"Big Fish" is a story about a storyteller, from a director who has never been able to tell a proper story. This partnership produces a strange, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable object effect. Does the larger-than-life story prevail, even though the director has not the skills needed to pull it off? Or do the anti-narrative tendencies of the director wring all semblance of pacing and momentum from what should have been a gripping yarn? It'd be like if George Lucas tried to film "My Dinner With Andre" (Which would win, tin-eared George or the dialogue?). Or if Kevin Smith stuck a car chase in one of his Jersey tales (Kev might have to actually move his camera). When a director leaves the cozy confines of his element, and tries something outside of his abilities, the ugliness usually spills all over the place and causes a Big Mess.

Tim Burton, clean up on aisle 4.

Burton, the director of such aesthetically-pleasing but narratively-unsatisfying blockbusters as "Batman", "Edward Scissorhands", and "Sleepy Hollow", is coming off his most dismal failure yet, the 2001 remake of "The Planet of the Apes". So it makes much sense that he should try his hand at a story about stories. It's like when they put a spider on the forearm of an arachnophobe, or send an acrophobe up in an airplane. Confronting one's biggest fear (and for Burton his biggest fear appears to be an effective story) is often times the best way to overcome that fear. Too bad "Big Fish" just turns out to be scary bad.

It begins with a tranquil underwater view of the local lake. A school of catfish, caught in dreamy silhouette, is swimming together just ahead. Their peaceful gathering is broken up by the appearance of an even larger catfish, which emerges into view from just over the viewer's head, sliding onto the screen like the Imperial Destroyer that begins "Star Wars". If you didn't get it before (and shame on you if you didn't) then the film's central metaphor is brought into clear view: this will be a story about a big fish in a small pond.

Edward Bloom is that fish. Without him, the small town of Asthon, Alabama would seemingly have no reason to exist. He's the star of the baseball, basketball and football teams, a champion of the science fair, and owner of the widest smile (and ambition) in town. We hear his story ("It doesn't always make sense, and most of it never happened") from the perspective of a young man aching to get out of Ashton, and see and conquer the world. But we also get to hear Bloom's story from his perspective as an old dying man, fighting off the cancer that threatens to take him, and his ever-present stories, down forever. Or rather, we get the perspective of the cynical son, come home to bid Dad adieu, who's heard the old man's tall tales once too often. Or rather, from the perspective of the adoring wife, the young French daughter-in-law, the other woman, etc. It's a case of too many narrators spoiling the broth. The film's biggest problem is that there are too many perspectives. Who's telling this story, anyway? And, more importantly, who's listening? After the first half-hour or so, not me.

Burton has assembled a talented cast for this movie, full of fine and fun actors. But, alas, most are crushed to death by the portentous story, and the hyper-mythical dialogue. And, to make things worse, most of them talk as if Forrest Gump were giving elocution lessons on the set, so comically bad are their Alabaman accents.

Ewan McGregor and Albert Finney, who share the part of Edward Bloom, divide up the film's screentime almost equally, and have the most problems with the local drawl. It makes some sense that McGregor, who was born in Scotland, and Finney, who was born in Manchester, should play the younger and older versions of the same character. But it makes no sense to ask either actor to slap an Alabaman accent on their natural brogues, and expect the audience to buy such a Frankensteinian concoction.

McGregor is the worse of the two. He's asked to play the part in such a way that it justifies the fact that everybody keeps saying how likable a man Edward Bloom is. But for some reason Ewan screws on a fake smile and speaks all his lines with Eddie Haskell-style insincerity, to the point where I found him insufferable. In fact, I sympathized more with his bench-warming high school mate, the one who's always looking on, with sad-faced commentaries, while Edward does his self-serving glory-hogging. His was a perspective I could actually relate to (that is until he turned out to be a thuggish goon; oh well, I guess no character can be perfect). Finney, for his part, at least manages to make Old Edward likable, when he could have easily made him an obnoxious blowhard. Finney has that great twinkle in the eye and mischievous grin that can get his audience to like any character he plays. He uses both skills to great effect here.

Jessica Lange and Alison Lohman both play Sandy Bloom, the object of Edward's affection and later his loyal wife. Neither actress gets a terribly meaty part to dig her teeth into, which is a shame because both would have been wonderful if they had. Basically, Lange is asked to look like an older version of Lohman, and Lohman is asked to look like a younger version of Lange. Which they both do. I guess if you have small goals, then you'll easily achieve them.

