The Searchers at 68

The best movie I saw in 2024.

A funny thing happened this year.

I sat down for my first-ever viewing of The Searchers, the 1956 John Ford classic starring John Wayne and Natalie Wood, not realizing it would overlap with Wayne’s birthday.

He would have turned 117.

The Searchers lives up to its reputation. There’s a reason the American Film Institute ranks it as the 12th greatest American film of all time.

Though much may be said of its individual elements—from Max Steiner’s thumping score to the script to what is easily Wayne’s most enduring performance—The Searchers stands apart because it does something special, something unique to the period in which it was produced: It bridges the new with the old.

John Ford cut his teeth in Old Hollywood, directing many successful silent-era features. His transition to the “talking pictures” and technicolor era saw his star burn even brighter. Thus, in the same way that Ford served as a link between past and present Hollywood, The Searchers connects the silent and talkie eras, blending wordless storytelling techniques with space-age spectacle.

Nowhere is this happy marriage of creative and narrative methods more evident than in the opening and closing sequences of The Searchers, two perfect bookends to a tragedy masquerading as a Western. With practically no dialogue, the opening and finale convey a complex story of unrequited love, despair, and the heroic and evil choices men make.

The Searchers opens with the silhouette of a woman; she stands alone, framed in her front door, her back to the audience. She gazes outward, taking in the vast expanse of West Texas. This is homesteader Martha Edwards, played by Dorothy Jordan. She steps out of her home, gliding slowly across her front porch as wind and dust swirl all around. Martha stops to lean on a post, watching a rider approach in the distance. The rider is her brother-in-law, Ethan Edwards, played by Wayne.

Note the camera’s movement throughout this brief sequence. Positioned behind Martha, the camera follows her from the living room to the porch, transitioning from the pitch-black interior to the sunlit Western wilderness: endless skies, sunbaked buttes, sprawling deserts, and patches of green foliage scattered throughout. When Martha stops, the camera stops. There is a narrative in the movement. As the story opens, the viewer is thrust into the open.

Ethan dismounts and is greeted by his brother Aaron, played by Walter Coy. They are joined by Aaron’s children: Lucy, Ben, and Debbie. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, the reunited family heads indoors, marking the end of the opening sequence.

Though it contains hardly any dialogue, this roughly two-minute introduction establishes Ethan’s romantic feelings for Martha. He is smitten. Martha may even harbor similar romantic feelings for Ethan if her perpetual looks of adoration are any sign. It’s also possible Aaron knows, which may explain the brief pause and tension between the brothers before they shake hands. A not-so-secret love may also explain why the brothers, upon shaking hands, look immediately at Martha, Ethan’s face blank but Aaron’s seemingly filled with anxiety. Though the script itself has little to say about Ethan’s feelings for Martha, his position is made clear by his every interaction with her. This is where Ford’s roots in silent filmmaking are most apparent. It’s the ability to say everything without saying anything at all. From stolen looks to gentle touches to the tenderness Ethan shows Martha, a tenderness he displays nowhere else in the film until — well, we’ll address this later — it is established quickly through nonverbal communication, facial expressions, and gentle hints that Ethan loves Martha. (And we’re not talking about agape- or philia-type love, which is part of the tragedy.)

Yet, although the love of Ethan’s life is spoken for, he is not a man without a purpose. As long as Martha exists, his life holds some meaning, however complicated.

Then disaster strikes: While Ethan is away, a Comanche raiding party led by the ruthless warlord Scar massacres the Edwards family, killing Aaron, Ben, and, most importantly, Martha. Lucy is captured and murdered elsewhere. Only young Debbie survives, taken as a prisoner by Scar’s raiding party. Ethan and his adoptive nephew, Martin, then embark on a grueling five-year odyssey to bring the girl home. They eventually find the raiding party, kill Scar, and rescue Debbie, placing her with the Jorgensens, a rancher family with whom Debbie’s family was close.

This marks the film’s conclusion and the second bookend.

