Late-'50s indie with a putrid aroma, about an average Joe trying to protect his mentally retarded but nubile sister from the attentions of uncomprehending suitors. Not much happens, but from the frenzy of fanfares in the bloated musical score, you'd think we'd dropped the A-bomb on Moscow. I also notice that while the movie shakes its little finger at these guys for slobbering all over its heroine, it has no compunction about endless footage of Sharon Farrell in a bikini, Sharon Farrell in a tiny waitress outfit, Sharon Farrell at a playground innocently showing her panties. Her character makes no sense -- she's an incoherent screaming idiot one minute, a perfectly rational miss the next -- and Elaine Stritch, as a youngish widow stuck on the brother, doesn't fit comfortably into a conventional role. (The character also has an infant son, who is the basis of one dramatic incident and then is promptly forgotten.) Steven Hill, as the guy, maintains his dignity in another inconsistent role, and the black-and-white Florida photography is crisp and evocative, but it's one of those lurid Bs that makes you run for the shower once it's over.
