It's the man again; back with a flatulent dog and his brand new .44 Magnum Automatic, investigating the trail of a corpse with 'a .38 calibre vasectomy' and a woman on a rape revenge crusade. This, the fourth of the Dirty Harry cycle, finds Clint as the usual pillar of troubled infuriation, his brows creased even more deeply by the usual dilemmas of inadmissible evidence and consequent vigilante justice; the villains are the standard Hollywood collection of unshaven lowlife, lesbians and giggling psychos bent upon the familiar course of distressing the more gentle citizenry ('One false move and the retard's brains get spread across the wall'). It seems rather pointless to cry Fascist once more in the looming face of Inspector Harry Callahan. The real problem here is technical; Eastwood the director is far less sure-footed than he was with the likes of Play Misty for Me or The Outlaw Josey Wales. Eastwood the star needed a hit to bolster his flagging ratings; now that he's got it, maybe Harry will be put out to stud, with his Magnum. CPea.