High Noon

A tough, lean 85 minutes marks High Noon as a study in economy. There’s no fat in any of the stories, the characters feel authentic and lived-in, the pace never wavers, and the tension slowly increases until the nail-biter of a climatic shootout. High Noon uses all of the pieces of a typical western tale, but utilizes them in off-center ways to create a unique, intelligent melodrama wearing spurs and cowboy hats.

While the running time is brief, High Noon spends much of it indulging in talk-heavy scenes of characters moralizing and questioning the motives of each other. It’s a film of ideas and characters, not big action spectacles and chases. This quieter, somber tone is the perfect way to tell the story of a man’s crisis of conscience. Large-scale panoramas and gangs of marauding Indian tribes would prove distracting and out-of-place here.

Is this something of a civics lesson? You bet your ass it is, and that never bothered me. It’s a parable or a morality play, a deeply political allegory about the era it was made. Whether the encroaching band of outlaws represents the Korean War, HUAC, or the Cold War is up for debate, and each reading has some merit depending on how you look at it. High Noon could also be read as something of a deconstruction of the typical western hero – a stoic, taciturn marshal on the brink of retirement, and duty bound to protect his sleepy hamlet.

His cries for help lead to persistent rejection for a variety of reasons, and he’s left alone against the barbaric remnants of the old frontier. This pursuit of help, and constant stream of rejection, makes up a bulk of the film. The reasons for their refusal to help vary, from illness to cowardice to pure self-interest, and by the end, our hero is left embittered and angry towards the townspeople after saving their lives for little thanks or help. Even better is how High Noon allows its hero to break, culminating in a scene of anguish where he breaks down and sobs alone in a bar. You’d never see something like that in a John Wayne film!

Wayne, in fact, hated this film, dubbing it un-American, objecting to the liberal political allegory, and teamed-up up with frequent collaborator Howard Hawks to make a response, Rio Bravo. Hawks equally despised this film, objecting to the Quaker wife aiding in the film’s victory. Ironic that piece, as Hawks was such a strong proponent of feisty, independent women, but only if they didn’t help save the day I guess. In fact, the two female leads in High Noon offer a neat proto-feminist element to the proceedings. Not only does the wife engineer the victory, but the former mistress offers one of the few empathetic voices to the proceedings, even encouraging the current wife to stick it out and stand by her man. It doesn’t surprise me that two good ol’ boy types objected to this work.

But it isn’t just the strong writing that marks High Noon as one of the greatest westerns, and greatest films, but the strong ensemble aids the film immeasurably, well, the strong ensemble barring one performer. Led by Gary Cooper, firmly in his element here as a strong, quiet man; High Noon is a brilliant example of movie star acting. Cooper was a western legend, but his weathered face and emotionally gaunt appearance here immediately brings a weight and presence to the drama at play. Despite it being Gary Cooper, his physically ravaged appearance carries with it the passage of time, the encroaching end of an era he represents, and there’s no guarantee he’ll make it to the end. High Noon rests nearly entirely upon his shoulders, with almost every scene containing him, and he’s up to the task. Cooper begins the film operating under his usual star persona, then he breakdowns, and finally becomes bitter and leaves the town to its own devices. It’s a wonder of a role, and Cooper brings a gravitas to it that is essential and life-giving.

Character actors like Thomas Mitchell, Lloyd Bridges, Ian MacDonald, Lee Van Cleef, Lon Chaney Jr., and Katy Jurado aid his Oscar winning leading work. Jurado and Chaney Jr. earn highest marks among the many supporting players. Jurado is a former lover and owner of the saloon. Her pragmatism and still-burning love for Cooper enliven their moments together, and Jurado gives her character a steely resolve that moves it past any notions of a stereotype. Points also go to bringing in a Mexican woman as a former love interest and not killing her off in the third act. Chaney Jr. is shockingly soulful as a former marshal, left with nothing but scorn for his previous job. The revelation that he’s arthritic is done quietly, and Chaney plays it all in a wonderful minor key.

The lone player to make a negative impression is Grace Kelly. Alfred Hitchcock accurately described her major here by calling her performance mousy and distinctly lacking in her exact star quality. Kelly is the (much younger) Quaker wife, and this film helped launch her into stardom thanks to the lovely close-ups of her delicate face. Her performance is awkward though, with that ridiculous faux-British accent in full effect and still overly mannered in delivering her lines. In two years, these issues would be sorted by Hitchcock’s guiding hand in some of her better vehicles.

But this one stilted major performance cannot undo or even hinder the rest of High Noon’s many strengths. The score by Dimitri Tiomkin is highly pleasing, successfully cranking up the tension and judiciously employed for maximum impact. There’s also the film’s title song, “Do Not Forsake Me, Oh My Darlin’,” which is mournfully sung over the opening credits by Tex Ritter. There’s the tightly controlled editing by Elmo Williams and Harry W. Gerstad, transforming the clock face into a nightmarish reminder of approaching doom. Then there’s Floyd Crosby’s austere cinematography, a master class in stark images and tightly-constructed space to reflect the characters emotions and mental states. I think that’s more than enough reasons to rightly declare High Noon an immortal piece of American cinema.