"Big Fish" is the kind of movie that is so drunk on its need for eccentricities, that it has not one but two giants in its cast. Along these same lines, it features a werewolf, a set of conjoined twins, and various midgets. And, oh yeah, Steve Buscemi and Danny DeVito also turn up for cameos.

Buscemi was probably cast more for his bug eyes and crooked teeth than his acting talents. You can tell, because his character is little more than a one-note joke. Buscemi does his best to milk that joke for all its worth, bless his heart. But he's only moderately successful. DeVito, on the other hand, is about the only actor working today who could play the film's circus ringmaster. The part calls for roly-poliness, and a lot of pointed yelling. Who else could fulfill such requirements? But, sadly, the part also calls for some posterior nudity. Which I wasn't expecting, and frankly could have done without. When DeVito's rear makes its game appearance, I cursed the name of Kathy Bates, another actor of questionable girth who pulled nearly the same trick in last year's "About Schmidt". Is this some kind of perverse new trend? Will all of Hollywood's pudgy thespians be filming nude scenes in the future? Will I have to sit through a celluloid rendition of Marlon Brando's cellulite? Shudder.

Helena Bonham Carter and Billy Crudup are the only actors who don't indulge in silly accents, and thus come off better for wear. She has a small but significant role as an "evil witch" in Edward's stories, and brings it off with class, sadness, and dignity (she did the same thing in Burton's "Apes", only that time she was hampered by 4-hours worth of Ape make-up; by playing believable characters in two consecutive Tim Burton movies, Helena Bonham Carter offers definitive proof that she is the BEST ACTRESS IN THE UNIVERSE). Crudup, here, is really nothing more than an agent for exposition. As Will, the son who longs to know the truthful father beneath the anecdotal outer shell, he is the main reason this story is being told. But we get to know very little about him (and what we do get to know is portrayed in subtle brushstrokes, atypical of Burton's usual m.o.). The impressive things is that Crudup, given so little to work with, still manages to make Will the most interesting character on screen. His sadness, his cynicism, and his frustration are all on display. But so is that spark, hidden deep down inside, which links him indefinably to Edward.

Burton makes a couple of other boneheaded decisions, which ultimately sink his movie. First, he has Danny Elfman provide the score for the umpteenth movie in a row. Elfman used to be a lot of fun. But now he writes music as if he were being paid by the note. His score rarely stops to take a breath, throughout the entire movie. Despite this (or probably because of it) it features nary a memorable melody or theme. Just more mindless Elfman noodling.

Secondly, Burton cops a number of motifs from "Stand by Me", another movie about getting the facts straight from a vantage point later in life. First is the old leeches-on-the-legs gag. Burton lets this one die quietly, never mining the little bloodsuckers for horrific laughs, as Rob Reiner once did. Then he lets Buddy Holly sing 'Everyday' on the soundtrack. I'm not sure if these common bits were intentional (Burton's attempt to follow "Stand by Me's" successful template, perhaps? He sure isn't able to tell this kind of story on his own), or just coincidence. Either way, they proved to be just one more distraction in a movie that was already about to crumble like a house of cards.

And thirdly amongst his boneheaded decisions, was the decision to film this story in the first place. "Big Fish" is about suspending disbelief. It's about taking your father's word, no matter how absurd, at face value. It's about accepting as true a world where giants live in caves. On the printed page (Daniel Wallace's novel, from what I'm told, was respectably Quixotic), these things would be easy to swallow. But a giant never looks as big as it does in your imagination. For a story about stories, "Big Fish" breaks the one cardinal rule of the oral tradition: it puts a picture to the image. Everything in the film, from the first shot of the fish, to the hokey concluding scene, suffers for it.

There's a moment, late in the movie, which comes achingly close to self-awareness. Josephine, Will's beautiful French wife, finds herself in Edward's bedroom, and longs to hear more about his life. After much cajoling, he relents, and begins another fantastical verbal journey. Josephine, looking to poke a hole in the old man's bluster, teasingly asks, "So… this is a tall tale?" "Well, it's not a short one," replies Edward. If only it were, "Big Fish" might have been a fine catch. But as it stands, it probably should be thrown back.

Recommended: No