Clearly having learnt nothing from his recent sojourn to that terrible Planet of the Apes, Charlton Heston once more fins himself representing The Last of America, as the lone compos mentis survivor of a Sino-Soviet biological war, on the run from a gang of drooling zombies known as The Family out to get him for his evil wheel-using ways. The Heston solution? Hole up in a penthouse flat, drinking scotch and making wisecracks at a bust of Julius Caesar. Well, it’s a living. Textbook post-hecatomb thriftiness is evinced in the abandoned cityscapes – instead of building a massive and costly set, they merely filmed Charlton moping around a shopping centre in the early hours of a Sunday for that all-important desolate feel.