High Sierra (Movie Review)

It seems somehow trite that the last two Humphrey Bogart movies I've reviewed centered around the Sierra Madres.

But I'm at the mercy of Netflix in that regard... not to mention, we could blame writer/director John Huston for the overlap.

This particular film, High Sierra (1941) was written by Huston and directed by Raoul Walsh. It once again positions Bogart as the loveable bad guy — an alignment which brought to mind a research paper I once wrote concerning how American entertainment historically varies from what you'll find abroad (particularly in Japan).

I won't divulge that paper's findings (and how they compare to actual crime statistics), out of fear of ruining the ending to High Sierra. Suffice it to say I'm always intrigued by any medium that justifies (whether intentional or otherwise) violent crime by making the bad guy sympathetic. I don't mind this so much and, in fact, admire the complexity. But it's precisely these shades of gray that warrant accusations that Hollywood glorifies violence.

Here's what I mean: in High Sierra Bogart plays bad boy Hoosier, Roy "Mad Dog" Earle. Earle is a big-time thief, a la John Dillinger, whose exploits earn him a certain degree of celebrity. At the film's opening, he's being pardoned and released from prison after serving time for a particular heist.

Given his prison sentence carried him into his "graying-hair" years, one might suspect he's ready to turn his life around to avoid serving more time. But not Roy Earle! Earle is determined to help crime boss "Big Mac" pull off one final heist to set himself for life. Only then will he actively pursue a life free of crime; settle down with a nice woman; et cetera et cetera.

This is, of course, a bad decision. And Hollywood knows as much: here's where I partially retract this review's opening sentiment, as High Sierra doesn't so much glorify violence as it apotheosizes the guy who resorts to violence. It makes him human; sympathetic; identifiable. And yet: still villanous. I respect that, even if I do find it to be counter-productive in terms of moral imperative.

And so, an aging Earle takes a liking to a 20-something smalltown girl with a club foot. He admires her innocence more than anything, and finds purpose in trying to care for her. But as Charles Bukowski tells us, love isn't all it's cracked up to be. And we see Earle struggling with this, the experience of which makes him all the more sympathetic. You grow to respect him; admire him; and even, yes... feel sorry for him.

He's the bad guy you want to win. The Robinhood gangster who steals from the rich to make himself richer... and a few lucky poor people a little better off as well.

How could you not like him — or the movie itself, by default? There are some hokey scenes and some terrible goofs. But the contradiction at this film's core makes it sufficiently entertaining.

As for those aforementioned goofs...

One was bad enough that it completely changed my expectations for a potential subplot: Earle introduces himself to a financially depressed farmer, Pa, simply as "Mr. Collins." And yet when Pa and Earle meet up later, Pa immediately takes to calling him Roy: this to me implied a pre-existing connection between the two that would be explained later... or a recognition that Pa knew who Earle really was. Either way, neither is ever explained in the film. When I researched this later, I found that most view this to be an enormous faux pas in the script.

I'm leaving out a lot of the film's highlights: from the bad luck pooch, Pard, to the highly offensive portrayal of a black man (Algernon), this film-noir isn't without dimension... or "good" ol' fashioned sterotypes.

Good (but not great) for a lazy Sunday spent catching up on cinema classics.