As the 70s came to an end, the disaster movie limped its last with the likes of the cheesily enjoyable Meteor, the not-so-enjoyable City On Fire (no, not that one) and the truly WTF? Airport '79 before 1980's When Time Ran Out aka The Day the World Ended aka Earth's Final Fury finally sounded the death knell for both the genre and Irwin Allen's career. The 'Master of Disaster's volcano movie is no Dante's Peak. It's not even a Devil At 4 O'Clock. Instead, it's everything you would possibly expect of a film whose credits boast 'Ernest Borgnine as Tom Conti' (no, not that one) 'and James Franciscus as Bob Spangler.' Somehow  presumably very large cheques and a promise not to direct  Allen was able to tempt Towering Inferno stars Paul Newman and William Holden back to play more or less the same roles, which is handy because the film is more or less a rehash, even shamelessly recycling a couple of setpieces to infinitely diminished effect. And not just the plot - the characters are for the most part exactly the same too. Franciscus gets the Richard Chamberlain role, Veronica Hamel the Susan Blakely neglected wife part, Jacqueline Bisset the Faye Dunaway girlfriend duties, and Red Buttons the Fred Astaire role as embezzler Francis Fendly (great character names abound here), though instead of a romance with Jennifer Jones he gets saddled with Borgnine's New York cop. Still, considering the 'original' characters include high-wire act Burgess Meredith and a horrendously cloying Valentine Cortese ("My darling, you have lived through the collapse of burlesque and vaudeville twice. Now you can't be confused by a little volcano with belly ache."), Sheila (as in Mrs) Allen playing the local madam and Pat Morita as her husband whose cockfight with Alex Karras gets postponed due to flooding, you can't entirely blame slumming screenwriters Carl Foreman and Stirling Silliphant for going with the tried-and-trusted route. Unfortunately they never make any of them remotely interesting.<br /><br />The plot? OK, but stop me if you've heard this before. While moneyman William Holden plans a big ad campaign for his Hawaiian hotel ("I really like your slogan: 'Come watch Mananui toss in his sleep.' Very effective." "Subtle, right?"), his dodgy partner James Franciscus tries to play down the threat of the local volcano blowing up while Paul Newman's wildcat oilman insists "This thing's a goddamned powder keg" with what little enthusiasm he can muster between romancing Jacqueline Bisset's advertising designer with tales of how he earned the money to start drilling (and not just for oil, we're informed) by teaching women needlepoint. Once Mananui gets bored with the half-hearted soap operatics and blows its top, it's women, children and top-billed stars first (this being the kind of film where the characters die in reverse order of billing, and if your character doesn't even have a name, you're toast), with a small, economically viable group of hotel guests facing tidal waves, fireballs, narrow ledges, rickety bridges and a script so riddled with clichés that the only surprise is that no-one sacrifices a maiden to appease the volcano god or that Elvis doesn't turn up to sing the Volcano-a-hula.<br /><br />All of which sounds like a lot more fun that it actually is, but unfortunately it's distinctly low on spectacle or special effects, as if once the cast and hotel accommodation were paid for nothing was left for the film itself. The climax is one of the longest scenes of people crossing a bridge ever filmed (nigh on two whole reels of it) before one brief badly matted-in explosion. Even the film's best (the term is strictly relative here) scene inside the crater itself suffers from terrible back-projection. Still, it does offer one truly wonderful piece of droopingly phallic imagery as a rather unfortunately designed volcano-monitoring center falls into the crater that's almost worth the price of admission on its own.<br /><br />Like The Swarm and Beyond the Poseidon Adventure, this went through heavy pre-release trimming  the US TV version ran 141 minutes  but you can't help thinking that was an act of mercy. James Goldstone, who had turned out some pretty decent efforts in the past, directs like it was a 70s TV movie while Fred Koenekamp's cinematography doesn't hide the fact that the grand finale was shot on a soundstage. Indeed, the whole thing just feels like it was made by people paying off their mortgages or alimony. If this film were a cheese, it would be processed and definitely well past its sell-by date.