Do you love dark cinema like we do?
Detour
Low budget does not impede this iconic film noir, and its use of internal monologue is inspired.
FILM NOIR/DARK CINEMA
written by Gary Svehla
7/22/202516 min read


This iconic film noir opens with a point-of-view shot of the driver navigating a rural highway, complete with turns and twisty curves. After the credits end, a disheveled man, wearing a well-worn suit, tie pulled loose, and shirt unbuttoned at the neck, showing signs of road wear, is walking down the highway. Hitchhiking, he thanks the man for picking him up, but now it's time to get out of the car.
This man, Al Roberts (Tom Neal), finds himself in a roadside diner in Nevada drinking coffee. A man approaches him, asking if he needs a ride because the driver needs someone to talk to during his ride, or he’ll fall asleep. But Roberts is offended by his constant questioning and non-stop gabbing, so he blows the man off. When the driver plays something on the juke box, Roberts is about to explode and yells, “Will you turn that off, will you turn that thing off!” Roberts yells that the music stinks. But the driver paid for the song, saying it’s a free country. Roberts finally calms down and accepts the tune. He sits staring with dread on his face.
“ That tune … why is it always that rotten tune … beating in my head, never letting up! … Did you ever want to forget anything? Did you ever want to cut away a piece of your memory? You can’t, no matter how hard you try. You can change the scenery, but sooner or later, you’ll get a whiff of the fume … somebody will hum something. Then you’re licked again! … I used to love that song once, so did the customers in the old Break o’ Dawn Club back in New York. I can’t remember a night when I didn’t get at least three requests for it … those were the days,” Al thinks to himself.
Roberts remembers playing piano in a small orchestra at a nightclub in New York, backing up a blonde singer, with people dancing. He sits at the bar, remembering, pain on his face, “It wasn’t much of a club. You know the kind. A joint where you could have a sandwich and a few drinks and run interference for your girl on the dance floor. I pounded the piano in there from eight until the place closed up, which usually meant 4 a.m. It was a good job. There was Sue (Claudia Drake), who made working there a little like working in heaven. How we thought about each other was no different; there was nothing unusual in that. I was an ordinary healthy guy, and she was an ordinary healthy girl … you get an ordinary healthy romance … all in all, I was a pretty lucky guy.”
Film noir is often criticized for offering on-screen narration, a feature that initially drew criticism for the initial print of Blade Runner and many other films. However, film noir offers this trope, allowing the masses to enter the protagonist’s mind and read his inner thoughts. No other film genre leaned so hard on this technique. Yet, spoken narration displayed the inner torment and desperation so effectively, offering such creative lines of dialogue. Detour employs the method to supreme effectiveness; most of the movie is composed of such inner monologue. However, it is precisely this aspect of filmmaking that is used so effectively here, namely, the balance between dialogue and the visual background. Often, filmmakers use a close-up of the human face to significant effect in presenting this monologue. However, as we will see, director Edgar G. Ulmer employs creative flourishes as a backdrop to the use of a vocalized inner voice. He makes the visual background just as necessary as the dialogue.
Sue talks to Al and encourages him, telling him he’ll make it big, while he says, "Unless I get arthritis first.” He says he has to get out of this joint, and the couple exits. Walking along in the fog, Al mentions getting the marriage license, but Sue tells him she loves him, but she doesn’t wish to be married now. “Only after we made it good!” Sue says. Sue says she first wants to go West to California and try her luck in Hollywood. “That’s the most stupid thing I've ever heard of. Don’t you know millions of people go each year and wind up polishing cuspidors? I thought you had a better sense.” Al accuses her of breaking up their plans. Director Edgar G. Ulmer approaches this sequence as a series of separate scenes, some of which focus on street lamps or street signs; occasionally, the couple’s dialogue is shown without their presence. Instead of one cohesive walk, we have a montage of fog-shrouded individual scenes. Some scenes show the young couple almost completely hidden in the dense fog. One recalls the effective dialogue as well as the visual fog-shrouded city streets.
