It opens with a smiling Charles Bronson at the helm of a modest yacht and a topless blond sunning herself on the deck. Bronson begins to undo her foolish bottom. Dissolve to Bronson and a girl, Jill Ireland, driving through the narrow streets of St. Thomas in a Ford Mustang, just like Steve McQueen in "Bullett" two years before, and the drive quickly evolving into a high speed pursuit, with cars screeching around sharp corners, taking leaps over the city's hills, and otherwise doing exactly what Steeve McQueen did in "Bullett" except for one shot of Bronson squealing from side to side on a cramped downhill street, which anticipates "Magnum Force," when Dirty Harry squeaked down Vermont Street in San Francisco.
Bronson drops off Ireland and continues trying to escaped but is blocked by a Porsche driven by a friend. Bronson stop his Mustang, gets out, and with a big welcoming grin, says "Coogan!", and then Coogan shoots Bronson and drives off with a willing Jill Ireland. The other villains appear and want to be sure that Bronson has shuffled off this mortal coil but Bronson outwits them and drives them off, killing one of them with the last shot from his empty Luger. No kidding, it's empty.
Bronson spends the rest of the film tracking down his betrayers -- Jill Ireland and "Coogan", who doesn't seem to be listed in the credits.
Bronson in his prime was a fine specimen with a fine frame, not muscle bound but sinewy, with startling clavicles. He sports the bandido mustache that he made famous around this time. His talent was B level but not so bad he was embarrassing. Jill Ireland is fragile and likable.
The movie takes them all over the place -- New Orleans and elsewhere -- so it's not a low-budget enterprise, but it's undone by the director's and writers' resolute determination to make this a brainless action movie. The gun shots sound tinny and carry a slight peep, as in a spaghetti Western. Ennio Morricone's music can be witty or sumptuous but here consists of variations on shrill electronic instruments. It's like listening to a musical saw. The cinematography is suitably done in lurid colors. And for reasons known only to the producers, some of the dialog is in Italian. In a Caribbean jail, three unrelated prisoners occupy a cell, and they speak Italian. A high performance care race in New Orleans is broadcast in Italian.
It's not badly directed in terms of fundamentals like camera placement and staging. There are no editorial fireworks, thank God; no instantaneous cutting, and the camera doesn't shudder with each blow, each explosion. Nice shots of bayous and mammoth live oaks festooned with Spanish moss. Interesting if brief tour of New Orleans' enflowered courtyards.
Bronson drops off Ireland and continues trying to escaped but is blocked by a Porsche driven by a friend. Bronson stop his Mustang, gets out, and with a big welcoming grin, says "Coogan!", and then Coogan shoots Bronson and drives off with a willing Jill Ireland. The other villains appear and want to be sure that Bronson has shuffled off this mortal coil but Bronson outwits them and drives them off, killing one of them with the last shot from his empty Luger. No kidding, it's empty.
Bronson spends the rest of the film tracking down his betrayers -- Jill Ireland and "Coogan", who doesn't seem to be listed in the credits.
Bronson in his prime was a fine specimen with a fine frame, not muscle bound but sinewy, with startling clavicles. He sports the bandido mustache that he made famous around this time. His talent was B level but not so bad he was embarrassing. Jill Ireland is fragile and likable.
The movie takes them all over the place -- New Orleans and elsewhere -- so it's not a low-budget enterprise, but it's undone by the director's and writers' resolute determination to make this a brainless action movie. The gun shots sound tinny and carry a slight peep, as in a spaghetti Western. Ennio Morricone's music can be witty or sumptuous but here consists of variations on shrill electronic instruments. It's like listening to a musical saw. The cinematography is suitably done in lurid colors. And for reasons known only to the producers, some of the dialog is in Italian. In a Caribbean jail, three unrelated prisoners occupy a cell, and they speak Italian. A high performance care race in New Orleans is broadcast in Italian.
It's not badly directed in terms of fundamentals like camera placement and staging. There are no editorial fireworks, thank God; no instantaneous cutting, and the camera doesn't shudder with each blow, each explosion. Nice shots of bayous and mammoth live oaks festooned with Spanish moss. Interesting if brief tour of New Orleans' enflowered courtyards.