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delineated. He remains elusive, enigmatic to the last, and his imaginative heart remains untainted by the real world.

If this film has a MESSAGE, it's a cracking one. We are all storytellers, we all fictionalise and embroider (or at least judiciously edit) out lives when talking to friends, family and potential employers and in the privacy of our own heads. We live in the moment and our past is fiction.

And given that the present moment is full of things like renewing the tax disc and polishing shoes, isn't it so much more satisfying to make the past a more magical world?

Crudup is an irritating character due to his incessant pedantry. Everything he'd ever need to know about Edward Bloom shines through his stories. He is a kind man, a romantic, whose love for his family shines through every single tale. He's a crusader, hell-bent on making the world a more beautiful place and going to extraordinary lengths to realise those dreams. Bloom doesn't just tell stories, he actively seeks to clothe them in reality, from his town restoration to his daffodil project.

The music is provided, as always, by Danny Elfman, and ranges in tone almost as dramatically as the images it informs. And even the real world plays its part in providing touching scenes, a rare feat for the wilfully surreal Burton. Helena Bonham Carter continues her quest for the strangest filmography EVER (Fight Club, Howard's End, Planet of the Apes and Wings of the Dove) and provides the only solid clues to the extent to which Bloom is fabricating events. Scenes between the older Bloom and his beloved wife are also magnificently moving, and still nice and silly.

As for the other major supporting player, it's a well-known fact that Steve Buscemi can only perform two functions. He can briefly enhance mediocre films to the point where they're briefly watchable (The Wedding Singer, Con Air), or he can add a final gloss to a brilliant production with some patented thyroid charm (Desperado, Fargo and Reservoir Dogs). He's definitely filling the latter role here, a coiled spring of repressed manic energy that makes an ideal counter to MacGregor's pleasant wide-eyed innocent.

Albert Finney is a little hard to swallow as an older version of Ewan, if only because he's looked exactly the same for at least twenty years. He's used to the part at least, it's broadly similar to his role in Dennis Potter's last play. Need a terminally ill dreamer with a twinkle in his eye? Albert's your man. His accent sounds better, too.

Learn more about this author, Kenneth Andrews.
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