When you consider that its original director, Anthony Mann, died about a third of the way into production and that it was completed by its leading man, someone with very little experience behind the camera, it is a wonder that this film is not a complete mess. It is, however, considerably disheveled. Gone are the crispness, pacing, and tension of Mann's classic westerns and noirs, like "The Naked Spur" and "T-Men". In their place we have this overly complicated, slogging affair where the characters and their relationships are like flowers being strangled in the crabgrass of a typically over plotted, 1960s espionage story. Had Mann survived you have to think he would have brought in another writer to clean up scenarist Derek Marlowe's muddle, adapted from his novel. And then there is Laurence Harvey's stiff, lifeless performance in the lead. You want to cut the guy some slack since he had to take over from Mann and had the character not to usurp or share credit with his great predecessor. Not all actors would have resisted that temptation. But oh ye gods is Harvey bad! Trying to get more than a wry upturned corner of the mouth or occasional furious snarl out of the guy is like praying for rain in Phoenix in May. I've said it before and I'll say it again: It's always shocking to see bad British acting.
There are some good moments. The cast has too many good people like Tom Courtenay (criminally under utilized), Peter Cook, Harry Andrews, Lionel Stander and Per Oscarson (turning in by far the best acting job as a junkie Russian spy) for there not to be. Even Mia Farrow manages a decent Brit accent (certainly better than Harvey's various American turns). But all in all this is a most dispiriting end to one of Hollywood's great directorial careers. C plus.