At least Sean Astin, as a scene-chewing prima donna, seems to be having a good time--and mom Patty Duke gets to call him a "turd."

This tale of the theater could have used more time on the road.

It's strictly amateur hour.

It's like "Waiting for Guffman" without the wit or irony.

Finally it becomes clear that Mr. Corley's film is meant to be a tribute to the love of theater. It has just been posing as the story of one man's finding himself.

This heartfelt valentine to the stage leaves no cliché unturned. If it has anything to recommend, it is the loving portrayal of the camaraderie of those who participate in art for art's sake who, to quote Cyrano, "work without one thought of gain or fame."

Unconvincing poser.

The story is as predictable as it is saccharine. Apart from the presence of local landmarks, there's no reason the Rose City should be proud of this effort.

Awash in the obvious and sports a patently predictable outcome. Somewhere, Stanislavsky is shrieking as well.