At the pinnacle of his Bond-dom, Roger Moore spread his thespian wings by growing an unsightly beard, swilling Scotch straight from the bottle and scowling at women as counterterrorism expert Rufus Excalibur ffolkes. Roger’s anti-007 is called upon when Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) and his deadly dandies strap explosives to some high-dollar oil platforms in hopes of securing a hansom ransom. James Mason mumbles incredulously as an aging admiral who doesn’t cotton to ffolkes’ methods — or his eccentricities. Such as the fact he’s a rabid misogynist, but in a slice of crass irony, LOVES pussycats! While bereft of the cowboy heroics now expected of the genre, the flick’s chock full of British decorum and precision, heck, ffolkes even takes time for a titter-worthy "let’s synchronize our watches" scene before the final assault. CineSchlockers will spot genre great Michael Parks as Perkins’ bespectacled partner in crime (and whatever else). More recently, Michael stole every frame of the tragically underappreciated From Dusk Til Dawn 3: The Hangman’s Daughter.
No breasts. Eight corpses. Tea slurping. Bucket o’ grenades. Puking. Gratuitous shower scene. Ol’ piping hot coffee to the face gag. Will writing. Norwegian impersonating. Parks reassures Perkins: "If any one of ’em even farts in the wrong key, he’ll end up with his brains all over the floor!"