Although the works of fellow British Islers Ian Fleming and Patrick O'Brian both had their fans, they languished until, respectively, JFK's endorsement and a chance discovery with  resultant introduction to US publisher WW Norton. Fleming, an ex-British Naval Intelligence officer, did not live long after first fame and Sean Connery's 007, while from his home in France, O'Brian witnessed the growing success of his translations, biographies and, especially, the twenty-volume, thirty-year series of Captain "Lucky" Jack Aubrey/Dr. Stephen Maturin sea adventures. Fleming didn't have to suffer later Bond dumbing down/special effecting up; and, dead four years now, retiring scholarly O'Brian would hardly have been pleased with Peter Weir's Master and Commander, subtitled "The Far Side of the World" after the tenth of the series but finally a patchwork from several of the novels.

Despite studio blow about actors' dedication, historical accuracy and costly effects -- some of which don't work or are not worth the effort -- the film limps behind in obvious comparison with Captain Horatio Hornblower. Raoul Walsh's 1951 actioner is not great but provides unpretentious fun, with Gregory Peck (Errol Flynn was first choice) remembered as the title hero even among his score of other memorable rôles.

As Aubrey, Russell Crowe seems incapable of expressing the tough tenderness that makes for secure true masculinity. Pudgily surly here, he sports blond locks and handles his violin like a Gibson, reminding me of an overage wannabe rocker. In the end, however, it is not the New Zealander or his foil, Paul Bettany miscast as slight, soulful naturalist Maturin, that sinks a top-heavy unseaworthy venture (which had the audience filing out for refreshments at the screening I attended). Rather, it is the selection from, and attempt to visualize, the philosophical, talky, thinking man's milieu of the books. Though one critic has absurdly labeled them "the best historical novels ever written," it is true that, down to schema of sailing ships, they are in essence civilized and historical rather than adventure. Distinct from the sparser C.S. Forester series, O'Brian's are not the wide public's cup of tea, for they are less sea-action yarns than occasional battles imbedded in long Captain-Doctor debates about natural and social philosophy, history, military tactics, science, discipline, literature and the two men's shared passion for string music. Weir and co-scripter John Collee attempt to give a feeling for this aspect of the books, but the burden is too great, and in trying to include so much -- too much -- the story founders as entertainment.

Just as tourist snapshots invariably belittle the majesty of mountains, so do Hydroflex bags, Baja water tanks, fans, jet engines, wave machines and eight thousand gallons of real water fail to capture Cape typhoons. Here, or in perfect storms, we remain unconvinced. In its re-creation, however, of abysmal conditions aboard wooden warships, particularly belowdecks, the production is scrupulously realistic and (utilizing Rhode Island's Rose replica) comes close to true discomfort, claustrophobia and panic.

As a result, the initial broadside battle with H.M.S. Surprise's  prey and nemesis, the "phantom" French privateer Acheron, is stirring, shorter but nearly on a par with Saving Private Ryan's and far superior to the excessively lauded start of Gladiator. But from there on, it's downhill (in all three films). I hankered for more, and grew bored, as alternately cat-or-mouse, Brazil south around the Horn to the equatorial Pacific, by turns pursuer and pursued, the twain managed never to meet. Instead, the expected clashes of personality, superstitious rumblings, a flogging and man overboard, some tasteful jokes, good or bad weather, memories of Lord Nelson, and a number of obvious resolutions -- e.g., midshipman Hollom's (Lee Ingleby) fate -- go well over two hours.

That, even in time of war, routine at sea is like this -- infrequent intense action, but mostly hard boring drudgery -- still does not make it cinematic entertainment. The brief interlude at the Galapagos (where I had the wonderful opportunity to sail in 2001) is welcome but depends on that archipelago's grandeur rather than on any filmmaking. When the adversaries at last confront one another, by accident but as you know they will, once-hungry interest has been dissipated, and the close-quarters cannonade and boarding -- with a dirty trick that brazenly oozes "sequel" -- is unequal to the opening scene.

Decisions and personalities are, of course, vindicated; the heroic dead committed to the sea, though names are confusing; proud promotions bestowed; the usual. But you really would do better to rent Hornblower or Damn the Defiant aka HMS Defiant, for a cheaper, more satisfying salt yarn.

(Released by 20th Century Fox and rated "PG-13" for intense battle sequences, related images and brief language.)