HELL ON FRISCO BAY: Blu-ray (Warner Bros. 1955) Warner Archive

A lot of hogwash, a little Edward G. Robinson and a moon-faced Alan Ladd don’t go a long way in director, Frank Tuttle’s Hell on Frisco Bay (1955), a rather turgidly scripted and sappy love story wrapped in the enigma of a mob boss crime caper. Alan Ladd is just one of those megastars from the 1940’s who did not age particularly well afterward. Okay, so it’s cruel to suggest Ladd has lost his edge. But actually, the irony is compounded by the fact that just two years earlier Ladd seemed to be at the pinnacle of his masculine prowess as the titular hero in George Stevens’ seminal western, Shane (1953). Hard living likely hastened Ladd’s spiraling appeal as a leading man. Truly, he went from boyish handsomeness to bloated puffin, virtually skipping the intermediary phase in the ‘natural’ aging process. Increasingly throughout Hell on Frisco Bay it gets harder and harder to think of many – if any – reasons why the scissor-legged and perpetually coiffeured Joanne Dru, repeatedly spurned – kicked in the teeth by Ladd’s razor-backed criticisms of how she spent her time while he was serving his inside San Quentin – would want to stand by her man when she has looks, brains and a burgeoning career as a nightclub chanteuse to recommend her to virtually any amiable suitor with far less of the proverbial chip on his shoulders.

If only for Ladd’s shortcomings, Hell on Frisco Bay might have, as yet, survived as an engaging piece of crime-doesn't-pay cinema. But there is less hell and a lot more ennui settling in on these still waters that ultimately do not run very deep. Based on William McGivern’s page-turning novel, The Darkest Hour, the screenplay by Martin Rackin is heavily laden with drawn out passages devoted to the marital strife tearing at ex-cop, Steve (Ladd) and Marcia Rollins (Dru). Neither is willing to admit their mistakes. Each wants the other back. Oh, just get a room, why don’t yah? Instead, the couple goes twelve rounds, rehashing past peccadillos, carrying the torch for each other, but with their respective grudges tugging in opposite directions as the world around them slowly begins to implode. Steve is unwilling to give up on unearthing the truth. After all, it was a total lie that sent him to prison. Now, Steve is out for blood. Like all honest cops with the proverbial heart of gold he spends a lot more time in Hamlet-esque contemplation than reacting to volatile situations with a show of fists. If only Hell on Frisco Bay lived up to ‘the hell’. But no. Instead, we get a lot of tricked out location photography, oft reincarnated as transparently obvious rear projection, looking muddy and soft in Cinemascope and the ever-dreaded Warnercolor (one of the worst color processes to ever compete with Technicolor).

Into this mix we also get Edward G. Robinson, doing nine minutes of his Little Caesar (1931) for the kiddies and folks old enough to recall him in his glory days. Robinson gets what little mileage is to be had from Hell on Frisco Bay, piloting on the sheer chutzpah of that inculcated and trademarked beady-eyed delivery of his lines. Robinson was so adept at reincarnating evil on the screen it remains difficult – if not impossible – to remember that beyond the camera he was one of Hollywood’s wittiest and most accomplished gentlemen; an art lover who amassed a sizable collection and could speak intelligently on most any subject of one’s choosing at the drop of a hat; a decided disconnect from the Edward G. we get in Hell on Frisco Bay: shifty, blunt, thuggish and enterprising. After all, this is the Eddie Robinson we have paid to see and he never disappoints. At some level you simply have to run with a guy who would double-cross his own mother for a penny and take a hit on his nephew, simply for screwing up a few ‘minor details’ with the police. Don’t mess with Eddie, folks. You’ll get it in the neck or in the back of the head, gangland-style.

