Two prisoners, one black (Sidney Poitier) and one white (Tony Curtis), escape after they've been shackled together by the wrists. They are pursued by a posse led by Sheriff Theodore Bikel. After several adventures they are captured.
The plot is sketched out schematically. Every scene makes its point, then we move on to the next scene, which makes ITS point, until the two men are lying exhausted next to the railroad tracks and resigned to their recapture, Curtis still resentful, Poitier defiantly cheerful, both doomed.
The point of the film -- and I hate to say this -- is that we are all brothers under the skin, shackled together by our common humanity, not to mention our physicality.
The plot is tightly wound and the points spelled out so that they can't be easily missed -- like "Stagecoach" or "High Noon." Nothing and nobody is in the least bit ambiguous or quirky. There's the humane sheriff, the rabid redneck crowd, the bitter inmates, the horny widow, the suspicious kid, and so forth.
I'd consider that a weakness, but it's made up for by the depth given to some of the characters. They may be stereotypes but they're pretty hominid after all. Take that horny widow, for instance. Here she is, isolated in a ramshackle house in some Southern state, deserted by her husband, left with a kid who shoots rabbits for meals. She's shallow, selfish, and something of a racist. Yet she seems attracted enough to Tony Curtis, despite his phony nose, to give up everything, gather her dollars together, and run away with him. It's an invitation to share her future. And there's no reason to believe she's especially fickle or that he's less than just an instrument to get her away from her stagnation -- although he IS an instrument. The widow needs a man to jump start her, and Curtis has done it. She's a complex person and ultimately kind of pathetic.
The movie today would have been shot in the real South. As it is, it looks like California in the rainy season. Those granite rocks to which the pair cling as they make their way across that rushing river look distinctly as if they'd tumbled down from the Sierras, which they have. The little flakes of mica that scintillate under the California sun seem to be winking at us. Let's all pretend that this is the hinterland of Georgia or someplace. It doesn't kill the movie. It's just a distraction, as is the unbelievably formulaic lynch mob.
Stanley Kramer directed this and, as usual, he's trying to teach us a lesson the way a teacher teaches the ABCs to a kindergarten class. It seems condescending to us now, fifty years after its release, but it was necessary for some of us in 1958. Maybe the lesson is still relevant.
The plot is sketched out schematically. Every scene makes its point, then we move on to the next scene, which makes ITS point, until the two men are lying exhausted next to the railroad tracks and resigned to their recapture, Curtis still resentful, Poitier defiantly cheerful, both doomed.
The point of the film -- and I hate to say this -- is that we are all brothers under the skin, shackled together by our common humanity, not to mention our physicality.
The plot is tightly wound and the points spelled out so that they can't be easily missed -- like "Stagecoach" or "High Noon." Nothing and nobody is in the least bit ambiguous or quirky. There's the humane sheriff, the rabid redneck crowd, the bitter inmates, the horny widow, the suspicious kid, and so forth.
I'd consider that a weakness, but it's made up for by the depth given to some of the characters. They may be stereotypes but they're pretty hominid after all. Take that horny widow, for instance. Here she is, isolated in a ramshackle house in some Southern state, deserted by her husband, left with a kid who shoots rabbits for meals. She's shallow, selfish, and something of a racist. Yet she seems attracted enough to Tony Curtis, despite his phony nose, to give up everything, gather her dollars together, and run away with him. It's an invitation to share her future. And there's no reason to believe she's especially fickle or that he's less than just an instrument to get her away from her stagnation -- although he IS an instrument. The widow needs a man to jump start her, and Curtis has done it. She's a complex person and ultimately kind of pathetic.
The movie today would have been shot in the real South. As it is, it looks like California in the rainy season. Those granite rocks to which the pair cling as they make their way across that rushing river look distinctly as if they'd tumbled down from the Sierras, which they have. The little flakes of mica that scintillate under the California sun seem to be winking at us. Let's all pretend that this is the hinterland of Georgia or someplace. It doesn't kill the movie. It's just a distraction, as is the unbelievably formulaic lynch mob.
Stanley Kramer directed this and, as usual, he's trying to teach us a lesson the way a teacher teaches the ABCs to a kindergarten class. It seems condescending to us now, fifty years after its release, but it was necessary for some of us in 1958. Maybe the lesson is still relevant.