TV-made adaptation of Gail Sheehy's book about the prostitution-overflow in New York City was considered heady stuff in 1975, but time has turned the picture into trivial camp, complete with 'colorful' dialogue ("How can I bust prostitutes on a typewriter with a broken P?" ... "Try W."). Lee Remick plays that warhorse of clichés: the eager magazine writer hoping to get a juicy inside scoop. She befriends a low-class hooker for the sake of her in-depth piece, but the reporter's ultimate loss of innocence rings false within this too-clean scenario. Jill Clayburgh (in platform heels and talking with an artificial Flatbush twang) would have been far more convincing as an upscale Manhattan call-girl; here, pacing the seedy streets in her mini-skirt and fake-fur jacket, she resembles nothing more than the invasion of Hollywood, U.S.A. Some of the location shooting is well-captured, but the movie is a far cry from the gritty expose it clearly means to be; the phoniness of the characters and in the framework of the plot (de rigueur for television movies) sinks nearly all interest in the subject matter. Sheehy (who did not write the teleplay) did work as a consultant on the picture, which fails to explain Clayburgh's 'respectable' makeover at the finale and the interminable bus station farewell scene, which looks like something out of a Ginger Rogers movie.