Always primitive, Wilde's films seem to operate increasingly in a strange limbo, with no points of reference outside their own simple view of the world. The astonishing naïveté of Wilde's script can scarcely cope with the different strands of the plot queueing up and waiting to be dealt with: fights against sharks (well handled), underwater searches for treasure (Look at Life-like), confrontations with desperadoes (risible). Rather more unified is Wilde's homespun philosophising: the perils of nicotine and drink, and the virtues of keeping fit, with the spry 60-year-old Wilde doing one-handed press-ups on deck. But most curious are the closeted emotions of the all-male group, which threaten to run riot without writer/producer/director/star Wilde in the least aware of them. A real oddity.