Augusten Burroughs caused something of a sensation when his memoirs were published in 2002. He is at the centre of another media sensation reminiscent of Helen Demidenko in which the veracity of his recollections is said to be wanting. This might account for the opening caveat when Augusten suggests that we probably won’t believe what we’re about to see. No argument as Burroughs’ colourful, art-directed life coalesces into something beyond incredible.

He is the sensitive, loving son of a would-be poetess. Creatively blocked, she turns to quack Dr Finch who, from the office next to his masterbatorium, prescribes valium and personal freedom. Things go from bad to worse and the out, gay fourteen year old is abandoned into Dr Finch’s care. As well as dealing with his loopy mother, Augusten now has to negotiate the loopy, cat-exhuming, faeces-worshipping Finch family. It’s like being plunged into the Adams’ Mansion without the laughs. Not intentionally mind you, for Running With Scissors is intended as comic-drama. Writer-director-producer Ryan turns to John Irving for inspiration in creating the Appalling World According to Augusten, which it often is, if you buy into it. The craziness is balanced by a kind of hope – like the comfort he finds in the arms of his thirty-five year old, schizophrenic adopted brother…

Despite pedigree production and a stellar cast, it suffers irreparable damage from the so-unlikely-it-must-be-true label and a wearisome poor-me attitude that invades every scene. The real Burroughs asserts that his triumph over adversity had a happy ending, pointing to his best-selling book and movie-deal. Not so for us. Running With Scissors is an occasionally sad tale of mental illness and delusion. Mostly it’s just irritating.

// COLIN FRASER