. We know nothing of his past, but when we see him during an erotic performance, observing the sensual dancer on stage with unspeakable disgust, we get some insight into his personality. Powell associates the feminine ability to seduce with lies and harm. The motion of his hand, as he opens the knife, carries an almost sexual subtext. His desire to kill becomes a substitute for sinful sexual intercourse, as well as an expression of punishment for equally sinful women—those who lead men astray, like the harlots of Babylon, fully enslaved by corruption. As Saint Jerome, the Church Father, once wrote:

Husbands live like cattle, and intercourse with women makes men resemble pigs and other senseless beasts.

But… exactly. For some reason, Reverend Powell has wandered into this low-rent theater and is watching the scantily clad dancer, even though it would be better for his pure thoughts to avoid it. This suggests that Powell’s motivation, clothed in religious context, has a personal basis, likely stemming from deep resentment related to a woman—most probably his mother—and (again, probably) a distorted model of his parents’ marriage, where the father could not provide the material satisfaction the woman sought. Powell is greedy and hungry for money, but that is an added value for him. His greatest satisfaction comes from suppressing and manipulating the woman who married him.

Even on their wedding night, Powell mocks her desire for intimacy, and then proceeds to manipulate her mind to the point where she adopts his views as her own. A key scene shows Willa publicly taking the blame for the crime of her first husband, a scoundrel who killed two people, stole money, and burdened her with the secret of their young son. Why did he steal? Because of her—because she demanded clothes and lace, that’s why. Fortunately, God, in the form of Reverend Powell, allowed her to repent and see the depth of her own sin. Willa doesn’t even resist the final blow; she accepts her fate as something she deserves. Powell kills her, but had he demanded she commit suicide, she likely would have obeyed just as eagerly as the members of Jim Jones’ cult obeyed him.

The Reverend is an expert in his craft—he knows exactly which emotional strings to pull. He manipulates with equal skill through words and form—intonation, emphasis, and emotional blackmail. When necessary, he can be charming, seducing with his beautiful voice and offering extravagant compliments. Take the example of the teenage Mary, through whom he tries to gain access to Rachel Cooper’s home, where Willa’s children are hiding. She shouts her love for Powell, convinced that he is “different and extraordinary,” even as he is being dragged to the gallows and all his crimes have come to light.

The facade behind which Powell hides, all the religious trappings, is suffused with falsehood and is, in fact, incredibly fragile. Robert Mitchum plays this brilliantly, especially in key moments where he goes overboard, shedding crocodile tears and chanting slogans. Yet, people believe him because they want to see in him someone he is not; because their supposed faith is mostly for show (Icey Spoon), they desperately want to be loved (Mary), they’ve lost their sense of security and are searching for a fatherly substitute (little Pearl), or they fear tomorrow and loneliness (Willa). Powell, on the other hand, fails when confronted with authenticity and truth.

He cannot break young John or deceive Rachel Cooper, who sees through him in an instant. She, too, engages in dialogue with God, but unlike Powell, she is guided by true Christian virtue—and we know her by her “fruits.” The contrast between these two motivations is excellently showcased in the scene where Rachel and Harry sing the same religious hymn—he, lurking beneath her window, and she, vigilantly sitting with a shotgun in her lap. Powell preys on falsehoods and shamelessly exploits weakness. For him, hate and love are identical, and whatever he tries to sell in his signature story about the battle between the two, he kills with the very hand on which he has tattooed the word “love.”

First and foremost, Powell is genuinely angry, frustrated that, in order to achieve his own (and divine) goals, he must wallow in the mire of female company and childish nonsense. And this raises a crucial question: Did Powell enjoy killing? His historical counterpart, Powers, certainly did—he was a sadist who derived pleasure from hearing screams, torturing people, and tormenting children in front of their mothers. He crafted a career out of it, seeking wealth while indulging in his twisted passions along the way.

With Powell, it’s different. It seems that he doesn’t necessarily enjoy killing (the act of murder is a means to an end, through which he derives satisfaction), but rather, it doesn’t bother him at all. It is simply a convenient tool for removing obstacles. So, what does he actually enjoy? As the title suggests: hunting. He enjoys searching for an opportunity, putting his plan into action, proving his views, removing unnecessary baggage once it has outlived its use, collecting the reward, and then vanishing into the distance. Willa (and likely any other woman) serves him only as long as he has completely broken her. Then, after reaffirming how weak and sinful women are, he discards her. This would likely have happened much faster were it not for John’s heroic resistance, who understood the weight of his words. In the face of true honor, the Reverend’s tricks had no chance of succeeding.

There is another interesting motif that we can reflect upon in the context of Harry Powell, namely the comparison between his character and that of young John. The Night of the Hunter is, after all, primarily a story about the final death of innocence and the tragedy of children caught in the selfish machinations of adults.

John bears a responsibility far too heavy for his age and cannot count on anyone for help. Even Uncle Birdie fails him at the moment he needs him most. What kind of child could Powell have been? What did he see? What was expected of him? How did he become disillusioned with the people who should have cared for him and ensured that he remained a child for as long as possible? The relationship between John and Harry, especially in the context of Rachel Cooper, ultimately leaves us with a question that inevitably arises: Who could Henry have grown into if someone like Rachel had appeared in his life at the right moment? And conversely: who would John have become had she not appeared?