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Hud

Black and white.

Hud took home the 1963 Academy Award for Best Black-and-White Cinematographer, thanks to the excellent work of James Wong Howe. I’m inclined to award it another prize for Best Thematically Relevant Choice of Black and White.

I originally wrote, “This is a movie that would lose something in color,” but then I realized that what I actually mean is, “This is a movie that would gain the wrong things in color.”

Hud, which covers the last days of a Texas ranch, is the story of a localized apocalypse: how an outbreak of foot-and-mouth disease brings an end to an entire herd1 and one man’s life’s work, and how even the illusion of the family’s cohesion collapses along with it. Even when this world was alive, it was harsh and spare—wide, flat expanses of land barely interrupted by trees, with the occasional mountains mostly flat-topped too, with the horizon line often low in the frame like the sky will swallow the characters up, with the glare, with the dry heat, with the small margins of error—and then we watch it die. Color would relieve that starkness too much.

Color is extraneous, and this is a world with no flesh on its bones. It can’t long support Patricia Neal’s Alma, the housekeeper whose warmth and good humor feels like the Bannon family’s only real source of oxygen, and she has to specifically be from outside of it. The color would be inherent, and it wouldn’t work at all. This sky isn’t blue, it’s empty.

You can enjoy things, in Hud, but only by fucking and drinking and trying to grab greased pigs: games should be risky and stupid, and their pleasures should be fleeting. Anything more beautiful and sustaining, like love, is bound to splinter. By the time the film opens, Paul Newman’s venal, callow Hud has already ruined his relationship with his father (and been ruined by it in return); over the next 112 minutes, he also drives away Alma and his once-adoring nephew (Brandon deWilde). He’ll have to drink more, fuck around more, chase more pigs. In time, the drinking will likely win out more and more. He’s lost the only people he might have loved enough to stop for.

Part of the bleak brilliance of Hud is that I feel for Hud, but only so far, and again, that comes back to the black and white. I watched this with my friend Scott, and I joked early on that being able to see Paul Newman’s eyes in all their iconic blue glory would make his asshole character too powerful, and you know what, I was right. Even a black-and-white Paul Newman is still Paul Newman, of course, but Hud is pitiable and loathsome and magnetic, not a charmer or a heartthrob. He literally can’t be a “colorful” character, so the ways he hurts people, and the hurt he sometimes shows he feels himself, don’t become eccentricities. Again, rural mid-century Texas is a harsh world. People here are what they do, not how or why they do it, and so, at the end of the day, Hud is a destructive force.

He’ll become an oil baron, sooner or later. He’ll help shape the country. Even in 1963, it was clear what that would lead to—and in the intervening years, out in the real world, we started shooting this kind of man in color.

Hud is streaming on Kanopy.

  1. NB: The scene where the men drive the herd of infected cows into a sunken pit where they’re all crammed in close so they can gun them down from above and the cows can’t escape is one of the more harrowing and distressing things I’ve seen in a movie. It’s a necessary moment–we understand why they have to kill the cows, and we understand that no one here is realistically going to take the time, if they even have the resources, to do it more gently; at least this is fast–that feels like the whole film in miniature. Artistically, I’m in favor of it. But it almost killed me. ↩︎