Pat Conroy's novel of tears, treacle and trauma cries out for the Sirk treatment, but gets, thanks to Streisand, the sort of over-the-top endorsement Joan Crawford brought to Mildred Pierce. South Carolina football coach Tom Wingo (Nolte) is called to New York by his suicidal sister's shrink, Dr Lowenstein (Streisand), to help unearth the childhood trauma. He's been bent out of shape by it, too, and can't get in touch with his love centres. During psychoanalytical sessions, his trauma surfaces in flashbacks. These are yeasty indeed. We glimpse Tom, his sister and brother underwater, where they congregate to avoid their parents. Dad (Sullivan) could give Freddy Kreuger a run for his money; Mom (Nelligan, brilliant) plays all emotional ends against the middle; but the capper comes when a pack of slavering convicts descends upon the household. Better at last, Tom makes it with Lowenstein, who seems to get a costume change in every frame. They do make 'em like it any more.