It's tempting to describe this film by listing all the things it is not. The earlier black and white version, by Joseph Strick in the Summer of Love 1967, starring Milo O'Shea, was too steamy for Ireland and Glasgow, where it was banned, but it was quite sedate and circumspect even by the mores of the time. There has been an excellent serial on BBC Radio, where good use was made of echo/reverb and stereo in depicting the various voices of guilt, regret, lust, fantasy, stream-of-consciousness. In a sense, Michael Winterbottom got closer to the show-off spirit of Joyce in 'Cock and Bull Story', but this production is its own movie. It certainly gets back to the 'cut and paste' feel of the book, and looks every bit as lubricious and smelly as it aught to. Dublin looks dark and damp as it is on the written page, albeit with a touch of filmier romance. The scenes of pure mad fantasy, on the other hand, are either under hardedged sit-com lighting or bathed in a 'Ridley Scott' fog. Most of the dialogue is slightly stagey - or it has the kind of distanced feel associated with post-synching, but only once does this mannerism jarr, when Dedalus (Hugh O'Connor) is spouting his opinions on life and art; so 'rehearsed' and declamatory that it could almost be seen as a deliberate nod to Joyce's category-jumping. Stephen Rea has just the kind of hang-dog look of regret, guilt and ineptitude you can imagine in Leopold Bloom; Angelina Ball as Molly is permanently redolent of warm bed. A neat trick with the structure was to begin with Molly's soliloquy,but otherwise, the overall framework follows the book; if we had been deprived of That Ending, who knows, riots could have broken out. As it is, the acceptance of human folly and the celebration of cerebral grandiosity in vile bodies forms a happy cloud round the exit. One to see again. CLIFF HANLEY