While some hard-hearted cinema buffs might degrade such slow-paced genre-busting Altman classics like The Long Goodbye (1973) and McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971) as tedious, convoluted and ultimately uninspired, not even the most vitriolic of these contentious critics could deny that old Robert Altman’s brand-new period piece Gosford Park gets it popping in a major way.
Oh Jesus, you might say with a dismissive sigh, hold your horses and listen to reason. This isn’t some fractured revision of the Wild West in which Warren Beatty can gleefully don a bearskin coat and mumble about whores. This is England, and what does Robert Altman know about whiskey-quaffing butlers, pasty footmen, trophy wives, pheasant shoots and breakfast-in-bed? Haven’t we seen it all before in the unbelievably dope PBS joint Upstairs, Downstairs and in the inexorably beatific Remains of the Day (except then it was much funnier and not so goddamned self-reflexive)? How could the brilliant yet inconsistent Altman possibly hope to liven up this foreign thematic territory that annoyed even stupid people in the 70s despite the fact that audiences could identify with some of the subject matter?
Because Robert Altman is a suit-rocking, camera-toting culture pimp who shatters broad swaths of popular iconography and parameters of genre faster than Joel Bernache downs a warm 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor. As far as capturing the dramatic essence of historical fiction is concerned, he is a quick study. He did his homework, applied his usual filmic magic, infused the story with some perky trans-continental sub-plots and finally pulled the whole thing off in good fashion.
Still, for all Altman’s directorial skills, the best thing about this movie is Ryan Phillipe. This angel-faced twerp is a complete tool, and, while I wouldn’t mind seeing his blonde curls pulverized by Andy Schwab’s divine sledgehammer, he’s perfect for the role of a mush-mouthed over-sexed nitwit. In an effort to quell my hatred for all things associated with Ryan Phillipe (except for Cruel Intentions — that was tough as hell), I will begrudgingly admit that he’s marvelous in Gosford Park. I suppose that’s yet another credit to Altman, with his affinity for making bizarre and oddly functional casting decisions, and for using and abusing the little bastard like a true player in the interest of making a solid picture even better.
It may be a tad dull, and it may be quirky to a fault, but as good old Elliot Gould repeatedly intones in The Long Goodbye, it’s okay with me.