A real rattletrap of a movie, in which all the parts clank like mad but can't mesh. Jack Palance is poorly used in a script that has him playing from moment to moment the grim stoic, man of the world, homesick patriot, lovesick romantic, and half a dozen additional stereotypes. He spends most of the time literally dragging around Joan Fontaine and Corrine Calvet while on the run from both the police and black marketeers. The plot is a slice of Cold War tripe in which embargoed American war surplus material is being sold to the Russians. Nobody in the cast looks entirely comfortable at any point, and neither will the viewer.