With Sue leaving for the Coast, poor Al sadly plays emotive piano at the club. Al receives a ten-dollar tip from an impressed customer. He decides to phone Sue in Los Angeles, only to discover she’s working as a hash-slinger, and tells her that she should go to every casting office until she finds the right one. He decides right there to see her in California, “Don’t try to stop me, just expect me. Train, who knows … but I'll be there if I have to crawl, if I have to travel by pogo stick. Let’s get married right away … that’s what I wanted you to say. Bye for now. I’ll see you soon!” Then we see Al thumbing across the US, unable to afford any other form of transportation except hitchhiking.
“Money, you know what that is … the stuff you never have enough of … little green things with George Washington’s picture that you slave for, commit crimes for, die for …,” Roberts’ voice narrates against a background of thumbing numerous rides westward to reach Sue. “You never know what’s in store for ya, you hear the squeal of brakes. If only I’d known what I was getting into that day in Arizona.” A car stops to pick Al up; a man tells him to put his bag in the back seat. Al climbs into the front, silently staring ahead. “You know, Emily Post ought to write a book of rules for guys thumbing rides. Because you never know what’s right and what’s wrong. We rode along for a little while, neither one of us saying anything. I never know what to say to strange people driving cars. You can never tell if a guy wants to talk. Many rides have been cut short by a big mouth. So I kept my mouth shut till he opened up …,” Al thinks.
At last, the man, Charles Haskell, Jr. (Edmund MacDonald), speaks, asking Al how far he’s going. Al says he’ll expect to arrive in Los Angeles in a few years, given his luck with rides. Perhaps afraid of “stick-ups,” most people don’t stop these days. Driving along, “I guess at least an hour passed before I noticed those deep scratches on his right hand. They were wicked, three puffy red lines about a quarter inch apart,” Al reflects. Haskell says, “Beauties, aren’t they? They’re gonna be scars someday. What an animal!” Al replies, “Whatever it was, it must have been pretty big and vicious to have done that!” Haskell adds, “Right on both counts. I was tussling with the most dangerous animal in the world—a woman! … Certainly wasn’t a draw. You know, there ought to be a law against dames with claws!” But Al is delighted that Haskell is driving to Los Angeles, and he offers to share the driving. The two men converse about battle scars and their encounters with unpleasant women.
The two men stop at a diner to get something to eat, Haskell paying all the way. He talks about leaving his family at an early age and other sundries, while Roberts eats. Then Roberts drives all night while Haskell sleeps. After a while, Roberts starts to feel sleepy and imagines Sue singing for a big band, realizing that his dream of reaching the Coast is almost within reach. Suddenly, it begins to rain, and Al tries to rouse Charles to stop and raise the top. But Haskell is in a deep sleep. Al stops to put up the top; the rain is now pouring. Again trying to rouse Haskell, he opens the car door, and Charles falls out, hitting his head on a rock. Haskell is dead. “I know what you’re going to hand me before you open your mouth. You’re going to tell me you don’t believe my story about Haskell having died, and don’t make me laugh, expression, and that smug face … I saw at once he was dead. Who would believe he fell out of the car? People would think I clunked him over the head for his dough. Yes, I was in for it. Instinct told me to run, but I realized it was hopeless … there were lots of people down along the road who could identify me, including the gas station attendant and the waitress. I would be in a worse spot than saying why I beat it.” Roberts briefly considers telling the police the truth, but that would be crazy. “They’d laugh at the truth.”
“I had my head in a noose! So what else was I to do except hide the body and get away in the car… My idea was to cover him with forest debris, but if I even drove the car for 100 miles or so, I would need money for gas.” Roberts decides to take Haskell’s license and identification, along with the cash, for added protection. To resemble Haskell, Roberts steals his clothes and puts his own on Haskell. Returning to the car, he is greeted by a motorcycle cop who reams Al for stopping on the road instead of pulling off further. But he’ll let him go this time. Al throws his suitcase in the gully, so if the body were to be found, they would think it’s the body of Al Roberts. And then he drives away.
