For those who recall the original - the film that is, not the battle - this lavish and solemn retake is immediately striking.

Whereas the lovable but ludicrous John Wayne would snarl and blast his way through a monochrome desert with scant regard for any kind of historical accuracy, here we find a film that seems painstakingly authentic and strikingly beautiful.

Once beyond gawping at the astonishing wide screen scenery and stylish full camera sweeps that playfully mess with perspective - a candle flame cuts through the centre screen at one stage - the problems start to slowly mount. In an attempt to build the historical background, the first hour is filled by too many verbal political squabbles between men with absurd moustaches, including frontiersman Davie Crockett (Billy Bob Thornton) who proves spectacularly uncharismatic as an apparent 'living legend' of the wild west.

Meanwhile, General Sam Houston (Dennis Quaid) remained mysteriously aloof from the heat of the action. You can't really blame him. This 'lost cause' of a battle hinged on the utter arrogance of the land-grabbing white Americans. Despite a flood of letters from Travis appealing for governmental help ... nobody came. (Apart from 34 ragged and untrained men who had the look of Tranmere Rovers supporters returning from a 5-0 drubbing at Torquay).

The film retains that familiar mix of ineptitude, courage and greed. However, despite the titanic nature of a story lurching towards a horrific conclusion, The Alamo fails to sufficiently build the tension. Ninety minutes in and, rather like being on an imaginary date with Natasha Kaplinsky, one begins to wonder just how something so beautiful could also be so dull. Several times in the film, the Alamo's defenders are advised to cut their losses and, frankly, leg it. This viewer, faced with a further hour of this tedium, found himself willing them to take heed.