Peckinpah's only war film was told from the point of view of a German soldier on the Russian Front, and was funded by an overly ambitious German porn magnate who secured an all-star cast, but only three tanks. James Coburn is a hard-fighting grunt battling not only the advancing Russians but also his sinisterly upper-class captain, Maximilian Schell; together with world-weary commander James Mason, they've got to get out of the Crimean Peninsula alive, or die trying. Reviewers derided the film for its inability to clarify the battle scenes, but that is exactly Peckinpah's point: his fierce editing together of flying limbs, fiery explosions, and terrified expressions erases all semblance of narrative (or moral) order, leaving instead a terrifying aura of senselessness and utter loss. Besides, we've read the story, heard the speeches before; for Peckinpah the words, setting, or nationality take second stage to his blinding combat montages, both “positively Wagnerian” (John Simon) and “as Abstractly Expressionist as Jackson Pollock” (Vincent Canby).