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...sheer drama of this play is so intense that it often makes the words of the script sound insignificant. The stage movement flows like burning lava. Babe is the rare director who can make a character say more in utter stillness than in long speeches. Time after time he strikes precisely the right movements, theatrical but true. His direction is smooth as a Rolls Royce and has the same quality of moving you without jarring you. When he uses shock, he uses it almost gently, to elict passion...
Through it all, Eastwood walks around with a woolen blanket covering a fleece-lined vest and shirt-in the midst of what is supposed to be an El Paso summer. He and Van Cleef scarcely look at their victims before knocking them oft, never waste a shot, and never utter a sentence when a grunt will do-which gives the picture, despite moments of serious relief, the feverish aura of madcap comedy. For those who like an elemental western with galvanic gestures, a twanging score full of jew's-harps and choral chanting, and a lofty disdain for sense...
...even outdo their heroes in studying shots (mostly putts), pacing terrain, measuring windage, barometric pressure and countless other factors. And all this has not resulted in their scoring better; instead, it has resulted in prolonging the usual four-hour, 18-hole round to something like six hours, to the utter frustration of following players. If something is not done about it, golf, as we oldtimers knew it, will never be the same again...
What saves Caprice from utter extinction is that the film wisely dabbles in self-mockery: the heroine's deceased father, shown in a framed photograph, is Arthur Godfrey-a reminder of the role he played opposite her in The Glass Bottom Boat. But such inside jokery is about the limit of Caprice's caprice. The rest of the time it takes its story all too seriously, offers curiously unexciting murders and a wide choice of uninteresting villains...
...platoon soon discover that they are in fact hopelessly trapped. After a few days of unrelieved agony, death becomes relatively unimportant. What matters more is how it will come. Using prose as direct and brutal as a trench knife to the gut, and with utter fidelity to military fact, the author meticulously ticks off the manner in which each man dies. The Cauldron may not win a prize as high art, but as an unsparing and authentic eyewitness account of the sights and sounds and pains of war, it is a bitterly superb tale...