The few scenes that actually attempt a depiction of revolutionary struggle resemble a hirsute Boy Scout troop meandering tentatively between swimming holes. When Sharif or, please God, Palance try their hand at fiery oratory, they sound like Kurtz swallowing a bug. The displays of strategic brilliance incorporate a map of Cuba replete with smiling fishies in the ocean, and a positively Vaudevillian hypothesis on how the Bay of Pigs came to pass. What does that leave us with? One comical dentistry scene; a surfeit of uppity Hollywood peasants who address the camera as though it were a moving train; and, just for kicks, a passel of homoeroticism that is not limited to Castro's manic and unremitting cigar-fellatio. Never trust a Medved, but even a busted clock is right twice a day: this is a HISTORICALLY awful movie.