Satisfactory neither as documentary, which was the least that could have been expected of director Robert Kaylor (Derby), nor as a melodrama of the midway. What potential there was to delineate the mystique and the ambience and the inner workings of carnival life is pretty thoroughly siphoned off, soaked up, and squeezed out by the three principal actors who make up an awfully lukewarm ménage-à-trois. It's impossible to see past the well-developed and fully flexed idiosyncrasies of these three: Gary Busey, Robbie Robertson, and Jodie Foster. The hardest to put up with is Robertson, formerly of The Band, who has left behind the guitar but not the hat, nor the insufferably jaded and conceited sexuality that consists of drowsily or drunkenly half-mast eyelids, the blackest and baggiest lower lids since the silent-movie days of John Barrymore, a hip-hypnotist sleepy-time speech delivery, and a conscientious oral-maintenance routine of low moans, throat-clearings, smoker's coughing, lip-wetting, and spitting out of cigarette-tobacco shreds with a soft "pth-pth." (1980) — Duncan Shepherd
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