The Shepherd of the Hills (1941)

Dir.: Henry Hathaway
Plot: The arrival of a stranger in an Ozark mountain village changes the lives of its residents, especially that of a young man out for revenge.


Let me start by saying that I've always got a huge kick out of seeing pre-50s colour films, simply because many wonderful actors were rarely (and sometimes never) shot in colour, and were usually past their prime when they finally got around to it. So it was an especial joy to catch this early John Wayne picture because wow, does the boy look good in Technicolor! He had the most beautiful eyes, and being able to appreciate them in colour changes his whole aspect. He plays second fiddle, however, to the Ozark mountains (or, as is rather more likely, rural California), which fills the screen with resplendent forest scenery for the duration of this utterly bizarre melodrama-cum-parable-cum-Western.


For starters, the plot is decidedly hinky. It starts with some malarkey about moonshining, which is apparently irrelevent to what follows, seeing as it never gets mentioned again. Wayne plays a young man whose father ran out on his now-deceased mother before he was born. Raised in an isolated mountain community by his embittered aunt (Beulah Bondi), he is raised to believe he carries a 'curse' which can only be lifted by the avenging of his mother. He is by nature a peaceful sort, so this mission to find and kill his father is not particularly attractive to him, nor to his sweetheart (Betty Fields), but he sticks with it because...hey, curses, right? Cue the arrival of a mysterious stranger (the delightful Harry Carey) in town, and despite an initial confrontation over some land, his kindness and compassion win over a village unused to interlopers. Even Wayne starts to become drawn towards the kindly old man... If you can't see where this is going, you may need brain spectacles.

Gee, they look just like each oth-- wait a cottin' pickin' minute

It isn't just that the movie's obviousness makes it a bit lacking in tension, because there's plenty else to enjoy here. It's more that the film constantly strays out of the vague classification of Western into bizarre business with magic rituals, old crone-y cackling about hexes and general spooky goings-on. In the end, it all gets a bit... well... it feels wrong to say this about something starring the Duke, but... camp. I mean, I can handle the notion of a 'curse' - that's sort of explicable. And I can just about handle the self-rocking chair in ye olde haunted cabin - probably just the wind, right? But when it comes to Beulah Bondi in full-on queen of the damned mode making a ring of fire around her brain-damaged son ... count me out, or at least call me back when you get Vincent Price. And don't even get me started on Marjorie Main regaining her sight and Marc Lawrence regaining his speech within ten minutes of each other...  Added to which, all the characters speak in this bizarre combination of grammar-impaired Appalachian ("I kin nivver tell if he's fightin' agin yer, or furr yer" remarks the glamourous Fields with no irony whatsoever) and adjective-laden purple prose. It's like every character was made to swallow the complete works of William Faulkner and it gave them food poisoning.


I admit that I haven't been able to resist being cheeky about the film's weaknesses when in fact I actually enjoyed it. That's mainly because it has a barnstorming cast. John Ford must have gone away on holiday and asked Henry Hathaway to water his stock company, because they're all out in force: Wayne, Carey, Ward Bond, John Qualen, plus several faces familiar to the Western fan - Marjorie Main (in an uncharacteristically soft-spoken role), Samuel S Hinds, Fuzzy Knight. And all of them do an excellent job, just about patching over the flaws in the narrative. Although his character is thinly and somewhat vaguely written, Harey Carey Sr. must be one of the most infectiously likeable human beings in cinema history. Just his facial expressions communicate enough to endear him to an audience as anyone who remembers him as the President of the Senate in Mr Smith Goes To Washington can testify. He works well with Wayne, who gets to exhibit a rarely-seen gentleness, and they helpfully share a striking physical resemblence. Beulah Bondi is simply one of the best actresses to come out of the classic era, able to go from sentimental mother-dearest to hard-faced battleaxe as the roles required. Here she is firmly of the latter sort, chilling as the bitter and twisted matriach of the unfortunate clan, and utterly convincing. 

Unfortunately, there was no Jimmy Stewart around to turn this frown upside down

What with all these Fordian actors buzzing around and the folksy setting, this film is often mistaken for one of the big Irish jerk's own products. However, there are a few things that give it away. For one thing, the creepiness of the hillfolk isn't quite at Deliverance levels, but it's certainly way past Ford's shameless romanticism. These are backwards, insular people whose hostility is lessened rather than quelled by Carey's good deeds. The code of honour which demands Wayne kill his father is shown as unnatural and wrong, a product of ignorance and superstition. Ford's universe was built on codes such as these, and to undermine the concept the way Shepherd does would be very hard to synthesise with his worldview. When it comes down to it, Ford's gaze adores simple, rural folk and Hathaway's is repulsed by them. And I don't care what hokum story they tell about the mentally-handicapped son being hit by a tree - that's definitely incest we're looking at.

If you can get past all the nonsense, The Shepherd of the Hills is a unique and very watchable Western-flavoured melodrama thanks to a sturdy cast and some mouthwatering cinematography.


6.5/10