There's a strange heft to its hollowness.

"Big Sur" cracks the code of how to adapt Jack Kerouac for the screen.

Sometimes feels like a beautiful illustration, rather than an adaptation, of Kerouac's prose.

With Kerouac declaring that "the only thing that matters is the conceptions in my own mind," we're still left waiting for the filmmaker who can take us there.

Nobody's given the opportunity to do much more than brood prettily and occasionally shout carpe diembromides into the pounding surf.