From an autobiographical point of view, I suppose Mr. Landon wanted to be true to his own experience, but if he merely wanted to base fiction on something that happened to him, then it was less than spellbinding. The entire plot consisted of purely one-note drama all centered around the boy's bed wetting and the mother's humiliation of him for it. Subplots would have been helpful.<br /><br />The mother made me sick, how she mentally, verbally, and psychologically tortured that boy. Anyone with half a brain knows that no sane kindergarten child, let alone a teenager, would wet the bed on purpose and subject himself to all that crap day after day.<br /><br />The father made me even sicker, how he failed to stand up for his son, and how he lied to the doctor. "No, I didn't wet the bed when I was a child." In the end it turned out he had. Why didn't he tell the doctor the truth? Because he didn't want to be embarrassed? He'd rather let his son carry the full load of embarrassment himself? Especially knowing exactly what his son was going through, Dad should have been supportive. Furthermore, I kept waiting for that wimpazoid to grow some you-know-whats and tell his abusive wife off, but I waited the length of the entire movie for nothing more than, "Alice, will you shut up?" Shut up? Is that all? How about shut up, pack your bags, hit the road, and never come near this boy again unless you want to be arrested for child abuse?<br /><br />The late, great, Michael Landon went on to write and direct much better work than this. Perhaps it's just because it was an early work that it falls so far short of his standard. Even Leonardo DaVinci had to start out scribbling.