Shirley MacLaine (with an unconvincing New York accent that wavers constantly) plays a free-spirited beatnik who falls for a soon-to-be divorced attorney who's just moved to the big city to find himself. The film feels about a half hour too long and the pacing slugs along like molasses pouring out of a jar. MacLaine's character also suffers from terrible ulcers which leads to some seriously overdone melodrama towards the end of the film where she's acting like she's about to die of consumption. It makes everything cheesy. At least the ending is fairly realistic and not what one would expect from a film from the 60s.
Maybe the play was better?
Maybe the play was better?