Let me be the first critic who does not drop to his knees and smile like a donut for Robert Altman.

So, I'm sure you've heard all about Gosford Park by now. That it is by far the greatest film of the year. The ensemble cast is stunning. People who do not like Gosford Park are commie pinko heathens who worship the sun. Robert Altman is Kaiser Soze.

Let me sum up for you what this movie was to me (and I am aware that I am oversimplifying, thanks):

Class struggle + Remains of the Day + Clue + Inspector Closseau (yeah, no kidding) = Gosford Park.

"Crimson," you say. "Maybe this movie isn't the greatest thing since Fletch, but can it really be compared to Clue?" Yes, I say. In Gosford Park we have the world's top thespians from three countries playing stereotypes. In Clue America's greatest character actors play amusing caricatures. The former's dolled-up like Broadway's finest call-girl and the latter's the lovable hooker with the heart of gold, but they both have about the same emotional payoff: slim to none.

What we have here is another Vanilla Sky situation, wherein we have a director and a cast of actors that are obviously the top people in their craft. The actors enchant and enthrall (mostly), the story paces itself as any movie about the British upper crust should, the dialogue is witty, all the proper eyebrows are raised at all the proper times. Yadda, yadda, yadda. There's a saying in any screenwriting book you'll ever read, and it is this: you can make a bad movie from a great screenplay, but you cannot make a great movie from a bad screenplay. Or even a mediocre one.

I get no particular joy out of degrading a critical darling, so let's get this over with quickly.

Gosford Park is a pleasantly meandering tale about the separation of the rich and the servants in early 1930's England. A smattering of aging and frail royalty gather at the palatial estate of Sir William McCordle (Michael Gambon) ostensibly for a shooting party, but really because they have their own motivations. Some are insuring the continuance of allowances granted by McCordle, others seeking employment, still others for monetary bailouts. There's even a Hollywood producer (Bob Balaban) and an actor (or two) along for the ride, as research for an upcoming film.

Along with the cliche-ridden viper's nest of the rich comes their servants, individuals whose identities are supplanted by those of their masters. Their quarters are shabby and their lives dedicated to service, and they are so beaten down by their masters that all they can think to talk about when hanging out with each other is their masters' gossip. They have no lives or identities, and the few moments they have to themselves are spent in a rush; they love fast, they eat fast, they even smoke fast. Having a master catch you do something so horrendous as dancing will get you fired (or "sacked," I should say).

To make a (very) long story short, the various rich folks (and their servants) are shown in all their splendor and decay, and somewhere down the line Sir McCordle finds himself with a dagger in his heart and a sudden case of Death. Whodunit? As it turns out, about half the guests at the party have motivations for offing the man, and the other half really aren't all that sad to see him go.

So where does the story go from here? Not anywhere, actually. We have the potential setup for either a predictable (but satisfying) murder-mystery, or for a savage commentary on class division and decadent lifestyles. What we get instead is a hurried investigation at the tail end (enter Closseau), a passable explanation for the murder, "revelations" unconvincingly jammed in to make motivations work, and a few other "revelations" that the audience has figured out 45 minutes before the characters do. I will be considered unsophisticated for saying so, but I dare say you should be wiser than to underestimate me: there are too many goddamn characters in this movie. Say what you like about how Altman is the God of ensemble casts, there's just no bloody reason for three or four of these characters to exist. None. They contribute nothing -- well, nothing except running time.

A few devices used in the story would be jeered in any film without the Altman name attached to it. Check this: the aforementioned Hollywood producer is detailing to the rest of the dinner party (pre-murder) that he produces the Charlie Chan murder mystery movies. He informs them that he took the invitation to join the shooting party to research his latest Chan mystery. What's the plot of it, one guest asks? A bunch of rich people gather together at a shooting party and someone gets murdered, he says. See? It's ironic! It's foreshadowing! Get it? Isn't that clever?

Please.

Whatever. I can't say I'm more insightful than Ebert, Maslin, Travers and whoever else, but I stand firm. Potential flows in abundance, but all for naught. Performances all around (but especially from Clive Owen and Kelly Macdonald, both as servants) are serviceable to outstanding. Kristen Scott Thomas, an actress who never fails to bug the shit out of me, is pretty good (if two-dimensional). It would be easy for a film shot in one house to become visually monotonous, but that little pitfall is thankfully avoided. Nevertheless, Gosford Park is a movie all dressed up with no place to go.