Diane Lane plays a designer who specializes in erotic treatments of department store windows. Her mannequins pose with all kinds of wild, avant garde tension, which we soon learn is an extension of her own sexual repression. It's a wild contraption that works fine, if it happens to be going down in some international cosmo joint like New York City. But, cripes, Pittsburgh?

Now, Pittsburgh is a pretty town to be in, especially in the warmer months (when this tapes place, obviously to convey the sultry angle and to take advantage of some great peripheral scenery), but it's too much like driving in the school zone when this action is zipping along like the LA freeway.

Lane's existence runs smack dab into a nutcase (Michael Woods), an x-ray technician by day and a peeping-Tom by night who views her window statements from an office building across the street and offers lurid critiques, via anonymous obscene phone calls regarding her art. Woods' got the notion she's some wild unmitigated sensualist. He probably saw her in Streets of Fire. Lane is pouty and perfect for her role, especially her one (unfortunately) nude scene. But her hairdresser should be shot for piling up her uninhibited mane like some kiosk. Woods comes off a little too much like every stern lip you've seen on the cover of GQ. Also you may recognize him fro NBC's now-defunct "Private Eyes" series.

Sexual undertones run rampant. You know that because everytime somehow lights up a cigarette, a plaintive saxophone is heard in the background. You certainly could get off on to a whole other tangent regarding the symbolism of Lane's mannequins (which for the most part, always appear disembodied) which I'm sure is the main purpose of the story. But for our purses, enjoy the film as a cinemapiece of precisely tuned sensuality.