Celeste Holm is superb as the center of this film, which is truly sky-high praise for her skills, because the character she plays deserves a sound kick in the pants. She is the wife of an ambitious and relentlessly self-seeking blow-hard (perfectly cast Dan Dailey) who would be homeless if it were not for her frugality, industry-- and vanity. Oh, she may not seem vain on the surface, but what other reason could there be for her to stand by, year after year, as her husband fails at get-rich-quick schemes, forcing her to take in boarders to pay the mortgage and support the family. Every time he schemes, she points out the practical problems, only to succumb when he gives her a compliment. Yes, singular. One. One compliment is enough to make her cave every time.
Marriages aren't like that. Flattery does not overcome a daily struggle to make ends meet—certainly not among Western settlers, which these characters purport to be. Which is another problem with this minimally filmed stage play. It tries to be tough-minded but can't raise itself above the sentimental.
Author Rosemary Taylor admits her memoir was mostly fiction. Which, of course, it has to be. What moron would accept this story as fact? Oh, right — Robert Osborne, the round old duffer with the slurred speech who introduces TCM movies. It's not the first time I thought he was nothing more than a starry-eyed fan with trivia-level knowledge, but no original thoughts, not an iota of insight, or even the suggestion of objective critical skills.