Hell on Frisco Bay really does not need Cinemascope. It’s a gritty crime picture, artificially inflated by this anamorphic process and further distilled in taking virtually all of its film noir trappings and lighting them as though the entire plot were taking place on a sunlit beach in Spain. The necessary mood is entirely lacking in John F. Seitz’s cinematography. No fog-laden streets or moonlit wharf. Everything is flatly, if colorfully, shot in the high key lighting style of an MGM musical. This approach all but evaporates any would-be atmospheric tension in the plot. Think of what might have been if Hell on Frisco Bay were lensed by a master craftsman like Greg Tolland in glorious deep-focus B&W. Instead, we are subjected to ‘pretty’ pictures of some very ugly people attempting to do very disreputable things to one another. Alas, visually, it’s the cues of such seediness that are lacking herein. Also, the absence of quality in both Ladd and Dru’s careworn lamentations. Ladd utters his lines in a low sustained voice as though he has only just stirred from a deep slumber or a fitful fear of slipping into a coma from boredom. Dru trudges through her bittersweet regrets without actually feeling sorry for anyone. There is no chemistry between these two wounded hearts. We can no more picture them in happier times than accept them now, wallowing in the fallout from an extramarital affair with an undisclosed young buck who drank too much and gambled even more.

Hell on Frisco Bay was co-funded by Ladd’s own production company, Jaguar and distributed via Warner Bros. Perhaps the only noteworthy aspect of its production is an early break for Aussie hunk, Rod Taylor as John Brodie Evans, one of Mafia kingpin, Victor Amato’s (Robinson) hired ruffians. It’s a brief, though nevertheless rewarding bit, especially written for Taylor by Martin Rackin who admired the actor from their work together on Long John Silver (1954). Taylor’s wounded belligerence is a crackling ember in this otherwise wet mat of kindling never to start a fire, but for a brief moment or two. The other notable performance herein goes to Paul Stewart as Amato’s right-hand man, Joe Lye; his face scarred by some previous skirmish, his ego stricken, save for the love of a good woman – washed-up Hollywood has-been, Kay Stanley (Fay Wray – yes, King Kong’s gal pal). The picture is also remembered today for a terrible accident: stuntman, Louis Tomei (doubling for Robinson during the climactic fisticuffs aboard a careening motorboat) hurled against a metal fitting to sustain a fatal head injury. He died in hospital later that same evening. All this is backstory of a kind. But virtually none of it helps to elevate Hell on Frisco Bay from a middling programmer gussied up with all the important trappings of an A-list star-vehicle for Alan Ladd. If only it were more intelligently scripted. If only Ladd was the young buck from Paramount days just a few short years before (think The Glass Key or This Gun for Hire 1942, or The Blue Dahlia 1946…all noble examples of Ladd in his prime). If only…if only.

Hell on Frisco Bay opens with an uncharacteristically jovial main title by Max Steiner. I adore Steiner as a composer. Lest we forget, here is man who contributed to the mood and flavor of such immortal screen gems as King Kong (1933), A Star is Born (1937), Jezebel (1938), Gone with the Wind, Dark Victory (both in 1939) Now, Voyager, Casablanca (in 1942), Since You Went Away (1944), Mildred Pierce (1945), The Big Sleep (1946), The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, The Adventures of Don Juan, Key Largo (in 1948), The Caine Mutiny (1956), and, A Summer Place (1959) to name but a handful of truly classy classics that bear his hallmark of excellence. Yet, Steiner’s contributions to Hell on Frisco Bay just seem off; neither moody nor magnificent but actually, in a lot of ways, merely adequate and, at times woefully pedestrian. There is not a cue among the lot to distinguish this as a score by Max Steiner, particularly the bouncy main titles.  Following the fanfare, we arrive at San Quentin. It’s been five years since former policeman, Steve Rollins (Ladd) has seen the outside of these walls. Steve was framed for manslaughter. Now, he’s out for the truth and revenge…not necessarily in that order.

