Hiding his past, Powell woos, then marries Harper's widow Willa ( Shelley Winters). The plot hinges on Powell's pursuit of the money and John's determination to protect his sister and escape from a psychopath whom others assume is virtuous. Before his arrest Harper hides the money in a rag doll belonging to his little daughter Pearl, making her and his 10-year-old son John swear never to tell where the money is hidden. Having been jailed for stealing a car, he shares a cell with father-of-two Ben Harper, soon to be hanged for murder and the theft of $10,000. The Night of the Hunter, set in Depression-era West Virginia and based on a novel by Davis Grubb, is best known for Robert Mitchum's extraordinary performance as serial-killer-posing-as-priest Harry Powell, a menacing religious misogynist who marries widows for their money and kills them off in the name of the Lord. Unlike Craig, though, I didn't have repressed urges to strangle anyone. So strong was this impression, I felt a bit like the character of architect Walter Craig in 1945's brilliant Dead of Night, wondering if he is trapped in a repeating chain of interlinked ghost stories. Then came that dizzying sense of already having dreamt it. It was a film I'd heard of, but knew nothing about I wanted to see it, but had no idea why. Critics panned it on its release, consequently killing off the actor's career behind the camera, and perhaps robbing history of further works of greatness. That is until a cold, wintry night in the 1990s when, working in Glasgow, I went to the city's GFT cinema to catch a new 35mm print of Charles Laughton's 1955 masterpiece.

Was the film recreating scenes from my sleep? I had never seen, as far as I can recall, The Night of the Hunter. Motionless for 90 minutes, I could not even remove my coat.

The Night of the Hunter by Davis Grubb