If this film is hard to get a hold of, it's probably because anyone involved in it has tried to buy up and destroy the prints. Never mind the faithlessness to Kerouac -- this is about as close to the spirit and vision of Kerouac as Howdy Doody is to Shakespeare -- the script provides ample opportunities for the humiliation of actors, opportunities which, unfortunately are exploited to the full. George Peppard is miscast as a soul-searching intellectual writer, but seems to have the soul of a soft, fluffy robot. Roddy MacDowell doesn't speak his lines, but declaims them. The otherwise charming Leslie Caron has the depth of a neurotic paper doll. It's a kind of exploitation film: instant beatnik, just add intelligence. My compliments to anyone who can watch this for five minutes without cringing.
Review of The Subterraneans