Steve is met at the gates by a close friend on the force, Dan Bianco (William Demarest) and his estranged wife, Marcia, whom he immediately shuns after having learnt of an infidelity that occurred while he was in prison. Actually, Steve wanted Marcia to get a divorce. She refused. He insisted. She dug in her heels and stood by her man…well, sort of. We never do get the real low down of that tryst that has so fractured Steve’s ego he can barely look at Marcia without wanting to either cry, throw up or just punch her in the kisser, remembering the good ole days before he was an ex-con. In search of clues, Steve trolls the Frisco waterfront for any news about a fisherman named Rogani, the one man who can hit the reset on his reputation and clear his good name. Too bad for Steve, Rogani is already pushing up daisies, thanks to an unfortunate ‘accident’. The docks are controlled by racketeer, Victor Amato who has since forced out the ailing dock leader, Louis Flaschetti (Nestor Paiva). Steve tries to squeeze Lou for answers but it’s no use. Lou would rather forget the past and keep breathing. He knows what Amato is but is much too scared to talk. Meanwhile, two of Amato’s men, Lye and Hammy (Stanley Adams) – just think of them as the Abbott and Costello of this plot – attempt to talk some sense into Steve. He served his time and dodged a life sentence. He should leave well enough alone…or else.

We diverge from this supposedly gripping central plot to indulge in the first of far too many failed ‘explanation’ scenes between Marcia and Steve. She wants him to understand how lonely she was while he was in prison. He gets it. But honestly, is that the best excuse any woman should have for cheating on her man – “I needed sex and you weren’t there”?!? It’s also more than a little challenging to think of the slinky Dru succumbing to her earthly urges only ‘once’, before walking away from a bit of rough-house badinage with some lumbering stud who fired up her dishonorable intentions in the first place. Once…right. And I have a deed to the Golden Gate with your name on it, honey. The Rackin screenplay becomes increasingly mired in these sparring matches between Steve and Marcia; also, a few idiotic departures: Steve mooning after his sort-of-ex from a seat at the bar of a local watering hole where Marcia is the star attraction. We get to hear Dru sing – about as inspiring as her acting throughout Hell on Frisco Bay, which is really not saying much. I suspect she is going for the sort of whisky-voiced knock-off of Ida Lupino from 1948’s Road House; a far better performance in a superior thriller on all accounts. But Dru is just too accomplished for her surroundings; not a hair out of place that Central Casting did not freeze hold with a thousand cans of Sudden Beauty; her wardrobe too-too immaculately tailored for someone earning at least thrice the salary any second-rate singer should without polishing more than the brass for her boss after hours.

While Steve and Marcia are ironing out the kinks in their relationship Flaschetti winds up dead. Steve tries to tap a few of Amato’s goons for the goods: beginning with exiled Sebastian Pasmonick (Anthony Caruso), then Amato’s wet-behind-the-ears nephew, Mario (Perry Lopez) who Steve dunks several times head first into a clogged bathroom sink to hammer the point home he isn’t playing around. Amato doesn’t like to be goaded. So, he has Lye summon Steve for a little one on one. It doesn’t bode well for either party and Amato realizes he has to put a period to Steve’s search for the truth. Ah, but never leave a goon to do a real Mafioso’s work. Waiting outside Steve’s apartment to do the hit, Hammy is instead shot dead by Bianco who has been observing him all along. Amato has spies everywhere, including Police Detective Connors (Peter Hansen). But after this failed assassination, and Hammy’s dying confession, Bianco gets straight arrow, Police Lt. Paul Neville (Willis Bouchey) to play hardball with Mario and, via his fumbled confession, John Brodie Evans – another of Amato’s thug muscle. Upon his release from interrogation Brodie announces to Amato he has had enough, suggesting that if he really wants to do damage control from within he needs to take care of Mario first. Amato agrees, and when Aunt Anna (Renata Vanni) is not looking, Amato sends Lye to perform a hit on his nephew, tailor-made to look like a suicide.

