Critique of the suburban, ticky-tacky box lifestyle of the 50s that would be silly and obvious if it wasn't actually made in the 50s, predating the predigested "wisdom" that continues to inform a lot of films. (Apparently The Chumscrubber is the latest offender; talk to Scott about that one.) Starts off slow, with newlyweds Jeffrey Hunter and Patricia Owens moving into their new house and meeting the surrounding neighbors, who all live stiflingly close to each other. (The fences that separate the backyards seem more for show, and they can see into each other's rooms.) Then things get dark when Jerry Flagg (Tony Randall, wonderful in an atypical role), boozer and lech, hits on Owens, and then proceed to get darker still. It's hard to figure why this is so obscure (and thanks to Filmbrain for writing about it) -- the performances by Randall and Pat Hingle are terrific, and Joanne Woodward, as a randy, bored Southern transplant, is Oscar worthy. (It's a shame she never worked with Cassavetes -- her work here would've fit right in with the gang from Faces.) What's more, it lacks any of the didacticism of Ritt's more famous Edge of the City -- the only real villain here is the society that encourages people to mortgage whatever they can in pursuit of the American Dream. By the end, some of the characters make peace with their desires and dreams, and some pursue them to the grave.
Where we saw it: tv | We deign to rate it: 69 outta 100