The plot is a little complicated, but not hard to follow. The characters are simplicity itself. There are the good people and then there are the bad people. Of course the real world isn't so structured but it's nice to relax once in a while and allow our heads a playful descent into the vulgate. Why not? Freud called it regression in the service of the ego. The plot of an action movie usually provides a good example, as this one does.
The story involves the extortion of a monstrous amount of money from the British government, primary shareholder in a North Sea oil production platform. The bad guys, led by Anthony Perkins, have hijacked a service ship, planted mines around the bases of two oil rigs, and threaten to blow both of the mega-expensive things up unless they are given the money in 24 hours. Something like that, anyway.
Roger Moore is Ffolks, head of a dozen or so specialists in a private army. The PM hires him to take out the hijacking extortionists. Moore and his team do so, with the help of an Admiral (James Mason) who is there primarily to provide a stiff upper lip and smoldering resentment of Moore's quirky personality. And, man, is it quirky.
Moore is curmudgeonly but in a cute way. His no-nonsense egotism and prejudices make you smile instead of wince. Moore drinks scotch neat four hours after breakfast, sometimes out of the bottle. If his men are slow, he threatens to "have your b***s for breakfast." He does petit point or whatever it is. He loves cats and dislikes women in no uncertain terms. His analyses are wind swift. Mason's admiral grumbles, "I'll bet you're the type who does the Times crossword in ten minutes." Moore is offended -- "I never take TEN minutes." Nota bene: The London Times crossword puzzle is designed by sadistic geniuses for consumption by big league masochists. It must be the toughest in the English language. Example: "A major seaport in the middle of Czechoslovakia." Answer: "Oslo."
Michael Burns, wearing a pair of glasses as thick as coke bottle bottoms, is one of the heavies. I have always admired Michael Burns' work. I like the way he looks. The sole reason for this is that someone once said I resembled him or, rather, the other way round. But, come to think of it, that observation was made by a young lady with whom I'd just had a tiff and now I'm not sure it was meant as a compliment. Ex girl friends can be pretty subtle in inserting the syringe. Hmmm. I don't think I like him so much now.
A couple of other things. The director was a protégé and imitator of John Ford. He's a nice enough guy but, like Ford, tended to use his stock company and he made a couple of poor choices. Some of the supporting players will make you wince. And of course he carries on Ford's least attractive values while missing any of the poetry.
There's also the question of the crew on that supply ship. I spent some time as a seaman on a Coast Guard cutter and it was nothing like this. The crew wear hard hats and international orange vests, and they hustle 50-gallon drums across rusty wet decks. There is no seamanship on display. They might as well be working in a warehouse in Queens.
However, the action scenes are suspenseful and exciting without bathing the viewer in gore. The locations are colorful and evocative, from Castle Urquhart to a heaving ship in a gale. A few inconsequential good guys die, while ALL of the bad guys bite the dust. Perkins' last words to Moore, as Perkins is dying, pinioned to a chair by a harpoon: "I still don't like your face." Don't take it seriously. Just relax and regress in the service of your ego. If you're in a shape that is in any way similar to mine, your ego needs it badly.
The story involves the extortion of a monstrous amount of money from the British government, primary shareholder in a North Sea oil production platform. The bad guys, led by Anthony Perkins, have hijacked a service ship, planted mines around the bases of two oil rigs, and threaten to blow both of the mega-expensive things up unless they are given the money in 24 hours. Something like that, anyway.
Roger Moore is Ffolks, head of a dozen or so specialists in a private army. The PM hires him to take out the hijacking extortionists. Moore and his team do so, with the help of an Admiral (James Mason) who is there primarily to provide a stiff upper lip and smoldering resentment of Moore's quirky personality. And, man, is it quirky.
Moore is curmudgeonly but in a cute way. His no-nonsense egotism and prejudices make you smile instead of wince. Moore drinks scotch neat four hours after breakfast, sometimes out of the bottle. If his men are slow, he threatens to "have your b***s for breakfast." He does petit point or whatever it is. He loves cats and dislikes women in no uncertain terms. His analyses are wind swift. Mason's admiral grumbles, "I'll bet you're the type who does the Times crossword in ten minutes." Moore is offended -- "I never take TEN minutes." Nota bene: The London Times crossword puzzle is designed by sadistic geniuses for consumption by big league masochists. It must be the toughest in the English language. Example: "A major seaport in the middle of Czechoslovakia." Answer: "Oslo."
Michael Burns, wearing a pair of glasses as thick as coke bottle bottoms, is one of the heavies. I have always admired Michael Burns' work. I like the way he looks. The sole reason for this is that someone once said I resembled him or, rather, the other way round. But, come to think of it, that observation was made by a young lady with whom I'd just had a tiff and now I'm not sure it was meant as a compliment. Ex girl friends can be pretty subtle in inserting the syringe. Hmmm. I don't think I like him so much now.
A couple of other things. The director was a protégé and imitator of John Ford. He's a nice enough guy but, like Ford, tended to use his stock company and he made a couple of poor choices. Some of the supporting players will make you wince. And of course he carries on Ford's least attractive values while missing any of the poetry.
There's also the question of the crew on that supply ship. I spent some time as a seaman on a Coast Guard cutter and it was nothing like this. The crew wear hard hats and international orange vests, and they hustle 50-gallon drums across rusty wet decks. There is no seamanship on display. They might as well be working in a warehouse in Queens.
However, the action scenes are suspenseful and exciting without bathing the viewer in gore. The locations are colorful and evocative, from Castle Urquhart to a heaving ship in a gale. A few inconsequential good guys die, while ALL of the bad guys bite the dust. Perkins' last words to Moore, as Perkins is dying, pinioned to a chair by a harpoon: "I still don't like your face." Don't take it seriously. Just relax and regress in the service of your ego. If you're in a shape that is in any way similar to mine, your ego needs it badly.