One of the problems of being a major figure of a cultural form is that you’re expected to produce major works commensurate with your public status. John Huston’s spy thriller “The MacKintosh Man” puts new meaning in the term “cold war”: it’s one of the most antiseptic of espionage stories, with every character a cipher- and not for the sake of useful deception, but strictly of shallow conception -and a narrative which, at first, seems to withhold just enough information in every scene to engage a natural hunger of curiosity to see what will develop next, until it becomes clear (as one might suspect from the opening scene, if you’ve seen more than a handful of these kind of films) that it’s simply the same damned mole hunt, only played with far less conviction than ever before.
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