This is the kind of smart, black satire - about a formative period in American history - that pleases the odd critic, delights its actors and baffles the public.

Indeed, the only reason to see this pretentious mess is the performance of the pro-Union musical at the end that throws everyone out of work.

But two hours-plus is a long time to wait for a flash of inspiration.

It's 1936, the Communist witchhunts are starting up and Orson Welles (Angus MacFadyen) is launching his latest inflammatory play - with chaos in rehearsal and a ragged street singer (Emily Watson) in the lead.

Conscience makes cowards of the bad guys and many valid (and boring) points are made at their expense.

Bill Murray is very good as a sad ventriloquist falling apart at the death of vaudeville, but the film is almost as much of a shapeless shambles as the play that forms its core.