On paper this must have looked a neat idea: a wildly fictionalised account of a skid-row Orson Welles, up to his neck in political skulduggery while shooting a third-rate picture in post-war Italy. Best of all is the casting. The role of one great director falls to Danny Huston, the son of another, who comes weaving through the action with his theatrical bearing and disreputable air, a cigar between his teeth and his pockets rattling with slimming pills; every inch the faded Hollywood idol. But this shaggy dog outing is all fur and no tale. In the course of his misadventures, Welles is almost coshed by a poker, almost shot, almost knifed, almost killed in a head-on collision, and yet these narrow scrapes are leading us nowhere. Crucially there is no tension to them either. We know Welles is never truly in danger, because we know that he lives to fight another day, voice lager commercials and crop up in The Muppet Movie.