He got an icepick to the head and was gone a few hours later.
The story's ending is pre-ordained. Heck, the title even gives away the big finish, so all that's left is the build-up, the story behind the murder and a chance to shed a little light on Trotsky and the motives of his killer. We already know the what, but surely there's still some interesting angles to be explored with the who and why.
"Don't call me Shirley" is director Losey's curt response to that proposition.
His preference is to fill the screen with one hundred minutes of Alain Delon alternately running around various crumbling stone edifices in Mexico City, looking moody/blank in a cool pair of sunglasses, and wrestling girlfriend Romy Schneider on a bed whenever she asks awkward questions about his identity. Intersperse that with scenes of Richard Burton as Trotsky dictating his political thoughts to a secretary and then listening back to them on a primitive dictaphone (because hearing dense political theory once just isn't enough); mix in a jarring, screeching soundtrack and numerous pointless panning shots, and the result is an empty, bloated hulk of nothingness.
A complete and utter waste of time, money and talent.
Losey had almost a quarter century of film-making experience under his belt by the time he called action on this project (perhaps 'Inaction' would have been more apt) yet he gives the impression of having absolutely no idea what he's doing. Visually the film is bereft of vision, the story barely holds together, and the cast can hardly summon the energy to simply go through the motions. Delon is a cypher while Burton phones in his performance, presenting the great Russian revolutionary as a windbag with the charisma of a potted plant.
Whatever your personal opinion of Trotsky's politics he deserves better than this.
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