In theaters

SEABISCUIT, written and directed by Gary Ross, based on the book by Laura Hillenbrand, 140 minutes, rated PG-13.

The first 30 minutes of “Seabiscuit” are pure chicken-fried gravy, so laden with fat the story can’t get off the ground. The initial scenes alone are a Norman Rockwell stomachache, reflecting images of impossibly rich autumnal hues, beaming families coming together to recite lines of Shakespeare over dinner, the romantic haze of lives grandly lived.

Countering this on the backside of those 30 minutes are the disastrous stock market crash of 1929, the abandonment of a child and the death of another, a collapsed marriage, prostitution, poverty, gambling, heartbreak, and – since there’s no sense in applying the brakes now – the delirious highs of a full-blown Mexican fiesta. It’s enough to make the afternoon soaps look downright sane in comparison.

The film, which writer-director Gary Ross based on the best-selling book by Laura Hillenbrand, follows last year’s “Road to Perdition” in that it arrives in theaters just when audiences are most likely to want a smart, sophisticated Hollywood epic charged with substance. More than anything, “Seabiscuit” wants to be that movie. Certainly the television ads claim it’s that movie, but unlike “Perdition,” which really was that movie, “Seabiscuit” is too fond of the past to see it for what it was.

Deeply influenced by the documentaries of Ken Burns – so much so that it uses Burns’ own honey-voiced narrator, David McCullough, to narrate – this glossy, well-acted film is far from a bust. Still, it’s not what its hype suggests, nor is it the movie it should have been given the powerful, true story behind it.

In the film, Jeff Bridges is Charles Howard, the millionaire businessman broken by the Depression and a failed marriage yet lifted back to life when he meets Tom Smith (Chris Cooper), a man whose horse, Seabiscuit, is a supercharged gift in search of the right jockey. Just that is found in Johnny “Red” Pollard (Tobey Maguire), a disturbed, scrappy young tough with a puff of auburn curls and a bum eye who joins these men – and this horse – in that he’s been beaten down by life.

Together, they form a formidable team of underdogs, one that eventually triumphs over the odds, as Seabiscuit rises to greatness in the competitive world of horse racing, winning major handicaps in spite of his puny size and awkward gait.

In the process, the horse

becomes a beloved symbol for millions of Americans fighting to get back on their own feet after the market collapsed in ruin. Packaged by the media as the inspirational nag that could, Seabiscuit is relentlessly marketed via radio, newspapers and newsreels, a clear sign of the way our culture would evolve.

When Ross isn’t hammering home the idea that you don’t throw away a whole life just because it’s banged up a little, there are moments in “Seabiscuit” that hint at the film it could have been with a less-obvious hand.

The race scenes, in particular, are extremely well done, as are the performances. Bridges essentially played a derivative of this part before in “Tucker,” but he’s nevertheless solid, joining Cooper and Maguire in offering a measure of something real amid the lingering stink of inspirational hokum and Randy Newman’s determination to underscore every moment, great or small, with his intrusive score.

Also strong in the film’s showiest role is William H. Macy as Tick Tock McGlaughlin, a boozy radio reporter with a meticulous shtick and an ultra-smooth delivery that gives the film its much-needed jolt of humor. Wasted is Elizabeth Banks as Howard’s wife, a fine actress who apparently was only brought in to be a clothes hanger, though real-life jockey Gary Stevens is surprisingly good as George Woolf.

For all its promise and hype, “Seabiscuit” is unfortunately little more than a sugar cube of good intentions undermined by a saccharine aftertaste. It probably will appeal best to those who want to feel good, regardless of the obvious machinations, rigged plot lines, occasionally corny dialogue and overbearing metaphors it takes to get there. For the rest, it joins the far weaker “The Majestic” in being a contemporary movie better suited for another time, say 60 years ago.

Grade: C

Christopher Smith is the Bangor Daily News film critic. His reviews appear Mondays and Fridays in Style, Thursdays on WLBZ 2 and WCSH 6, and are archived on RottenTomatoes.com. He can be reached at BDNFilm1@aol.com.