"No matter what you do, no matter where you turn, Fate sticks out its foot to trip you," gripes Detour's Al Roberts (Tom Neal), who, it must be said, does his part to invite that intrusive boot at every turn. Has anyone in films since Peter Lorre had worse luck, or worse judgment? But that's the fun of Detour, a bitter, brittle noir that emerges out of the fog of German Expressionism to thumb a ride across the map of the USA. Yes, the map; actual locations would have been too costly, and Detour resonates as a strangely compelling work of art precisely because Ulmer, the King of the Bs, uses every imaginable device to circumvent his sub-B budget. The closest thing to a real setting in the film is a Los Angeles car lot; for the rest, Detour seems to exist in Al's fear and desire-in film space, traveling through objects into time. Al's deadpan anxiety presages Peter Handke's Goalie by decades; nothing tempts Fate like the guilt of an innocent man.