If there were any dull stretched in this film they were smoothed over by James Mason's perfect performance as a self-possessed cad. Whatever he says or does is oleaginous, convincing in a most understated British way. For instance, does he need to pretend to be drunk at a dinner at the Russian embassy? He doesn't stagger around and speak mush in an overloud voice. No, not at all. He musses his hair a bit, walks carefully through the crowd, and suddenly lifts one leg and spins into an about face on the ball of one foot. When he's about to be exposed as a fraud, his features assume a limpid woebegone expression, as if someone had just taken away his lollipop.
If it were needed, any slack would be taken up by another superb cad, George Sanders, to whom the writers have given some of the best, most ironic lines, almost Lord Henry Wotton. However, as a cad, Sanders is outdone here.
Mason is in love with Sanders' fiancée but feels he doesn't have enough money as an officer in British intelligence to win her. He develops a plan. He will disappear under circumstances that suggest he went over to the USSR with top secret information. He will be slandered in the press. And when he emerges, completely innocent, he sues the media for liable and makes his fortune.
Mason follows through on his plan, taking his sailboat to a small Scottish island, sinking it after setting up a microsuite on the rocks -- primus, tent, champagne, radio -- and makes himself comfortable even as the staff back home are becoming less comfortable. The media take the bait and Mason, bearded, wearing rumpled pajamas in cheerful grandeur, chuckles and lunches on boiled lobster and wine.
"Come on," he coaches the portable radio, "Somebody call me a traitor so I can return to civilization." They call him a traitor. Preparatory to lighting the bonfire that will summon rescuers, he throws his stockpile of goods into the sea. But the best laid plans -- He accidentally loses his jug of accelerant and is forced to try lighting a pile of soggy seaweed with wet matches. The attempt fails when he runs out of matches. Thereafter he must sit and endure the Scottish weather while the scandal of his treachery fills the newspapers.
He's eventually rescued and his reputation is redeemed except for the police, who suspect him of doing exactly what he did. There are some narrow squeaks and he suavely bluffs his way through them. It works out satisfactorily. Mason gets the girl, Vera Miles, miles away from any beauty contests in Oklahoma, and instead of suing the media, he sets about making his fortune by writing the true story of his adventure, the true story being a complete fabrication, so common these days.
It's not a farce, not an antic comedy, but it's delightful in its own insinuating way.
If it were needed, any slack would be taken up by another superb cad, George Sanders, to whom the writers have given some of the best, most ironic lines, almost Lord Henry Wotton. However, as a cad, Sanders is outdone here.
Mason is in love with Sanders' fiancée but feels he doesn't have enough money as an officer in British intelligence to win her. He develops a plan. He will disappear under circumstances that suggest he went over to the USSR with top secret information. He will be slandered in the press. And when he emerges, completely innocent, he sues the media for liable and makes his fortune.
Mason follows through on his plan, taking his sailboat to a small Scottish island, sinking it after setting up a microsuite on the rocks -- primus, tent, champagne, radio -- and makes himself comfortable even as the staff back home are becoming less comfortable. The media take the bait and Mason, bearded, wearing rumpled pajamas in cheerful grandeur, chuckles and lunches on boiled lobster and wine.
"Come on," he coaches the portable radio, "Somebody call me a traitor so I can return to civilization." They call him a traitor. Preparatory to lighting the bonfire that will summon rescuers, he throws his stockpile of goods into the sea. But the best laid plans -- He accidentally loses his jug of accelerant and is forced to try lighting a pile of soggy seaweed with wet matches. The attempt fails when he runs out of matches. Thereafter he must sit and endure the Scottish weather while the scandal of his treachery fills the newspapers.
He's eventually rescued and his reputation is redeemed except for the police, who suspect him of doing exactly what he did. There are some narrow squeaks and he suavely bluffs his way through them. It works out satisfactorily. Mason gets the girl, Vera Miles, miles away from any beauty contests in Oklahoma, and instead of suing the media, he sets about making his fortune by writing the true story of his adventure, the true story being a complete fabrication, so common these days.
It's not a farce, not an antic comedy, but it's delightful in its own insinuating way.