A San Francisco hood is rubbed out by rival Bruno Felkin, who himself reports the crime to Homicide Lieut. Kelsey in an alibi scheme which fails. To escape, he stows away on a fishing boat.... See full summary »
A San Francisco hood is rubbed out by rival Bruno Felkin, who himself reports the crime to Homicide Lieut. Kelsey in an alibi scheme which fails. To escape, he stows away on a fishing boat. At sea, skipper Hamil Linder receives Bruno kindly, teaching him fishing; Bruno enlists Hamil's wayward son Carl to tend his slot machines. Then Carl takes an interest in Bruno's girl Connie. Climax in a storm at sea. Written by
Rod Crawford <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Offbeat but oddly appealing mix of fish story and film noir
An odd fish of a movie, The Raging Tide spins a yarn of crime and redemption, of the city and the sea. It opens as though it's going to be another installment in the noir cycle, with Richard Conte gunning down a rival in cold blood, phoning in a tip to the police, and fleeing to his meticulously planned alibi. Well, maybe not so meticulously, as his girlfriend (Shelly Winters) isn't where he expected her to be. So he stows away on a boat moored at Fisherman's Wharf and is well out to sea when he's discovered by skipper Charles Bickford and his son (Alex Nichol). The bounding main proves a convenient hideout, so he signs on and, improbably, comes to relish the seafaring life.
Meanwhile, back in San Francisco, police detective Steven McNally grills Winters about Conte's whereabouts. (He's one tough cop, telling her `You're an old-looking 23.') But she keeps mum, while go-between Nichol brings her messages from Conte, who won't set foot on land. Relationships among the principals intertwine: Bickford, having problems with his unruly son, takes a shine to Conte, while Nichol falls for Winters. Then Conte hatches a scheme to frame Nichol for the murder he's wanted for, using Winters as his cat's paw. But a big storm blows in....
The Raging Tide boasts solid, if slightly hammy, performances; even Bickford manages to crawl out from under the heaviest Svedish accent since Anna Christie. The picture's all but stolen by John McIntyre as a penniless old salt trying to escape the attentions of Minerva Urecal, though his function in the story never becomes clear. And that story, sentimental and a bit old-fashioned, stays strong enough to compel interest, surviving even the inevitable disappointment that comes when its noir elements go full fathom five.
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