Meanwhile, Amato puts the squeeze on Lye’s woman, one-time Hollywood actress, Kay Stanley. She is repulsed by his oily ‘charm’. Amato now vows to destroy their romance. Besides, it’s getting too close to the crunch: time for Amato to thin out his herd before the disloyal among them break their silence and begin to testify against him. Lye is incensed to learn while he was out doing his boss’ dirty work, Amato was trying to make love to Kay. Her subsequent rejection led to a good slap. Lye is done with Amato and vice versa. Too bad for Lye, Amato is a better shot. He murders Lye in cold blood near his offices on the docks. Meanwhile Anna, having sort-of figured out her husband had Mario whacked now reveals Amato’s whereabouts to Steve. He arrives too late to save Lye from a fatal gunshot, but just in time for a daring dive off the pier as Amato pulls away in a motor boat. As Marcia and Bianco look on, Steve and Amato go mano a mano, the motor boat careening in and out of heavy bay traffic as Steve pummels his arch nemesis to the point of senselessness. The bloodied pair are thrown into the drink only moments before their boat is dashed to pieces against a cement pylon protruding from the water. Fished out by a police cruiser, Amato and Steve are brought back to shore; Amato, to be taken away, presumably to stand trial, and Steve, to fall into the loving arms of the wife he always knew he had waiting for him on the outside. It’s a new day for Steve and Marcia, and Bianco – ever-devoted to them both – is very glad of it too.

Hell on Frisco Bay is turgidly scripted. For a would-be crime caper it lacks virtually any tension throughout to sell the affair as legit. While Edward G. Robinson can certainly carry the load when he is on the screen, the bulk of the plot revolves around Alan Ladd’s doughy and dull, self-righteous man of personal integrity. But being noble gets old real fast. On this outing Ladd lacks both the stature and the charisma of a leading man. He is a shell of his former self. The rest of the cast all fall into a middling grey area in their performances; some, for lack of good material to buoy their best efforts, others, merely from a dearth in that all-important and elusive star power. It’s a shame too, because Paul Stewart and Rod Taylor are better than their parts. We know it. They know it. Cinemascope is the enemy here, or rather cinematographer, John Seitz’s inability to fill its elongated frame in any sort of meaningful way. Hell on Frisco Bay is full of two shots; two characters either positioned close together or standing at opposite ends of the screen with a lot of dead space between them as they deliver their dialogue. Seitz is incapable of creating depth of field here. There is no foreground, middle ground or background to his compositions or the way characters move within and around these static tableau, save John Beckman’s unimpressive Art Direction. In the end, Hell on Frisco Bay settles on an unprepossessing bond of reunion between man and wife; a foregone conclusion almost from the moment the main titles have faded. This isn’t a great movie. I would argue, not even a salvageable one.

Better news ahead. Warner Archive (WAC) has once again done their utmost to bring another deep catalog title from their formidable archives to the forefront of Blu-ray remastering. The results are as good as one can expect, given the extreme constraints of vintage Cinemascope and, worst of all, the unforgiving softness and muddy quality inherent in vintage Warnercolor. Aside: I despise Warnercolor. Ditto for Ansco. This image leans to very warm hues; flesh looking reddish to pink and occasionally too-too orange. This is in keeping with the limitations of Warnercolor, not the fault of any untoward tinkering in the remastering process. Hell on Frisco Bay looks about average for a Warnercolor feature. I’ve seen better. I’ve seen a lot worse. When the surviving elements snap together, we get a lot of texture and fine details looking marvelous in 1080p. The image has also been cleaned up. No age-related artifacts. Contrast is solid. Black levels are rarely deep, but again, more a flaw of the vintage original camera negative than Blu-ray remastering. While WAC’s release won’t win any awards for ‘Best in Show 2017’ it is very competent at recreating that vintage ‘scope’/Warnercolor look. The audio survives as DTS mono – adequate for this presentation.  Dialogue, the score and SFX are well represented without distortion. WAC has limited extras to a badly worn theatrical trailer. Bottom line: Hell on Frisco Bay is unexceptional. However, if you are a fan of this movie, and undoubtedly, some are, then you will want to snatch up this Blu-ray. It looks great.

FILM RATING (out of 5 – 5 being the best)

2

VIDEO/AUDIO

4

EXTRAS

0