Squabbling scenes between Kingsley and Sukowa make the enterprise worthwhile, but there are too many exchanges that attempt to shoehorn in backstory and context and even more fudges, most notably around Dalí’s sexual proclivities.

The great missed opportunity of this film, with its glossy, handsome design and cinematography, and its genteel orchestral score, is how polite and unadventurous it is – something that could never be said of Dalí himself.

Dalíland has its moments, but too often, it’s as saggy as a Camembert timepiece.

The movie fails to garner any interest in who Dalí is and why he had such a wild outlook on life and art. If that fails, then everything else inevitably will.