Most of this film shows the late Jeffrey Strouth, in the back seat of a car, talking and talking and talking and talking about his many unusual experiences. Either he has a huge, exaggeration-inflated imagination, or, he's one of those folks who is extremely often effected by planned and co-incidental timing, resulting in his involvement in a plethora of rare occurrences. In any event, I don't dispute the interestingness of his tales. But I sure did get tired of his banter: a style which others have characterized as queenish and effeminate. Sorry if I'm dwelling too much on delivery and not enough on substance. I'm not bothered by fingernails screeching on a chalkboard; but Jeffrey's rambling really turned me off - to the extent that I was unable to fully concentrate on the dialogue. Therefore, it's MY expectation that, in this case, the book must certainly be better than the movie.