A dish of tripe that has to be seen to be believed. Quinn does his nature boy act yet again as a Tennessee backwoodsman who always knows where to find the first darling buds of spring and can lay fires in the hearth so that the smoke isn't twisted. Whatever that means, it makes him irresistible enough to ensnare poor Ingrid Bergman ('You're full of love, ain't you?'), a college professor's wife down in the menopausal dumps and seemingly bent on becoming a dropout grandmother. Since both have family ties and problems, the course of their true love doesn't run smooth, but Quinn is philosophical to the last: 'You know what I found out? The clouds just keep on moving'. Stirling Silliphant scripted, if you can call it that.
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