In this gripping film adaptation of Stephen Crane’s short story, viewers are transported to a modest hotel in the backwater town of Fort Romper, Nebraska, where a winter storm rages outside and a psychological one brews within
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Rightly known for his classic story The Red Badge of Courage, Crane’s ouvre is much larger than many realize. In addition to his famous novel, he wrote several others, composed poetry, worked as a journalist, and crafted some truly innovative and first-rate short stories. Much more would surely have come from his pen had an early death not robbed the talented 28-year-old of the chance to do so.
Among Crane’s best short stories is “The Blue Hotel.” Featuring only a handful of characters and essentially one setting, the drama and tension contained within its pages is palpable. Distrust and fear are major themes; by the end of the story, one is less surprised by what transpires as opposed to how it transpires—and what it all means. This is a story that can be dissected in all kinds of interesting ways.
“The Blue Hotel” was published in 1898. It was brought to the screen in 1977, as part of The American Short Stories film series—a spectacular venture that brought over fifteen of America’s very best short stories to life. The inclusion of “The Blue Hotel” seems like an especially judicious choice since, unlike other authors featured in the series—Hawthorne, Twain, Fitzgerald—Crane’s works aren’t widely read.
If this happens to be one’s first encounter with a work of Crane’s (other than the Red Badge of Courage), check into his other stuff. The film is well paced and well acted, and filled with a kind of seductive tension. That being said, it does alter details of the closing scenes, which may or may not be to the liking of those who have read the story.
Nonetheless, The Blue Hotel begins innocently enough. On a frigid day, Patrick Scully, owner of the Palace Hotel, waits for the local train to arrive (per his usual custom). Ever the consummate proprietor, he carries out his profession with the utmost duty—which includes attracting any potential guests to his establishment.
On this particular day, there happen to be three strangers who step off the train, and Scully is able to lead them all to his eye-catching blue-painted hotel. These three characters are the Swede, the farmer (also known as Bill), and the Easterner (also known as Mr. Blanc).
Inside Scully’s modest establishment, the farmer and the Easterner warm themselves by the fire. Scully’s son, Johnnie, sits at a small table playing cards. The Swede—a tall, bearded man with intense and glowering eyes—stands at a distance from the others, taking it all in—cautiously, suspiciously, anxiously.
As the evening goes on, the guests banter with one another and play high-five. The Swede, after some prodding, also joins in. But before long, the causal dynamic of the card game takes on an entirely different feel. Out of nowhere, the Swede, who has scarcely said anything up to this point, asserts a bold proclamation: “I suppose a great many men have been killed in this room.” (This is such a fantastic and inimitable line, and I wonder if Crane might have had it in his head and then developed his story around it.)
Johnnie is completely taken aback, and insists he has absolutely no idea what such an unfounded and ludicrous statement is supposed to mean. This is also the broad sentiment of everyone else. The Swede, for his part, levels his bold accusation a second time.
As tensions mount, Scully rushes in from another room, ready and eager to play the role of consummate host and pacifier. He first pesters his son, Johnnie, who stands firm in his defense that he’s done nothing whatsoever to evoke the Swede’s loony assertions and odd behavior.
At this point, the Swede insists on paying whatever he owes and removing himself from this ostensibly fatal environment. But Scully won’t hear a single word of it: the Palace Hotel, after all, is a highly respectable place where guests are treated with the utmost courtesy.
After some prodding, Scully gets the Swede upstairs, where he offers him a swig of some very fine whiskey. After a brief hesitation, the Swede takes a short drink, followed by a much longer one.
When Scully and the Swede come down the stairs, the previous energy of the place has fundamentally shifted. The Swede has been transformed from an anxious and taciturn guest to a confident and assertive alpha male—one intent on transposing his reality onto everyone else.
From this point on, the tension and ferocity of the narrative builds and builds, leading to a swift and dramatic final act.
Though the main conflict in The Blue Hotel stems from the increasing hostility between Johnnie and the Swede, this is a story that goes beyond any one or two individuals. The questions the story poses, directly and indirectly, are fundamentally broader. When something goes horribly wrong, where does the moral culpability lie? And can passive bystanders who choose not to do something carry a moral weight just as heavy—just as consequential—as the actor.
With its fifty minute run time, this excellent film is a perfect way to become acquainted with this entertaining and intellectually engaging short story. Likewise, it’s a great way to get sucked into the larger world of Stephen Crane’s masterfully storytelling.
Spectatio 