Through long practice, Clive Donner has mastered the art of making pictures unmistakable for anything but British television - cramped, carelessly framed shots; anachronistic hairdressing and set decoration; the cheapest possible film stock; music disinterred from a muzak burial ground; scenes every single one of which was obviously the first take; editing apparently committed with a greasy boning knife by a whimsical butcher. Yet for all its brownish greens, awkward flashbacks and 70s sideburns, the WWII thriller ROGUE MALE is that rarest of items, a badly directed good movie.
It's Frederic Raphael, the most pretentiously named writer since Goldsworthy Dickinson, who bears primary responsibility for the film's success. He keeps things fairly rushing along, always ready with a clever quip for Peter O'Toole to flip from the tip of his furred tongue.
Within five minutes, O'Toole at his most wan and inebriated is tortured by Michael Byrne, the same Nazi who twenty years later was hurled off a cliff by Harrison Ford. Here, he and O'Toole insult each other's public school before O'Toole is hurled off a cliff onto a shotgunned pig. Then O'Toole, probably of necessity, is allowed to abandon vertical ambulation, crawling and slithering through much of the movie. It's a good start to a really fun little spy hunter.
This is the O'Toole of legend, the one who falls off stages reciting sonnets backward, the famous wastrel, the untamed actor so charming and well-equipped that even when he forgets his line, can't walk without a stagger, or drifts through entire scenes with the most bleary of stares, delivers a thoroughly entertaining and credible performance. When the Nazis stuff a dead cat into his burrow, he recites Byron to it. How many actors could pull that off, drunk or sober?
Incidentally, his character's name in this film is Robert Hunter, not Thorndyke, which title IMDb curiously bestows upon him. (In the novel the character is unnamed, and in Fritz Lang's previous adaptation MAN HUNT he's Alan Thorndike with an i. Hmm.)
It's Frederic Raphael, the most pretentiously named writer since Goldsworthy Dickinson, who bears primary responsibility for the film's success. He keeps things fairly rushing along, always ready with a clever quip for Peter O'Toole to flip from the tip of his furred tongue.
Within five minutes, O'Toole at his most wan and inebriated is tortured by Michael Byrne, the same Nazi who twenty years later was hurled off a cliff by Harrison Ford. Here, he and O'Toole insult each other's public school before O'Toole is hurled off a cliff onto a shotgunned pig. Then O'Toole, probably of necessity, is allowed to abandon vertical ambulation, crawling and slithering through much of the movie. It's a good start to a really fun little spy hunter.
This is the O'Toole of legend, the one who falls off stages reciting sonnets backward, the famous wastrel, the untamed actor so charming and well-equipped that even when he forgets his line, can't walk without a stagger, or drifts through entire scenes with the most bleary of stares, delivers a thoroughly entertaining and credible performance. When the Nazis stuff a dead cat into his burrow, he recites Byron to it. How many actors could pull that off, drunk or sober?
Incidentally, his character's name in this film is Robert Hunter, not Thorndyke, which title IMDb curiously bestows upon him. (In the novel the character is unnamed, and in Fritz Lang's previous adaptation MAN HUNT he's Alan Thorndike with an i. Hmm.)