Stopping at a gas station in the promised land of California, he spots a woman hitchhiking along the road and offers her a ride. Haggard with wind-blown hair, she reluctantly approaches him. Driving off, Al comments, “Man, she looked as though she’d just been thrown off the crummiest freight train in the world. Yet despite this, I got the impression of beauty. Not the beauty of a movie actress, mind you … but a natural beauty, a beauty that’s almost phony because it’s so real.” She says her name is Vera (Ann Savage) and she is going to Los Angeles. After 20 minutes, she falls asleep in his car, and looking at her, he stops disliking her and starts to feel sorry for her. He thinks that the poor kid probably had a rough time of it. Then she suddenly awakens and gets accusatory and says, “Where did you get this money? Who’s the owner of this car? You’re not fooling anyone. This money belongs to a guy named Haskell. That’s not you, mister!” Al offers to show him ID, but the ranting Vera says, “It just so happens I rode with Charlie Haskell all the way from Louisiana.” Al knows, “My goose is cooked! It was just my luck picking her up on the road. It couldn’t have been Helen, Mary, Evelyn, or Ruth. It had to be the very last person I should have met.”
“I told her everything, but she didn’t believe my story. I should have saved my breath.” Vera says after he tells her the story, “That’s the greatest cock and bull story I ever heard. So he fell out of his car! Who do you think you’re talking to, a hick! Listen, mister, I’ve been around and I know a wrong guy when I see one. What did you do, clip him with a wrench? … What makes you so sure I’ll shut up about this?” Roberts, almost begging, says, “I’m innocent, give me a break?” Vera continues spitting out her dialogue like a machine gun. “It would do me no good having you pinched. The police are no friends of mine. Now, if there were a reward … but there isn’t … let’s see that roll.” Vera expected closer to $3,000 since Haskell bragged about placing that kind of bet on the horses, and she thinks Al’s holding out. Vera says, “You have all the earmarks of a cheap cook! You’re a cheap cook, and you killed him. For two cents, I’d change my mind and turn you in. I don’t like you! I’m not getting sore, but remember who’s boss around here. If you shut up and don’t give me any arguments, there’s nothing to worry about. But if you act wise …,” Vera admits Haskell was the man she scratched.
Roberts tells Vera his plans to desert the car when she asks if he’s going to sell it. Vera snaps that he’s stupid, a dope, because any deserted vehicle warrants an investigation. “The only safe way to get rid of a vehicle is to sell it to a dealer.” And she plans to take 100 percent of the profits.
Now driving in Hollywood, a few hours later. “It struck me that besides being at the end of the trip, there was a greater distance between Sue and me than when we started out,” Al comments. Vera and Al register for a small apartment under the name Mrs. Charles Haskell, so the car dealer wouldn’t become suspicious of them using different names. Vera says you take the couch and I’ll take the bedroom. And then she shows him the Murphy bed behind the closet door. Vera wants to get “tight” that night, making a few passes at Al, which he rejects. She tells him to relax and make the best of things. “You’re lucky to be alive, well, suppose Haskell had pulled open your door,” Vera comments. “You’d be playing a harp now, think of that!” Then Al declares, “We bored each other with conversation for a couple of hours longer. Every five minutes, we wished we had another bottle, radio, or something to read. Then, finally, we ran out of chat,” as Vera exhibits a nasty cough. Then Vera puts her hand on Al’s shoulder and says in a sultry manner, “I’m going to bed.” And Vera explodes when he again rejects her. When Vera soon retires to her bedroom, Al brings the phone over to his table and dials Sue very quietly. Sue answers by saying hello multiple times, and he ignores her. Al purrs, “Not yet darling, tomorrow … maybe!”
“If this were fiction, I would fall in love with her, marry her, and make a respectable woman of her. Or else she would make some supreme class A sacrifice for me. But Vera, unfortunately, was just as rotten in the morning as she was the night before. The duo is riding around to check out used car lots, wondering what they could get for the car in terms of money. Vera wants to buy a fur jacket, but Al reminds her that after the car deal, he is going his separate way. “I guess I’m getting used to you,” Vera smiles.
