Roman Polanski's "Oliver Twist" is a high-toned, handsomely mounted, scrupulously literate adaptation of a beloved classic novel.

I hate high-toned, handsomely mounted, scrupulously literate adaptations of beloved classic novels.

On the surface there's absolutely nothing wrong with this most recent version of a book that has undergone countless big- and small-screen interpretations. But the fact that there's nothing wrong with it -- that there's nary a scenic detail or scrap of dialogue or performance that isn't utterly on the nose -- is precisely what's wrong with it.

"Oliver Twist," which was published in 1838, has become such an essential part of Western literary lore and culture that it scarcely needs retelling, but in short: The title character, a 10-year-old orphan living in a squalid Victorian workhouse, embarks on a journey to London, where he comes under the tutelage of a pickpocket named Fagin and, after a robbery goes awry, is subsequently taken in by a wealthy man named Brownlow. Incensed, Fagin's most sadistic protege, Bill Sikes, kidnaps Oliver and the boy becomes the object of a fierce, metaphorically rich struggle between two archetypal father figures.

Polanski's "Oliver Twist" features a sound script by Ronald Harwood, a fruitful visual collaboration between cinematographer Pawel Edelman and production designer Herve de Luze and solid performances by Ben Kingsley as Fagin, Jamie Foreman as Bill Sikes and newcomer Barney Clark as young Oliver.

Although Polanski has compressed some of the original text, the story remains unsullied; indeed every character on screen seems to have leapt directly from Dickens' pages, from Kingsley's leering, grimy old hunchback to the Christian hypocrites who run Oliver's orphanage. And not a stitch has been dropped in terms of verisimilitude, from the sadomasochistic austerity of the workhouse to the dreary quarters where Fagin and Sikes ply their unsavory trades.

And yet. Polanski has constructed his "Oliver" with such lavish attention to detail and such reverence for the book that the production is rendered inert, an effect that is only heightened by the computerized insertions of things such as sunrises and St. Paul's Cathedral.

"Oliver Twist" circa 2005 seems to lack what made Dickens such a master in the first place: his own willingness to experiment with satire, social commentary and narrative form. Polanski's connection to the novel's themes of abandonment and isolation is unmistakable (his parents were prisoners in Nazi concentration camps and his mother died in one).

But Polanski's strict reading of the text keeps him from plunging head-on into its most painful psychological, even political, implications. At some point the obsession with production values and note-perfect performances actually distances viewers and the filmmaker from Dickens' most potent indictments.

Indeed, as they watch yet one more scene of aestheticized cruelty and violence, filmgoers may be forgiven for thinking that, to really bring Dickens to cinematic life in the 21st century, what is needed isn't one more well-heeled costume drama but an enterprise as bold and confrontational as the original work.

As tetchy as it sounds, "Oliver Twist," finally, is too good; it's been produced with such care and virtuosity and integrity that it resembles one of the stippled engravings featured in the opening credits. It's noble, high-minded and safe, and I can't help thinking that I would have preferred an audacious but honest failure.

"Oliver Twist"

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At Valley View Grande 16. Rated PG-13 for disturbing images. Two hours, 10 minutes.