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)