They finally arrive at a used car lot, which features a sign that reads, “Cash For Your Car.” The salesman (Don Brodie)comes out to greet them. The salesman offers $1600 at first, as Vera complains, saying, “Sixteen hundred, are you kidding?” Then, walking completely around the car, the salesman offers $1850. And Vera complains more. “For $1850, I’d wreck it and collect the insurance!” The salesman complains that the motor has been subjected to extensive driving. “Well, the mechanic has inspected the car. We haggle. We’re all worn out and we hit a compromise, his price,” staring at Al, who gets out of the vehicle to shake hands. Al goes inside to sign the paperwork, while Vere cleans out the car.
When the men go inside, Vera still complains about the $1850 price, “That dirty crook!” And then she finds a bracelet on the car’s dashboard. Inside, the salesman raises a question about insurance, but there’s no paperwork for it. Then Vera comes in and grabs Al, telling the salesman they are no longer selling the car. “You got me out of a tight spot, Vera. I still don’t understand all this,” Al says. Then Vera tells him to pull in at this diner, and she’ll explain all. It’s the kind of diner where you are served in your car. Al says, “Get this, Vera, I’ve been pretty patient so far, I’ve done everything you asked me to do, but no more. You can have Haskell’s money. You can get the dough from selling the car, but you can’t keep me a prisoner.” Then Vera forces him to read a newspaper headline: “Charles J. Haskell Sr., Noted Sports Enthusiast, Lies Close to Death After a Three-Week Siege of Bronchial Pneumonia, Efforts Being Made to Locate Son, Charles J. Haskell, Jr.” “No, I won’t do it!” Al firmly declares. But Vera insists that he will. At this point, the waitress delivers their lunch. Al says they would never get away with a ruse like that: “They’d be wise to me in a minute.” But Vera tries to persuade him with the facts, including that Haskell hasn’t seen his son in 20 years. “Vera, I’ll do anything within reason, but not that. Forget it, find yourself another stooge.” Vera says the estate is worth $15 million. She offers to split it 50/50.
“But as much as I insisted I would have no part of her scheme, Vera was taking it for granted that I would,” Al thinks to himself. The duo plays cards, but they both silently wonder about the paper’s next edition. Al considers the adverse scenario if he gets caught, and he wishes Vera to consider the benefits of selling the car and taking the money. Vera states,” I'll take the chance.” Al shouts out, “You’re being a goon. That’s the way people remain behind the eight ball. Once they get a few dollars, they become greedy and want more.” Vera becomes disgusted with Al’s banter and says, “I’m tired of this game, let’s play some blackjack.” Al dares Vera to call the police, and he says, “Call ’em, see if I care. At least they’ll give me a square deal. I’ll warn you, if I’m pinched, I ‘ll say that you helped me. If I fry, I’ll get even with you … call ’em. Vera proceeds to call information to get the police telephone number, but Al grabs the phone, saying, “Wait a minute, Vera, you wouldn’t do that … take it easy, let’s talk this over.”
“This was early in the evening. The conversation, while hectic, was at least pitched low, but as the minutes passed, more obstacles to our plan popped into my head. The air got blue. Each word coming from our lips cracked like a whip. I reminded her that as Charles Haskell, I didn’t know my mother’s name, where I’ve gone to school, the name of my best friend, whether I had an Aunt Emma or not, my religion, if I ever owned a dog. I didn’t even know what my middle initial stood for. I also pointed out that the real Haskell had a scar on his arm.” Similar to the foggy street sequence, which served as the backdrop for some pithy dialogue, this sequence is supported by scenes of silent action between Al and Vera. Close-ups of the duo reaching various states of high tension, visuals of Al grabbing Vera on the sofa, and she returns a vicious slap to the face. Al grabs a bottle of liquor and pours a drink for Vera, finally holding her hand.
