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The film was ridiculous but that theme song will live forever. A Time for Love, by Johnny Mandel, has an unforgettable melody and Mandel's arrangement, playing over the opening credits, was the best part of the movie. Vidal Sassoon also gets special mention for Janet Leigh's chic hairstyle. The pacing and direction were so weak, I lost interest early on. I was hoping the movie would be good but it wasn't. The five stars go to Johnny Mandel. The rest of the movie deserves a big fat zero.

How did Warner Brothers and producer William Conrad get such a fine "A" cast for this sudser? Keep in mind, Janet Leigh and Eleanor Parker were not that long off their "A" list roles in "Harper" and "The Sound of Music," respectively. Keep in mind that Stuart Whitman had just come off "Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines." This is the worst written movie based upon a book by a fine novelist (Norman Mailer) I've seen, except, perhaps, for "Mr. Budwing" (written by Evan Hunter). Interestingly, both films have "A" list actors and both were released in 1966. Perhaps more unfortunate is the lack of chemistry between Whitman and Janet Leigh. In order for this tripe to even begin to work requires a smoldering passion between the leads. Further, Leigh looks at least 10 years older than her 39 years, and she is playing a 29 year old(!). Parker looks more glamorous (and younger, at 44) as the drugged-out wife. Too bad, producer William Conrad didn't hire Israeli actress Ina Balin for the Leigh role. Balin was the right age and provided considerable sexual tension with Whitman in "The Commancheros".

Mailer's storyline is so stupidly contrived it is impossible to believe. If Mailer's intent was cynicism to the point of nihilism, he only succeeded by making all the characters behave as idiots.

The only really worthwhile elements of the film are the song (Oscar nominated) and the performances of Eleanor Parker and Lloyd Nolan (as Parker's father). They bring luster, albeit briefly to a movie more akin to a cow pie.

I give "An American Dream" a "3".

I watched this film for the first time today, having avoided it since its release. Mailer wrote the book, Janet Leigh is in it, so can it REALLY be as bad as all that? Oh gee . . . Eleanor Parker opens the "action" with a performance that beggars description. She acts demented, if not possessed. In the context of the film, it is impossible to believe she did not manifest bizarre behavior, such that suicide would be deemed unthinkable. Then there's the unexpected involvement of the mob boss as the film veers away from a police procedural into film noir. And then comes the whole religious prohibition against abortion and suicide, but by that point . . . Who cares? This is not one of those films which are so bad they are good. This is just bad.

Eleanor Parker is an embarrassment to acting. Her ugly and obnoxious portrayal of rich and spoiled socialite Deborah Kelly Rojack who goads her war hero husband Stephen Richard Rojack (Stuart Whitman) into a bedroom tussle that lands them both overhanging their penthouse balcony until she falls to her annoying death was pitiful.

Talk about overacting and a crummy screenplay that includes a jilted lover and dance hall singer to the mob, a girl named Cherry McMahon (Janet Leigh) and the murdered daughter's wealthy father Barney Kelly (Lloyd Nolan) all making our war hero turned TV broadcaster Stephen Richard Rojack a target for everyone including the mob.

The film tries in vain to build suspense with a penetrating music score and continued non-stop hurried dialogue between Stuart Whitman and EVERYONE and ANYONE else who shares screen time with him. Well it just does not work.

A most forgettable film worthy of a 3 out of 10 rating and nothing more.

A Norman Mailer novel gets filmed as if it's a Harold Robbins story. I knew I was in for a campy treat from the opening scenes, featuring Eleanor Parker as the rich, alcoholic harpy Deborah, rolling naked on silk sheets (the camera very careful not to show any naughty bits), demanding whiskey refills from her hunky bed partner with impudent hand gestures and burning his hand with a cigarette when he tries to initiate sex. "Later!" she barks, eyes glued to the TV, watching her husband Rojack (Stuart Whitman), the host of a controversial call-in show. Parker's high-rise wallow is so arresting that Rojack's accusations that the LAPD has a protection deal with a notorious Mafia kingpin hardly register. The action ramps up when Rojack visits his estranged wife. Parker, also in the notorious show biz howler "The Oscar" the same year this was released, goes for broke and over the top, hurling cutting insults and highballs at her square-jawed husband. As Rojack, Whitman stoically endures Deborah's rant until she pantomimes castrating him, and then all hell breaks loose. Rojack finally walks out, but barely makes it to the front door before he's confronted by Deborah's sexy maid (Susan Denberg), wrapped only in a towel but willing to drop it for her boss's husband. Rojack sidesteps the seduction, but in this movie that's actually the wrong decision. Returning to his wife's bedroom for his wallet, another mêlée ensues that ends with Deborah falling off the penthouse terrace, where she's immediately run over by a limo transporting the very same Mafia kingpin Rojack accused of being in bed—figuratively, of course—with the police.

Once Parker's out of the picture "An American Dream" becomes a little less interesting, though a few actors try to match her scenery chewing, J.D. Cannon as a hot-tempered cop chief among them. Janet Leigh as Cherry McMahon, Rojack's former flame prior to his marrying Deborah and now a singer/Mafia moll, does a lot of glaring and glowering. As many other reviewers have pointed out, this often looks like a TV movie, with much of the action happening in flatly lit, claustrophobic sets (though lushly photographed). As tacky as this movie is, the novel's story actually has been sanitized for the protection of 1966 audiences. Mailer's misogyny—the one quality he shared with hack Robbins—is left well intact, however. In "An American Dream," women are just bitches and/or hos.

Though not quite in the same league as other trash-tastic movies of the 1960s, fans of "The Carpetbaggers," "Valley of the Dolls," or the aforementioned "The Oscar," will want to be sure to catch "An American Dream." Fans of Norman Mailer are best advised to skip it.