The first hour or so of this film seems to be one of those barely competent Euro-thrillers that smells of "deal" and little more.
Evil killers laugh for 20 minutes at a time, a thug in a car tries to kill a pedestrian thug and the editing makes no sense, a voluptuous babe offers to sell out the entire male cast sequentially and all at once, we've all seen it a thousand times and on our own deathbeds we'll undoubtedly regret the time we wasted doing so.
Then the picture goes off the rails, perhaps because of the three or maybe four directors. All pretense of continuity goes out the window, scars disappear and reappear on faces, characters die for silly reasons or no reason at all; basically staging and dialog disintegrate completely. We watch the film go around and around in ever-diminishing circles and finally disappear up its own backside.
You think, "Oh, the poor actors," as they all get that haunted look, like "How did I ever get involved with this mess?" and "Who do I have to sleep with to get OFF of this picture?" and "Boy, will I murder my agent when I get back home!" and "Oh wow, I really need to go; I'll bet it's that schnitzel last night at the hotel."
Jayne Mansfield does some of the best acting in the film, which'll give you some idea of what to expect. When Cameron Mitchell goes berserk and starts ripping up the furniture, he does it with a remarkably rehearsed air, along the lines of "We only have one sofa, so I have to get it right on the first take," and "Does Stuart Whitman have to put up with this stuff in his movies?"
There is no psychological or sociological subtext to this film; it has no stylistic elegance or directorial signature hidden in a overlooked "B"; it is simply a desperate and cynical attempt to make money. The movie fails on every level. You don't even get to see Dubrovnik. Skip it.
Evil killers laugh for 20 minutes at a time, a thug in a car tries to kill a pedestrian thug and the editing makes no sense, a voluptuous babe offers to sell out the entire male cast sequentially and all at once, we've all seen it a thousand times and on our own deathbeds we'll undoubtedly regret the time we wasted doing so.
Then the picture goes off the rails, perhaps because of the three or maybe four directors. All pretense of continuity goes out the window, scars disappear and reappear on faces, characters die for silly reasons or no reason at all; basically staging and dialog disintegrate completely. We watch the film go around and around in ever-diminishing circles and finally disappear up its own backside.
You think, "Oh, the poor actors," as they all get that haunted look, like "How did I ever get involved with this mess?" and "Who do I have to sleep with to get OFF of this picture?" and "Boy, will I murder my agent when I get back home!" and "Oh wow, I really need to go; I'll bet it's that schnitzel last night at the hotel."
Jayne Mansfield does some of the best acting in the film, which'll give you some idea of what to expect. When Cameron Mitchell goes berserk and starts ripping up the furniture, he does it with a remarkably rehearsed air, along the lines of "We only have one sofa, so I have to get it right on the first take," and "Does Stuart Whitman have to put up with this stuff in his movies?"
There is no psychological or sociological subtext to this film; it has no stylistic elegance or directorial signature hidden in a overlooked "B"; it is simply a desperate and cynical attempt to make money. The movie fails on every level. You don't even get to see Dubrovnik. Skip it.