The Excellent Foppery of the World

One aspect of Ulmer’s Detour (1945) that really made an impression on me is the idea of fate vs the unreliable narrator. An unreliable narrator is defined as a narrator whose credibility has been seriously compromised, which leads the audience to judge the accuracy of their story. Our narrator, Al Roberts, begins the film as a lovable idiot who seems to find himself in the wrong place at the wrong time. And for a good portion of the film, he actually had me believing that his interpretation of the unfolding events was truthful; the trademark of a really good unreliable narrator, who has done his duty well. But what Al chalks up to fate, we the audience must brand as a very biased take on the film’s plot.

Andrew Britton’s essay “Detour” really narrows in on Al as an unreliable narrator, and highlights the emphasis put on fate in the film. Let me start by saying that I found it interesting that Andrew Briton chooses to begin his section “the unreliable narrator” with a quote about fate from King Lear, as opposed to one of many fitting quotes from Hamlet, arguably Shakespeare’s most unreliable narrator. I soon realized, however, that Britton’s use of the quote perfectly serves his desire to paint Al Roberts not simply as an unreliable narrator, but as “self-deceived.” By pushing the blame onto fate and telling himself that there was never an alternative ending, Al escapes the guilt of his actions and paints a story of a well-meaning man who never really had much of a choice. The narrator’s unreliability comes not from intent to deceive or a compromised mental state, but rather from his inability to accept the full responsibility of his actions.

An aspect of Al’s unreliability that I didn’t quite catch in the film was his description of his relationship with Sue as compared to the evening that we see the two of them walking home. Our narrator describes their pairing as “an ordinary, healthy romance,” but it soon becomes apparent that this is only his interpretation. As Britton points out, “it is certainly difficult to reconcile this rhetoric with the couple’s actual behavior, the most striking feature of which is the suppressed mutual frustration of partners who want completely different things, both for themselves and for each other.” We’re supposed to accept their love as true because we perceive the world through Al’s eyes, but closer inspection makes it apparent that his desire to marry Sue and her acceptance stems not from a place of compatibility, but rather compliance.

The unreliability continues when Al meets Haskell and the latter meets an untimely death. Despite having on several occasions provided his companion with a small tin of pills, it never occurs to Al to inquire about the either the necessity or recreational use of the medication. When Haskell won’t wake, Al doesn’t continue driving to a hospital or try to seek help. Instead, he leaves the man’s body on the ground and begins contemplating how he’s going to get out of the situation. The cause of death isn’t crucial to the reliability of Al’s story, but the action he takes afterwards is. He convinces himself that no matter what he does, he’s going to be seen as guilty and goes to great lengths to cover up a crime that he doesn’t see himself as having committed. All too easily, Al takes everything Haskell owns, including his very identity. This leaves the audience feeling uneasy as the coincidence of Haskell’s death and Al’s insistence of total innocence even as he steps into a life of luxury seem too unlikely to be believable.

Enter, Vera.

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"It had already been intimated to us that Sue swims in and out of A's consciousness with the ebb and flow of his financial prospects, and Ulmer now implies that he comes to Vera's rescue because his new-found wealth has given him the sense that he is again a free agent, economically and sexually. He no longer feels the need to bank on the hypothesis that sue will 'click' in California, and, since Vera seems to be available, he offers her a ride for much the same reasons that Haskell did."

Britton’s analysis of Al post-Haskell’s death makes complete sense in hindsight. The last thing that he, a man supposedly on the run, should do is offer a ride to a stranger hitchhiking on the side of the road. And yet, he does. When he has everything to lose and nothing to gain, Al finds himself so absorbed in the “truth” of his supposed innocence that he takes it upon himself to reap the rewards of Haskell’s death. What could appear to be a good deed quickly turns dark when the audience realizes that at this point in his story, Al is acting purely out of his own desire to test the limits and see exactly what life as Haskell can entail. He doesn’t stop to mourn the lost life or even think about let alone regret his actions, but instead revels in his newfound freedom with abandon. Throughout the whole scene, his shaky claim to innocence is the only moral backing he needs.

The underlying theme in all of these scenarios and what makes Al so unreliable as a narrator is the fact that he acts in accord with his own ulterior motives and then portrays each scene as a happening of circumstance. He doesn’t love Sue, but rather his desire to marry her stems from his own feelings of inadequacy and because of this he portrays their relationship as what he’s deluded himself into believing it is. Although Haskell’s death could be a result either of the medication he was taking or a genuine accident, Al knows that the man is wealthy and rather than do what he can to make the situation right, he flees with both the car and the money, which offers him the chance at a life he would never otherwise be able to afford. And when he picks Vera up on the side of the road it isn’t out of the goodness of his heart, but instead an effort on his part to start his life as a new man, equipped with the identity and the financial backing which has the world at his fingertips.

So thus begs the question: by grand design or through great attempts?

Throughout the film Al narrates his story as if it’s been written in the stars, but he never takes into consideration the consequences of his own actions. If he hadn’t chosen complacency, if he hadn’t buried the body, if he hadn’t picked up Vera, if he hadn’t run away from it all instead of owning up to his mistakes. These choices, they’re what make the story. No matter how we choose to perceive, reliability depends on the narrator’s ability to accept the part they play and portray it without deluding themselves or the audience.