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“It’s gonna be biblical”, utters Gerard Butler majestically in the flimsy, yet underrated Law Abiding Citizen. And when it comes to Darren Aronofsky’s large-scale adaptation of a man and his oversized boat, it really is. Looking back through the years of big-budget Hollywood literary adaptations, to find films of such comparable narrative epicness is no easy feat. The tale of Noah and his Ark is certainly one we’re all familiar with; the conflicted protagonist on a mission from God; the gargantuan flood as metaphoric cleanser of sins; and the uncontainable symmetry perhaps better suited to a Wes Anderson film. In tackling this mammoth of cinematic tasks, Aronofsky is left to answer one very important question; how do you reinvigorate one of the most celebrated stories from one of the oldest books in the literary tradition, and somehow make it relevant for an increasingly jaded audience?

The simple and unfortunate answer to this is “you can’t”. Try as Noah might, it never quite succeeds in balancing blockbuster spectacle with seemingly complex moral issues. Part bracing adventure, part quiet family drama, to call it a muddled film is to call Requiem for a Dream only mildly depressing. A multitude of widely-arraying facets form a jagged, imperfect whole. It offers one of the strangest cinematic experiences of recent years, evoking intense provocation and wonderment at certain points and cringe-induced writhing at others. Russell Crowe is our eponymous hero/anti-hero left with the heavy task of saving all but humanity from the Creator’s vengeful wrath. In a blackened world where all apparent good has been lost, there’s a touch of the tortured soul to our protagonist who, through Crowe’s commitment to the role, transcends the two-dimensional depiction of Noah made known through pop-up books and flimsy cartoons. Crowe’s performance emits a compelling sense of realness and truth, urging its audience to ask themselves, given the same situation, what would they do? Unfortunately, that realness fails to permeate the other levels of the film, transpiring in a piece of second-hand fantasy as opposed to a personal drama.

Here we have arguably the finest example of a studio-consolidated project, teeming with moments of Aronovoskian visual brilliance that inhabit the plot of a derivative action rollick. For all its arthouse potency, its succession of powerful dream-imagery and poetic composition, Noah is held back by its crippling conventionality, from its waffly exposition and histrionic female performances to Ray Winstone’s mouthy, “let’s be avin you” villain. The clash of art and commerce has rarely provided such odd results.

But, for all its shortcomings, one might even recommend Noah for its unparalleled ambition and scope alone. Certainly not a great film, it’s undoubtedly an interesting one if only for its multifariousness, attempting to push the boundaries of cinematic storytelling further than ever before. It may not triumph but, to conclude with a woefully constructed and poorly positioned pun, it floats.