If The Dirty Dozen had a grim cousin who drank scotch neat, wore a five o’clock shadow like a badge of honor, and carried a grudge heavier than a machine gun, it’d be The Last Grenade (1970). A Cold War relic wrapped in khaki and soaked in moral ambiguity, this film is a bruised jewel for war-movie aficionados—and nearly impossible to track down online.
Directed by Gordon Flemyng (Doctor Who and the Daleks, Daleks' Invasion Earth), this slow-burn action drama simmers more than it explodes, but make no mistake—it’s a film that rewards patience with gravitas and grit. With cinematic DNA torn from the Vietnam-era headlines and sprinkled with espionage noir, The Last Grenade is a thinking man’s mercenary movie.
Stanley Baker (Zulu, Hell Drivers) plays Major Harry Grigsby, a mercenary hired to take out an old comrade-turned-enemy. Baker’s performance is all clenched jaw and weary defiance—the portrait of a soldier whose moral compass has long since rusted over.
On the flip side is Richard Attenborough, not yet Sir but already radiating that meticulous intensity that would later define his directorial work (Gandhi, Cry Freedom). He plays Colonel Kip Thompson, the bureaucratic chessmaster in a dangerous geopolitical game, and he’s brilliant as always—calm, calculating, but with a spark of buried fire.
Also in the mix is Honor Blackman (Goldfinger, The Avengers), radiating intelligent coolness as Katherine, a character who could’ve used more screen time but adds a much-needed human layer.
Set against the volatile backdrop of African insurgencies and Cold War proxy games, The Last Grenade doesn’t paint heroes—it sketches survivors. Flemyng crafts a world where moral lines blur like desert heatwaves, and mercenaries are both weapons and victims of ideology.
The pacing leans more toward tension than explosion. It's not a bullet-fest—it’s a calculated dissection of loyalty, politics, and betrayal. Think The Wild Geese, but with less swagger and more sorrow.
That’s the million-dollar question. Despite its cast and pedigree, The Last Grenade has practically vanished from the digital landscape. No major streaming services, no crisp Blu-rays, and YouTube? Forget about it.
It’s the kind of film you stumble across in a dusty VHS collection or an obscure late-night broadcast—and that just adds to the allure. For collectors and cinephiles, it’s become a kind of cinematic white whale.
If you can find The Last Grenade, you owe it to your inner film historian to give it a watch. It's a film of quiet power, steeped in post-imperial disillusionment and carried by performances that age like good whiskey—complex, smoldering, and unapologetically masculine.
It's not loud. It's not glossy. It's not easy to find.
But damn if it isn’t worth the search.