SAFE IN HELL: Blu-ray (Warner Bros./First National, 1931) Warner Archive
It is safe to suggest that without
its self-governing ‘code of ethics’, the content in American motion pictures
hailing from Hollywood’s golden age would have likely skewed toward the
salacious, sinful and sex-crazed tripe that present-age Hollywood has no qualms
in exalting to the hilt. And it is a more than a bit hypocritical to blame the moguls
of pre-code yore for their verve here, as it remains one of life’s ironies, and
the distinct folly of being human, that our minds frequently derail towards the
tawdry, the cheap and the vulgar, even as our capacity for more altruistic
pursuits creates daily friction in our lives. We strive to be better/do better
than we have been and done today. Pre-code Hollywood caters to our base desires
- just one reason, I suspect, that religious groups abhorred Tinsel Town’s sins
in soft focus, quashed by the looming threat of government intervention to
monitor and dictate the rule of art to the dream merchants.
But even under the liberal freedoms
afforded pre-code product, director, William Wellman’s Safe in Hell (just
one of 5 movies he committed to celluloid in 1931) is an odd duck. The picture
stars damn-near forgotten, Dorothy Mackaill (in a role originally slated for
Barbara Stanwyck) as New Orleans’ working girl, Gilda Karlson. Aside: I have
read reviews to suggest Ms. Karlson is the proverbial ‘good-girl-gone-bad’. If
so, only she knows it, as they do not come much more unscrupulous than she. Too bad for Karlson, she finds herself
feeling responsible for the death of a…uh… ‘client’ and quickly retreats
to a Caribbean backwater, populated by leering, gin-soaked cutthroats and
kooks, vying for a chance to get under her panties. Interestingly, Karlson
feigns a certain flawed virtue and chastity, perhaps, still reeling from the
aftershocks of what took place in New Orleans. Wellman – one tough hombre,
whose movies would uncannily retain a certain ruthless edge, in spite of the
code - herein wastes no time setting up
the sweat-soaked atmospheric touches to infer Gilda Karlson is not the
girl you take home to mother. Indeed, when first we meet Gilda, she is lounging
in her scanties. Having a prostitute as
a leading lady would soon be taboo. But Wellman’s pre-code hiccup relishes the
opportunity to present a slut in the tropics – Tortuga, to be exact – as less
exotic than sleazy and sex-ridden than any red-light district from reality. In
this low-rent, scum-sucking enclave, virtue takes its lice-infested backseat to
an even more bizarre and gritty cavalcade of slimy eccentrics – each, with only
one thing on his mind.
These dogs are hungry for fresh
meat. And, unbeknownst to Karlson, Mr. Bruno (Morgan Wallace) – the (choke!)
law in these parts, has been skimming cash sent to her by sailor/boy-toy, Carl
Erikson (Donald Cook), forcing Karlson to return to old habits, eased back into
dying pretty hard. So, when the landlady (Nina Mae McKinney) hints the rent is
due, Karlson lives up to her reputation to get the job done. Pre-code dramas
can be a lot of fun – mimicking the precepts of the latter ‘film noir’ movement
with desperate women – instead of desperate men – being driven to wreck and
ruin. But Safe in Hell just seems a tad too grotesque to be fully
appreciated for its enjoyably low and deliciously dirty subtext. The screenplay
from Joseph Jackson and Maude Fulton (based on a play by Houston Branch) tries
to interject some dumb comedy to lighten the mood. But Safe in Hell’s
modus operandi is chiefly to depress.
As the nondescript landlady,
McKinney gets the opportunity to warble ‘When It’s Sleepy Time Down South’
– a disposable ditty. MacKaill, whose pre-code star was on the ascendance, soon
found her future dashed as the studios and audiences associated her too
strongly with this typecasting as the bad girl everyone loves to hate. By 1933,
she was a forgotten figure in the cinema firmament. It mattered not a hoot to
MacKaill, who retreated to the luxurious Royal Hawaiian Hotel in Waikiki where
she enjoyed an enviable retirement, frolicking in the sand and surf as their
‘celebrity in residence’, only occasionally to appear on television decades
afterward. MacKaill is the glue that keeps Safe in Hell from unraveling
into just another pre-code clunker dominated by its distasteful milieu. And she
remains authentic as the downtrodden whore who has to fend off the wolves after
the money runs out.
The back story, told with
considerable economy, has Gilda Karlson a once a decent sort, raped by her boss
and discovered by his wife. Rather than ostracize the guy, disgraced hubby and
mate blackball Karlson out of legitimate work. She turns to hooking to cover
the bills. But when boss-man returns for some gainful badinage on the side,
Karlson whacks him dead before getting out of town to escape the murder rap.
Wow! Hell really hath no fury like…well, you know! If only Wellman’s
movie did not skew so far into the abhorrent, Safe in Hell might have
possessed some lingering merits as a pre-code classic. Yet, it is more than a
tad off-putting to observe as the entire male population herein degenerate into
a collective of sex-crazed goons, bent on bending Karlson over whatever piece
of furniture just happens to be handy while she struggles for reasons to remain
sane and pure of body, mind and soul for Carl, the guy who left her dangling on
promises of his noble return.
