We open to the white-washed banality of the recreation room of Carrigmore Home for the Disabled where, above the drone of the floor buffer, rows of wheelchair-bound inmates watch television shows for children. This is the home of Michael Connolly, a happily institutionalised twenty four year-old cerebral palsy sufferer. Abandoned by his lawyer father at birth, these walls have been the only home the young man has known, and he is content to abide by house rules, laid down by starchy head nurse Eileen (Brenda Fricker). But it is a lonely existence as his condition prevents him from speaking coherently, and he is forced into the ignominy of an alphabet card in order to spell out his requests.

Into this hermetically sealed environment comes big-mouthed Rory, a muscular dystrophy patient intent on disrupting the safe routine of Carrigmore. However, as he has the use of nought but two fingers, this disruption will be largely verbal in nature. So, aided by the visual affront of spiky yellow hair, he does his best to hack off every nurse in the place, gaining the fawning respect of Michael in the process. This admiration becomes dependence when it transpires that Rory can understand every strangulated syllable Michael emits, and the reckless newcomer finds himself unwittingly cast as translator to a retiring shut-in.

The odd couple on wheels, predictably, soon become fast friends; a night spent drinking the takings of a street charity collection providing the hook. Eager to help his rebellious buddy realise his goal of escaping from the Home, Michael applies for a grant for assisted living, citing Rory as his speech facilitator. The gambit pays off and they are free men, with a modified ground floor apartment to boot. Their decision, however, to choose pretty Siobhan (Romola Garai) as their personal aide proves to be rash, and the love triangle which results threatens to destroy the idyll.

Mentioning 'cerebral palsy' and 'Irish film' together in the same sentence is liable to provoke dangerous levels of nostalgia among the nation's moviegoers. But such misty-eyed memories of Daniel and Jim's 'little film that could' are out of place, and Inside I'm Dancing resembles nothing more than an unsubtle restaging of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. The shadow of R. P. McMurphy looms large over Rory, the joker in the pack, and his sparring with Eileen, the apparatus of authority, has its roots in the earlier film. There is, however, nothing threatening about the motherly Fricker, and it is difficult to sympathise with his insulting, petulant and self-defeating behaviour. I found myself siding with the Ability Ireland Plus board that refuse him a grant on the grounds of irresponsibility.

But what really hampers Inside I'm Dancing is its reliance on sentimentality, and Jeffrey Caine's script rarely misses an opportunity to pull at our heartstrings. A light sprinkling of sugar is fine, but by the conclusion you might find yourself wading through a river of molasses. This undeniably well-acted story would have benefited from a harsher, more realistic tone.