A young Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart composed an opera - Mithridates, King of Pontus - which was performed in Milan when he was just fourteen.

In this diabetes-inducing confection, an 11-year-old Freddie Highmore has a self-penned symphony performed by the New York Philharmonic in Central Park.

This would be gasp-worthy enough if it wasn't for the fact that young Freddie's character August Rush is the son of personality void Jonathan Rhys-Meyers.

It transpires that young August was the product of a one-night stand between Rhys-Meyer's Irish rocker Louis and celebrated concert cellist Lyla (Russell).

The beautiful bow-scraper then stood up Louis's invitation to hook up again when her competitive dad put the kibosh on the relationship by whisking her off.

Unfortunately, when she had the good sense to run out on him, she was hit by a truck and lost the baby that was conceived during her knee-trembler with Louis.

Actually, she doesn't lose the sprog. It's just that her caring-sharing dad thinks the nipper may interfere with cello time so signs him off to an orphanage.

As Clive Dunn would have it: "Grandpa, we love you."

Anyway, August - who can hear music in the wind whistling through telegraph lines and rhythm in feet pounding the sidewalk - eventually flees, convinced mum and dad are still alive.

He pitches up in Manhattan, where Robin Williams - whose character Wizard resembles Bono if he was placed on the Child Protection Register - takes him under his wing.

The Wizard - a sort of cross between Fagin and David Geffen - runs the punk equivalent of New York's Royal School of Music from a dilapidated theatre.

But August doesn't stay long. He's off again, to find himself studying at the world-renowned Juillard School and writing a symphony when he should be frittering away his youth on an X-Box.

This is ridiculous. The scene were the modern Mozart scribbles down his score and then lectures embarrassed-looking orchestra members how to play it has to go down as one of the most toe-curling in recent cinema history.

Russell is an able enough actress but Rhys-Meyer's daft oirish rocker makes Daniel O'Donnell look like Phil Lynott.

It's poor old Freddie Highmore, who was so impressive in Finding Neverland and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory who is left to carry this quivering heap of sentimental slush.

The film-makers ought to be reported to social services.

Tim Evans