This TV production's best things are a wonderful Land Rover jeep that goes over all manner of landscape in Iceland until some CIA marksman punctures its front left tire; and lovely Ragnheiður Steindórsdóttir.
That the aim is to stop British agent Stuart Wilson à la James Bond is only briefly baffling (why bring the CIA to Iceland to ice an MI 5 operative?) because by then even a dimwit sees that this story makes no sense at all, that these special agents, spies, gadget couriers et al amount to the most useless motley assortment any taxpayer unwittingly financing these operations can imagine.
There is one exception: Ragnheiður Steindórsdóttir. She amounts to much more than Stuart Wilson's pretty and curvaceous girlfriend - she changes tires, disobeys him, wants no one shot dead, but in the end fires off her rifle until nothing moves in a house full of Russian agents.
RUNNING BLIND is a most inappropriate title: Wilson has a clear sight of everything on Iceland's lunar-like flat expanses, and he has the telescopic sights and cross hairs to improve his vision when he needs it. Plus he can spot George Sewell as the rotten egg the moment the latter tries to have him killed by the first of many useless hitmen in this spy and counterspy saga.
I found myself laughing at all the tomato sauce passing for bleeding wounds, poor Ragnheiður getting shot in the arm and leg and still soldiering on, Wilson shot in the hand and still firing off his rifle, poor Kennekin sexually incapacitated, and planes and helicopters announcing the enemy's presence.
This unintentional comedy wastes you 2 priceless hours: a proper MacGuffin through and through, as Hitch would put it.
That the aim is to stop British agent Stuart Wilson à la James Bond is only briefly baffling (why bring the CIA to Iceland to ice an MI 5 operative?) because by then even a dimwit sees that this story makes no sense at all, that these special agents, spies, gadget couriers et al amount to the most useless motley assortment any taxpayer unwittingly financing these operations can imagine.
There is one exception: Ragnheiður Steindórsdóttir. She amounts to much more than Stuart Wilson's pretty and curvaceous girlfriend - she changes tires, disobeys him, wants no one shot dead, but in the end fires off her rifle until nothing moves in a house full of Russian agents.
RUNNING BLIND is a most inappropriate title: Wilson has a clear sight of everything on Iceland's lunar-like flat expanses, and he has the telescopic sights and cross hairs to improve his vision when he needs it. Plus he can spot George Sewell as the rotten egg the moment the latter tries to have him killed by the first of many useless hitmen in this spy and counterspy saga.
I found myself laughing at all the tomato sauce passing for bleeding wounds, poor Ragnheiður getting shot in the arm and leg and still soldiering on, Wilson shot in the hand and still firing off his rifle, poor Kennekin sexually incapacitated, and planes and helicopters announcing the enemy's presence.
This unintentional comedy wastes you 2 priceless hours: a proper MacGuffin through and through, as Hitch would put it.