According to his Wikipedia page, admittedly not the most unbiased of sources, the writer (and director) of this dull, dithering dog, Charles K. Eastman, was one of 60s and 70s Hollywood's better script doctors. Well, unlike in Luke 23, the guy could not heal his own awful screenplay. The whole thing feels as if Antonioni had early onset dementia and then decided to go make "The Last Picture Show". Just endless, enervating variations (or, as this pretentious boxing flic calls them, "rounds") on sullen, angry Jon Voight being alienated in LA and Texas (actually, parts of Socal unconvincingly standing in for the Lone Star State) yet still managing, in the best Antonioni tradition, to shtup several good looking gals. All to the accompaniment of Gregorian chants and pretty guitar riffs. C minus.
Review of The All-American Boy