In the film’s closing moments, we see Ethan, on horseback, ride up to the Jorgensens’ ranch. He dismounts and walks toward their front porch, cradling Debbie in his arms. At this moment, we, the viewers, observe everything from inside Jorgensen's home, looking out the front door at the reunion. The framing mirrors the film’s opening when we first met Martha. After Ethan gently places Debbie on the ground, she is whisked away inside by Mr. and Mrs. Jorgensen. As they retreat into the house, the camera pulls back deeper into the darkened interior, and the shot grows tighter and pitch black at the margins. Martin and his soon-to-be bride, Laurie Jorgensen, are next to enter the home.

Meanwhile, Ethan stands alone. He considers entering the home but decides against it. He turns slowly and saunters away lonesome into the dusty Texas wildlands.

Finally, the front door closes, with Ethan on the other side. “The End.”

The concluding sequence is a reverse of the opening, both in motion and meaning. The movement of the first shot is outward, into the Texas wild, symbolizing openness and a possible new beginning for Ethan, who was last seen by the Edwards departing to fight in the Civil War on the side of the Confederacy. In contrast, the final shot moves inward into darkness, signifying withdrawal. Ethan’s story is over.

The act of Debbie’s return also carries a double meaning for both the rescuer and the rescued. For Debbie, it represents salvation and rebirth; for Ethan, it signifies the end.

After Martha’s death, Ethan loses all hope for transformational, life-saving love. Remember that Ethan has exactly three moments of tenderness throughout the nearly two-hour movie: when he first greets Martha, when he says goodbye to her before setting off in pursuit of lost cattle, and when he rescues Debbie. Everything else is sarcasm, belittling, casual cruelty, anger, and worse. Ethan is particularly vicious toward Martin, whom he rescued as an infant after a deadly Comanche raid. (Speaking of which, eagle-eyed observers will note that the Comanche also murdered Ethan and Aaron’s mother, according to her headstone in the family plot.) When Ethan first reunites with Martin, he has no affection for the young man, primarily because Martin is part Native American—an impurity that the intensely prejudiced Ethan, even by his contemporaries’ standards, cannot tolerate. Ethan inflicts unnecessary pain and suffering on those around him, especially the Native American population; his animosity shocks even the Rangers.

Yet, even with the constant of casual cruelty, The Searchers is bookended by Ethan’s gentleness. It’s in these seemingly out-of-character moments in which Martha’s salvific influence makes itself known.

When Ethan rescues Debbie, we see Martha’s civilizing influence in its most potent form. Before the rescue, Ethan vows to honor kill his niece. He believes it would be better for her to die than to live as a war trophy of the despised Comanche. Yet when they are finally reunited, Ethan chooses not to kill Debbie. He chooses life not only because he sees the 8-year-old girl he held all those years ago but also because he sees Martha, who inspires goodness in him. His feelings for Martha are such that he chooses life over even his hatred for the Comanche, and his hatred for the Comanche is a powerful thing.

The truth is that the rescue mission was never about Debbie; it was about Martha. It was always about Martha. It’s no accident that Ethan doesn't shout for Lucy, Ben, or Debbie as he searches frantically for survivors among the smoldering remains of the Edwards homestead. He doesn’t even call out for Aaron, his brother. He calls out for Martha.

Ethan buried Martha in a cemetery, but that wasn’t the end. Her daughters—her remains–were still out there somewhere and unaccounted for. After Martha’s murder, Ethan had only one thing left to live for: to rescue her surviving children. Having completed this task, he no longer feels any sense of purpose, especially not within Jorgenson’s home.

When he brings Debbie to the Jorgensons, he’s a pallbearer carrying Martha’s remains. A rescued Debbie is the emotional equivalent of laying Martha to rest. In the film’s concluding sequence, Ethan seals his fate as a man destined to wander alone. He’s done; a ghost.

On the surface, The Searchers is a straightforward story: a defeated Confederate officer embarks on a years-long journey to rescue his niece. However, there is much more to the story, thanks to the skillful hand of John Ford. The Searchers explores unrequited love and a man’s quest for meaning, as beautifully demonstrated in the movie’s largely wordless opening and closing.

It’s no accident that Martha is the first person we see, while Ethan is the last. After all, this story is about romantic love, or, as the Western singing group the Sons of the Pioneers expresses in the film’s opening title sequence, that which “makes a man wander.”