Writer director John Byrun's Hollywood whitewash of the Beat Generation completely ignores its most conspicuous trait, settling for routine conformity over the uninhibited freedom, which gave the movement its energy and impetus. Instead of following their example the film tiptoes respectfully through the rebellious antics of Jack Keruac and Neil Cassidy, in tepid portraits calculated not to offend anyone, least of all Carolyn Cassidy, whose memoirs inspired the film and whose blessing the makers obviously courted. Nick Nolte (as Cassidy) fares best, but only for lack of adequate comparison; John Heard's portrayal of Keruac makes the over-indulgent writer seem a confused but nice young man unable to measure up to his own legend, and Byrun apparently never bothered to give Sissy Spacek a character at all. Each is simply a two-dimensional reduction of a historical archetype, and none is able to save the film from cardiac arrest.
