Michael Caine gives this nuclear thriller more urgency than its elaborate plotting earns. Pierce Brosnan supplies a useful chill, but the careful handling cannot stop the suspense from repeatedly slipping away.
The Fourth Protocol has a properly unpleasant premise: a nuclear explosion in a bedsitter, with no warning. John Mackenzie treats it seriously, and that domestic address gives the danger a disturbing proximity. There is a respectable thriller here, helped considerably by Michael Caine, but too much of it is spent trying to make an elaborate plot feel urgent. The 119 minutes feel longer whenever the story needs explaining, which happens rather more often than the suspense can afford.
Caine’s John Preston gives us someone to attend to while the plot gets going. There is energy in the performance without much sense that Caine is being asked to do anything difficult, and that turns out to be a sensible fit. He makes the business of understanding a threat seem worth the effort. His directness is especially welcome in a film that can make following its story feel like preparation for an examination.
Pierce Brosnan’s Valeri Petrofsky / James Edward Ross provides a useful contrast. His Soviet agent is cold and ruthless, with little invitation to look for a warmer person underneath. We found Brosnan unsettling because his Petrofsky gives so little sense that human consequences concern him. Yet Frederick Forsyth’s screenplay gives that coldness too little variation, leaving a performance that establishes the danger efficiently and then has limited room to develop beyond that first impression.
Phil Meheux’s cinematography keeps the presentation sober, while Allan Cameron’s production design helps make the surroundings credible. A story that locates nuclear danger in a bedsitter needs that plausibility, and the film benefits from resisting grandeur. The ordinary scale makes the premise easier to take seriously. The limitation is that the visual restraint becomes monotonous when Mackenzie cannot find enough tension in the people, leaving us with a convincing setting and too little reason to lean forward.
Graham Walker’s editing has the less enviable task of moving us through Forsyth’s plotting. The adaptation of Forsyth’s own novel feels anxious to preserve the complications, even when the suspense would benefit from getting on with it. Walker cannot give every piece of information equal attention and still keep the pressure up. Lalo Schifrin’s music supplies some unease, but there are stretches when the score seems to be doing work that the scenes should already have done.
The supporting cast offers the further reassurance of Julian Glover, Michael Gough and Ian Richardson. Their presence makes sense in a film so dependent on professional composure, but Forsyth does not give the supporting characters enough distinct interest. A procedural spy thriller can ask us to concentrate, and there is pleasure in watching capable people take complicated business seriously. Mackenzie still needs to make each complication matter enough to justify the attention it requires.
Devotees of Cold War intrigue may tolerate the explanations for the pleasure of watching Caine and Brosnan work. We would not choose it simply for suspense. Allow more patience than a thriller about a nuclear explosion ought to require.