A hitchhiker's thumb. A dead man's car. A woman who smells like trouble and looks like the end of the line. Shot on nothing, in days, by a genius scraping the bottom of Hollywood — Ulmer turns zero budget into pure poison. This is fate as a meat grinder. Al Roberts doesn't make bad choices — the world just chews him whole and spits out the bones. Lean, mean, drenched in shadow and self-pity. Detour doesn't ask for your sympathy. It drags you into the gutter and lights a cigarette.