Safe in Hell opens in New
Orleans. Accused of killing her boss, Piet Van Saal (Ralf Harolde), oh, and
never mind it was self-defense with Karlson as the wronged and raped party -
Gilda is smuggled to (gag!) safety by Carl. The couple lands in Tortuga, from
whence she cannot be extradited. There, Carl and Gilda exchange vows without the
benefit of a clergyman. Carl – a merchant marine – departs for his ship, leaving
his beloved as the only white woman in a hotel populated by international
criminals, all of whom vie for the chance to have sex with her. Mr. Bruno is
unrelenting in his quest for satisfaction, intercepting Carl’s letters and
pocketing the badly needed support money he has sent Karlson, in the hopes she
will turn to him out of desperation.
Now for the wrinkle: Van Saal
didn’t die at Karlson’s hand…not yet. In fact, he faked the murder so he and
his unscrupulous wife could collect on an insurance policy. But when the wife
decided to turn him in, Van Saal fled abroad. Ironically, given their past,
Karlson appears to hold no grudge against the man who raped and framed her. In
fact, she appears relieved to see him…that is, until Van Saal tries, yet again,
to get his rocks off at her expense. This time, Karlson is having none of it. Using
a gun given to her by Bruno, for her own protection, Karlson puts a period to
Van Saal’s lust once and for all. On trial for murder, it appears as though
Karlson might get off with a sympathetic jury. Alas, even if the verdict favors
her, Bruno informs Karlson he intends to charge her with possession of a deadly
weapon, resulting in six months in his prison camp where he will provide her
with very comfortable living accommodations, provided she ply him in return with
sexual favors. Derailing the opportunity to become Bruno’s kept mistress,
Karlson lies to the judge, inferring she murdered Van Saal in cold blood. Shocked
by her ‘confession’, with no choice but to accept it, the judge sentences
Karlson to hang from the gallows. Our story ends with Karlson being escorted to
her fate.
Safe in Hell is a
pretty-sour affair. The faux morality message, about a woman scorned taking her
lot into her own hands, placing providence in God’s, is fairly leaden and
unconvincing. Is Wellman suggesting we pity the poor prostitute by plying her
with false hope about ‘virtue’ (even tainted virtue) as its own reward? Herein,
wounded chastity is preferred to self-preservation. Self-defense is overlooked,
and, all the pre-code ribaldry gets subverted by an even bigger cliché – ‘you
can’t fight city hall’! The Jackson/Fulton screenplay is all over the place
and the production values in this First National flick, distributed by Warner
Bros., are C-grade at best. Arguably, Wellman’s best work of the year went into
Night Nurse and The Public Enemy. Let’s just call Safe in Hell
what it is – a breakneck little nothing, shot on a shoestring, with a credible
performance by MacKaill as the ‘accidental murderess.’ Tragically, there’s not
much else to go on. Wellman’s pacing is swift, but it just seems off and
awkward. Morgan Wallace’s sex addict is
more the greedy little capon than crowing rooster. In the end, Wellman’s
message is pointedly clear. Women of his generation are expected to be a lady
in the parlor and a total whore in the bedroom. Between these instances the
best they can hope for is to shut their traps, spread their legs and like it or
lump it in the tropics. Yeow!
WAC’s George Feltenstein suggested
that April’s spate of Warner Archive titles was meant to honor the 100th
anniversary of Warner Bros. as a studio. If so, he and the archive have much
better deep catalog to choose from. Safe in Hell is disposable and silly
and an all but forgotten film, arguably, not rife for rediscovery. Sometimes
there is a genuinely good reason why some movies fade into obscurity. Nevertheless,
Safe in Hell from WAC looks pretty spiffy. The B&W image sports
solid grayscale tonality, and is, as most everything WAC does, a quality
affair. Owing to film stocks and Sidney Hickox’s cinematography, this one is
softly focused in spots. Age-related artifacts have been eradicated. Contrast
is excellent. Black levels, however, are never deep – again, in keeping with
choices made in the original cinematography. The DTS 2.0 mono sounds remarkably
clean, given its vintage. There is absolutely nothing to complain about here
except the movie itself. Considering the wealth of ancient studio product still
MIA in hi-def (need I remind, we are still waiting for such luminous WB pics as
Kings Row, Mr. Skeffington, Captain Blood, The Charge of the Light Brigade,
Humoresque, The Damned Don’t Cry, The Man Who Came to Dinner, Old Acquaintance,
The Hasty Heart, and on and on to hit the market) did this pre-code ditty
really need such high exposure to mark Warner’s one-hundredth year in film-making?
For those who think there is something here worth seeing again, WAC’s Blu-ray
is solid and appealing. Wish I could say as much for the movie itself. Judge
and buy accordingly.
FILM RATING (out
of 5 – 5 being the best)
1
VIDEO/AUDIO
4.5
EXTRAS
0
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