The only thing I wanted to see in Old San Francisco was the earthquake. I was prepared to wait nearly 80 minutes for that scene; prepared to sit through whatever melodramatic junk that preceded it, letting curiosity sustain me through this empty-vessel of a movie. What I got in the end were buildings of plywood and glue, rattling and buckling inward like the knees of an old drunk; then the onscreen death, via crushing, of Anna May Wong.
Not good, not good at all.
