Ultimately a Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movie-of-the-week, a young boy with a dead mother, workaholic father, over-protective step-mother and white trash uncle is befriended by the local old coot, long retired to scripting Morse Code messages from her dead son.Their relationship is deemed inappropriate, and therefore we must witness along with the parental philistines, why it is all okay. Which, of course, the sunny bright ending only reiterates with finger-snapping immediacy. The first three-quarters might have innocuously passed for dull television sap, something that even the over-estrogen-ed viewer of the Lifetime Channel may have yawned through; but I have no use for something of that caliber on TV (no doubt one of the reasons I choose not to tune in), let alone in a movie! The nose-dive is in the closing quarter, when the maudlin sentimentality is spread on and around like Skippy’s Chunky Peanut Butter — chunky because the followings are not going to be helpful in eliciting a smooth enema. The acting is all painfully overzealous and oversized, not to mention over-the-top, in which the demands on Trevor Morgan see it fit for him to either be screaming at the top of his lungs, or crying at the top of them, at all moments. Cardboard, when wet, droops and falls apart. This, appositely, has been floating with fishes.
Directed by Peter O’Fallon. With Vanessa Redgrave, Ray Liotta and Ron Livingston.[Not to be bothered with.]