Gilda Carlson (Dorothy Mackaill) is exactly the sort of pre-Code Hollywood broad they used to churn out like assembly line piston rods in the fun-filled days before the Catholics and pearl-clutchers took over the joint. Platinum blond, loose as a goose, and leading with her tits, she was first and foremost a sin-soaked adventurer without regard for respectability. Whenever things got a little tight, she’d strap on her best and pay her bills in one of the few ways open to a woman of the age: remaining horizontal. Naturally, with no apologies. Within seconds of meeting Ms. Carlson in William Wellman’s Safe in Hell, we know she’s all fire and brimstone because, well, she smokes. And plays piano. Hell, she smokes while playing piano. In 1931, that’s pretty much onscreen fellatio. Soon after that display of unparalleled nerve, she kills a john. With a bottle. Then sets fire to the bastard’s apartment, which leads to a complex-wide conflagration. It’s likely dozens died. We never really know, but let’s assume the worst. This is the Depression, after all. Every damn day started with hopelessly grim and went downhill from there.
Gilda’s cold, calculated murder (the victim was a former customer whose only crime appears to be getting a little too fresh) creates a dilemma. Because she’s a whore, no court on earth will believe her story. She’ll surely go to the chair for what she’s done. Even worse, she’ll embarrass her fiancé. Luckily, that very fiancé is on board with a cover-up. Because his life and labor are on the high seas, he knows about this spicy little island in the Caribbean where they don’t believe in extradition. They could sail there, have her lay low for a few months, then return to New Orleans once the heat has died down. Because naturally, the law will stop investigating first degree murder after a fortnight or two. It’s the perfect plan. And just to keep things on the up and up, they’ll get quickly hitched in a ceremony that sets new standards for matrimonial improvisation. No license, no reverend, and sure as hell no witnesses. Maybe it sticks, maybe it doesn’t. Key is, they both buy into it. Love means never having to apologize for a hasty homicide.
Gilda is then dropped off at the sort of hotel you only find in a Third World hellscape, complete with random chickens, surly monkeys, and a decidedly all-male clientele. Sure, the proprietress is a sweet natured gal with a sing-song lilt, but she’s a person of color. A local. And the sausage fest that inhabits this joint is after but one thing: an unencumbered white woman. And no, the movie doesn’t even remotely hide this fact. When Gilda takes to the stairs to find her room, every last man plants a chair, fixes his gaze, and leers with lascivious intent. They ogle, lick their lips, sweat, and giggle like the unhinged perverts they are. It’s only a matter of time before doors are kicked down, nighties torn, and all sorts of unspeakable acts committed in full view of the management. It’s a hell of a pronouncement: where there are men, there is savagery. It’s gotten so bad for this one half of humanity that we have to set up resorts beyond the reach of the law to house these animals. No broad is safe. But then again, they’ve never met the likes of Gilda.
It stands to reason that there’s a Judge Roy Bean of sorts around these parts – here, called Mr. Bruno the Hangman – and his brief monologue sets the tone for the island’s social order: “As jailer and executioner of this island, I may not be popular with the criminal element. But my activities are confined to island crime. While we do not believe in the international law of extradition, our own laws are very strict. But as long as you behave yourselves here, you are safe from both jail and gallows… safe in hell.” Not only do we have our title, we have our ethic. But with the introduction of a rare female inhabitant, that commitment to law and order would be tested. For example, is self-defense upheld? We soon have our answer. Bruno, like every other man on the island, wants to fuck. Sure, he could just take what he wanted, but he’d rather force her hand. Set her up. Give her a gun with a wink and a smile and a promise to protect. But then, when it’s used, throw her on the mercy of a court so hopelessly rigged not even Rufus T. Firefly could get a fair hearing.
Because the third act twist is a doozy. The man Gilda thought she killed actually survived (we take it on faith, even though we saw his apartment go up like Hiroshima), pulled a fast one with the insurance money (and his wife), and himself ended up hiding away in the very same paradise (apparently this place is no secret). Naturally, because he’s a man, his first order of business after running into Gilda is to assume that she wants to blow him after supper. She does not. But she does want to take Bruno’s gun, place it against something vital, and pull the trigger. The shot rings out, the entire hotel runs to the scene, and within minutes, a trial commences. She’s guilty all right, which is preordained given that the jury consists of the same men who wanted to fuck the woman the previous six weeks. And the judge, well, he’s more interested in swatting flies than presiding over a fair trial. Still, there is a way out. Leave it to Bruno. And his permanently erect penis.
Gilda may live, by God, but she must serve a little time in Bruno’s jail. Not too much time, but just enough to ensure than Bruno gets laid early and often. She will be the sweaty degenerate’s concubine. A reasonable offer, given the island’s general philosophy, but one Gilda wouldn’t dream of accepting. No, she chooses to hang. On a beach, with palm trees, salty air, and her head held high. It’s one of the most satisfactory conclusions to a quasi-feminist parable until Thelma & Louise. A woman would rather die – and die horribly, mind you – than have sex with a Latino strongman. And yes, I remind you, this is a woman who, a mere few months before, literally fucked anyone. And everyone. Often for spare change. But the lip-smacking Bruno was a bridge too far. Her line in the sand. But because she chooses to die in this manner, it’s easy to believe that Bruno himself will run headfirst into a bloody coup. Rape, they’ll tolerate, but a thwarted machismo? Not on your life, muchacho.
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