Whatever doubts there may be about what drew Hitchcock to the novel by Leon Uris, there is no doubt at all that he enjoyed enormously the rearrangement of it to suit himself.

At 70, Hitchcock seems suddenly to have forgotten his own recipe.

Few directors are capable of this kind of structural experimentation so late in their careers, and Hitchcock deserves much credit for his audacity.

When a film proceeds on shaky moral assumptions (good, clean-cut, serious Americans vs. unkempt, cigar-smoking, bearded Cubans), and when it never allows its characters to become persons, even the suspense is gone.