The exclamation point in the title is appropriate, albeit an understatement. This movie doesn't just cry -- it shrieks loud enough to shatter glass.
Filmmakers Andrew and Virginia Stone made shrill, humorless suspense thrillers that strove for a semi-documentary feel. Here, they shot on actual New York locations with tinny "real-life" acoustics to jack up the verisimilitude. But the naturalism of the sound recording only serves to amplify the Stones' maladroit dialog and the mouth-frothing histrionics of tortured butterfly Inger Stevens.
In a performance completely devoid of modulation, Stevens plays the wife of electronics whiz James Mason (looking haggard and bored); both are held captive by extortionist Rod Steiger (looking bloated and bored) and his slimy cohorts in a scheme to blackmail an airline with a deadly bomb that Mason has unwittingly helped construct.
Here is another credibility-straining instance of a criminal mastermind so brilliantly attentive to every detail, yet knuckleheaded enough to hire a drug-addicted degenerate as an underling. The Stones' idea of nail-biting tension is to trap the hysterical Stevens alone with Benzedrine-popping rapist Neville Brand, filling the frame with his sweaty, drooling kisser. But the camera work is so leaden and Brand so (uncharacteristically) demure that the effect is hardly lurid, much less suspenseful. The Stones, a square pair at heart, don't even have the courage of their own lack of convictions.
The film, which ends with the portly Steiger chasing the fleet-footed Stevens on a subway train track, is as clumsy as its ungainly heavy. With Angie Dickinson as Steiger's amoral girlfriend, Jack Klugman, Kenneth Tobey, and Barney Philips.
Filmmakers Andrew and Virginia Stone made shrill, humorless suspense thrillers that strove for a semi-documentary feel. Here, they shot on actual New York locations with tinny "real-life" acoustics to jack up the verisimilitude. But the naturalism of the sound recording only serves to amplify the Stones' maladroit dialog and the mouth-frothing histrionics of tortured butterfly Inger Stevens.
In a performance completely devoid of modulation, Stevens plays the wife of electronics whiz James Mason (looking haggard and bored); both are held captive by extortionist Rod Steiger (looking bloated and bored) and his slimy cohorts in a scheme to blackmail an airline with a deadly bomb that Mason has unwittingly helped construct.
Here is another credibility-straining instance of a criminal mastermind so brilliantly attentive to every detail, yet knuckleheaded enough to hire a drug-addicted degenerate as an underling. The Stones' idea of nail-biting tension is to trap the hysterical Stevens alone with Benzedrine-popping rapist Neville Brand, filling the frame with his sweaty, drooling kisser. But the camera work is so leaden and Brand so (uncharacteristically) demure that the effect is hardly lurid, much less suspenseful. The Stones, a square pair at heart, don't even have the courage of their own lack of convictions.
The film, which ends with the portly Steiger chasing the fleet-footed Stevens on a subway train track, is as clumsy as its ungainly heavy. With Angie Dickinson as Steiger's amoral girlfriend, Jack Klugman, Kenneth Tobey, and Barney Philips.