Robert Altman’s country-house mystery is a sharp, funny study of class, carried by an ensemble worth watching closely. Maggie Smith’s casual scorn is a particular pleasure, though the plotting can get muddled.
Robert Altman’s Gosford Park is a sharp, funny country-house mystery, and we recommend it despite some muddled plotting. Julian Fellowes’s screenplay is especially alert to the business of getting through a gathering without offending the wrong person. The servants’ perspective helps us notice behaviour that the guests take for granted. Altman gives us time to learn how these people deal with one another. Much of the pleasure comes from noticing who is allowed to be rude and who has to remain pleasant.
The opening is busy enough to make introductions feel like work, but Altman quickly teaches us where to look. Andrew Dunn’s cinematography uses mirrors and tight framing to keep us aware of people beyond the immediate exchange. We watch for reactions, including those of people nobody seems to be addressing. Stephen Altman’s production design makes the period setting convincing, and the crowded compositions stop the house becoming something to admire while ignoring those who work in it.
Maggie Smith, as Constance Trentham, is the performance we kept watching for. Her imperious delivery makes judgement sound like an ordinary social duty, with no need for an open quarrel. We laughed at her dismissals, then felt slightly uncomfortable. It is the lack of effort that does it: Smith makes humiliating someone seem entirely routine. Fellowes gives her the lines, but she lets us hear how accustomed this woman is to having her opinions go unchallenged.
Michael Gambon’s William McCordle is coarse enough to make some of the surrounding politeness look distinctly flimsy. Kristin Scott Thomas, as Sylvia McCordle, is more guarded, and her restraint is welcome among so many people prepared to pronounce. Altman makes room for these differences without stopping the gathering each time a performance deserves attention. Even the smaller roles give us something to attend to beyond the immediate needs of the mystery.
Tim Squyres’s editing makes the large ensemble surprisingly easy to follow, even when the plot itself is less obliging. The movement between characters has purpose, though a few stretches linger over distinctions we have already understood. At 137 minutes, the film could lose some of that repetition without making the household less convincing. Patrick Doyle’s music helps the gathering feel civilised enough for the rudeness to register, although it leaves less of an impression than the dialogue.
As a whodunit, it is only intermittently gripping. The plot occasionally needs untangling, and we would not choose it chiefly for the pleasure of solving the crime. Its stronger claim on our attention is the way ordinary conversation exposes who can afford to be careless about another person’s feelings. Altman keeps that interesting without making everyone equally sympathetic or giving every character a plea in mitigation. Watch it with someone who enjoys bad behaviour and will save their own conversation for afterwards.