This is embarrassingly bad cinema, even worse for taking itself so seriously. The good cast is thoroughly wasted in laughable hamminess, with dialogue that you'd expect in penny-dreadful plays like "The Drunkard".
Some of the memorable moments:
Clark Gable spends much time staring off into space, chewing a huge stogie in silence. Yvonne de Carlo, with much panting and eye-rolling, fights off the leering slave-trader (who may have some of the worst lines any actor has ever had to struggle with). I almost expected her to gaze heavenward with wrist pressed to forehead.
And you can spot all the bad guys right off by their stubbly, unshaven faces.
Other characters walk onstage, recite inane dialogue, then vanish without a trace.
Music blares when emphasis is needed to punctuate spoken revelations, in case we missed something.
When Gable finally grabs de Carlo, he does it with a silent-movie-type clinch, as the camera swings coyly away.
de Carlo can't quite close the French windows in a windstorm, so she rolls around on the floor instead. (Really.)
Torin Thatcher, as the grizzled sea captain, would be perfect as the host of a Saturday cartoon show. He did every cliche except break into a sailor's hornpipe.
Gable mainly just puts in his time by sitting around, watching the non sequiturs fall where they may. No wonder the theatres were empty by the late Fifties.
Film teachers, this is the ultimate how-not-to example of sloppy cinematic pretentiousness you've been looking to show to your class.
Some of the memorable moments:
Clark Gable spends much time staring off into space, chewing a huge stogie in silence. Yvonne de Carlo, with much panting and eye-rolling, fights off the leering slave-trader (who may have some of the worst lines any actor has ever had to struggle with). I almost expected her to gaze heavenward with wrist pressed to forehead.
And you can spot all the bad guys right off by their stubbly, unshaven faces.
Other characters walk onstage, recite inane dialogue, then vanish without a trace.
Music blares when emphasis is needed to punctuate spoken revelations, in case we missed something.
When Gable finally grabs de Carlo, he does it with a silent-movie-type clinch, as the camera swings coyly away.
de Carlo can't quite close the French windows in a windstorm, so she rolls around on the floor instead. (Really.)
Torin Thatcher, as the grizzled sea captain, would be perfect as the host of a Saturday cartoon show. He did every cliche except break into a sailor's hornpipe.
Gable mainly just puts in his time by sitting around, watching the non sequiturs fall where they may. No wonder the theatres were empty by the late Fifties.
Film teachers, this is the ultimate how-not-to example of sloppy cinematic pretentiousness you've been looking to show to your class.