It seems hard to believe, sometimes, that anyone escapes childhood with a shred of sanity.
I still remember, for instance, my mother dragging me to this movie. I was eight years old. Popcorn in hand, the lights dimming, I sat there in the gathering darkness, waiting. And waiting. Until, suddenly, I was transported to a cinematic Ft. Lauderdale, where, for the next 90 minutes, on sandy beaches under sunny skies, my playmates included Paula Prentiss and George Hamilton and Frank Gorshin and (who could ever forget) Connie Francis.
Where The Boys Are (1960)
also one of my most vivid childhood memories. and whoever else we were going with questioned whether this would be appropriate, and mom said we were too young to understand. i later interviewed connie francis when she was pushing a memoir about her troubled life (rape, battered spouse). interviewed that afternoon, wrote and transcribed in the evening, in the paper the next day. only time i’ve ever done that, so she also figures in one of my most vivid journalism experiences.
Maybe we could start a support group: childhood survivors of “Where The Boys Are.”
We all have beautiful memories of “Where the boys are” and will always love Connie Francis the greatest American singer of all times.
Prof. Julio Cezar do Amaral
Connie Francis Brazilian Fan Club
Rio de Janeiro Brazil