Cinema Review: Tragic love story key to success

That's why, across the Pond, this has gone straight to TV.

Given the shock-fest served up at cinemas these days, it does seem rather laughable.

But it's also sad, because it fails to give Oscar-winning trio Michael Douglas, Matt Damon or director Steven Soderbergh (making his supposed swansong) the credit they deserve for this bold, brave piece of work.

It concentrates on a small part of the entertainer's life in the late 1970s and early 1980s, in the twilight of his jewels and fur-encrusted career.

Damon plays Scott Thorson, a young bisexual man who has had a troubled childhood.

Raised in foster homes and seeking direction in his life, he goes with a friend to see flamboyant entertainer Liberace (Douglas) in concert.

Captivated by the experience, and fascinated by the man, he gets chance to meet the legendary pianist backstage, and quickly finds himself swept up in an unlikely romantic relationship.

Bathed in wealth and excess, Scott and Liberace begin a long, secret affair.

Devoted Scott even consents to having plastic surgery to make him look more like his lover.

But, kept away from the outside world by the pianist who remained in the closet all his life, Scott begins to find it suffocating, and slowly starts to go off the rails.

Douglas has earned plenty of plaudits for his extraordinary performance as Liberace, and quite rightly so.

Underneath the bouffant hairstyles, outrageous fur coats and glittering suits, he portrays a man maintaining a bold facade, but unable to completely hide his fears and insecurities.

It's about as far removed from his acclaimed performance as ruthless Wall Street financier Gordon Gecko as you could get. He's a dab-hand at pretending to play the piano, too.

Damon is no less impressive in a more reactive role, running the gamut from lost boy to needy teenager, and finally unhinged, embittered adult.

It's a far less showy, and probably more difficult role to pitch.

Behind The Candelabra is not a perfect piece of work. The plastic surgery scenes are unnecessarily graphic, and sometimes you're not sure if you are supposed to be laughing or frowning at the dark, duplicitous world.

You could level the same criticism here that was thrown at the Margaret Thatcher biopic The Iron Lady, because it paints such a narrow portrait of a man who was once the most famous entertainer in the world, missing out huge swathes which would have put his career in sharper context.

But then, without that, you'd have lost the intimacy of what is, when the glitz and glamour is torn away, simply a tragic love story which was always doomed to fail.