Shoddy, shoestring budgeted alleged sequel to Peckinpah's "Cross of Iron" notable solely for the troika of superb actors who don't seem to care.
Burton as the war loathing Sgt.Steiner is simply too old. Dead-eyed and sunken cheeked, he growls a German accent that slips more readily than a stricken panzer retreating in the Russian winter. Steiger has barely three scenes but exhibits his customary late period bipolarism, roaring from rage to serenity in seconds with little in between. Mitchum is made of teak, reacting to the death of his only pal, the jeep driver, as if he had dropped a grocery receipt.
Every aspect of this accidental comedy is anaemic and threadbare; the implausible plot, emaciated script, jagged cutting and even the celluloid seems to have been dipped in coffee. Perhaps the creme de la cack is the score which seems to feature an orchestra of two.
Burton as the war loathing Sgt.Steiner is simply too old. Dead-eyed and sunken cheeked, he growls a German accent that slips more readily than a stricken panzer retreating in the Russian winter. Steiger has barely three scenes but exhibits his customary late period bipolarism, roaring from rage to serenity in seconds with little in between. Mitchum is made of teak, reacting to the death of his only pal, the jeep driver, as if he had dropped a grocery receipt.
Every aspect of this accidental comedy is anaemic and threadbare; the implausible plot, emaciated script, jagged cutting and even the celluloid seems to have been dipped in coffee. Perhaps the creme de la cack is the score which seems to feature an orchestra of two.