“His people never saw that scar. He told me he ran away, just putting out the kid’s eye … The old man’s dead or will be. I hope by tomorrow’s morning papers. For that kind of dough, I’ll let you cut my leg off.” Vera ends up drunk, struggling with Al to grab her arm to protect himself. Vera rants, “I hate you … leave me alone!” She demands the phone to call the police. In a baby doll face of innocence, she states, “You hurt me.” Then the old temple returns, and she expresses that she’s hot and wants to open the window. Returning to her little girl voice, she cues, “You’re no gentleman.” Then, when Roberts. She feels sorry for her and opens the window. She grabs the phone and runs into the bedroom, closing the door and locking it.
Al begs for Vera to please open the door. Wrapping the telephone cord around her neck in a playful way, she says, “I don’t like you, Roberts, you’re no gentleman, see, you hurt my head, and I’m going to get even with you. Half drunk, Vera falls on the bed, nearly unconscious, and Al demands that Vera let him into the bedroom. He grabs the phone cord and yanks it, in a jerky motion, finally pulling it with all his might. And then, banging open the door, he sees Vera lying dead on the bed, the cord still wrapped around her neck.
“The world is full of skeptics, I know, I’m one myself. The Haskell business, how many of you would believe he fell out of the car? Now, after killing Vera without really meaning to do it … How many of you would believe it wasn’t premeditated? And in the jury room, every last man of you would go down shouting that she had me over a barrel and my only out was force. The room was still. So quiet, that for a while, I suddenly wondered if I had gone deaf … Vera was dead and I was her murderer, what an awful word that is.” The visual background for all this dialogue, created by director Edgar G. Ulmer, consists of a pivotal shot of Vera lying dead, shown in the dresser mirror, blurry slow-moving photography of the room featuring Vera’s corpse (why do her eyelids flutter?), at first moving blurry shots but slowly in-focused still ones of her body, the telephone, her make-up table, a bottle of liquor on a small end table, Vera’s empty shoes, an empty present box with flowing tissue, her black coat, the wall mounted phone connector, finally winding up on the face of Al—such a grand marriage of classic noir dialogue and intense visuals.
Thinking about all the witnesses that could identify him, Al states, “I was cooked, done for! I had to get out of there (slowly hanging up the receiver beside Vera’s corpse) … this time I was guilty … I was like a guy suffering from shock … things were running around in my head … I couldn’t make myself think right … all I was thinking was of a guy with a saxophone and what he was playing … it wasn’t a love song, it was a dirge.” Putting on his hat and coat, almost trance-like, Al exits the apartment. “My problems weren’t solved. I had to stay away from New York for all time. Al Roberts was listed as dead and had to stay dead. I could never go back to Hollywood, someone might recognize me as Haskell. And then there was Sue. I could never go to her with a thing like this hanging over my head. All I could do was pray she’d be happy. I was in Bakersfield before I read the girl's body was discovered. The police were looking for Haskell in connection with his wife’s murder, isn’t that a laugh! Haskell was getting me into this mess, and Haskell was getting me out of it. The police were searching for a dead man. I keep trying to forget what happened. And wondered what my life would be like if that car of Haskell’s hadn’t stopped. But one thing I don’t have to wonder about. One day, a car will stop to pick me up. Fate, or some mysterious force, will put the finger on you or me for no good reason at all.” End titles appear as Al is picked up by a highway patrol car cruising down the darkened highway.
Detour belongs in a top ten list of film noirs, a film made by PRC, the cheapest of all the poverty row studios, and this film is probably their best. The idea of being cursed by fate for no reason is one of the pivotal ideas of Detour. Everything that happens to any one of us happens by chance, without having rhyme or reason. The performances of Ann Savage and Tom Neal as the two star-crossed degenerates are essential to the movie’s success. The stunning direction, performances, and theme of an indifferent destiny, aided by Tom Neal's internal dialogue, all contribute to this essential film noir classic.




ANN SAVAGE AS VERA AND TOM NEAL AS AL ROBERTS
AL ROBERTS ACCIDENTALLY KILLED VERA BY STRANGLING HER WITH THE TELEPHONE CORD, WHICH WE SEE IN THE MIRROR.
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