A perfect English gentleman - that's what I wanted to be when I was growing up.

Ok, it was one of the many things I wanted to be growing up, but a perfect English gentleman was right up there behind rock star, movie star, and porn star. It didn't matter that I had barely-visible eyes on a pudgy oriental face; I wanted to be an Englishman so badly I played Cluedo with an accent.

Of course I didn't actually know any English gentlemen as a kid. Back then, my perceptions were formed purely on information from television and the movies.

Come to think of it, nothing's changed very much (hey, Fight Club taught me how to make a nice little bomb out of kitty litter and gasoline). Anyway, at that age I knew English gentlemen were impeccably well mannered, witty, and always knew which fork to use at the dinner table.

When I grew up, I learnt how time had changed them into loud, red faced, beer guzzling louts who seemed to inhabit my favourite bar in Holland Village, Singapore. I'm no scientist, but I do believe that's a form of de-evolution.

Gosford Park, however, is thankfully set during the time when men were gentlemen who spoke with stiff upper lips, not blokes who mooned their pale, flabby bottoms. It's 1932, and the wonderfully rich, but niceness-impaired Sir William McCordle invites an assorted group of family and friends (including a gay Hollywood reporter, his bisexual "valet" (played by Ryan Phillippe), and a sexually-ambiguous movie star) down to his mansion (it's more like a small continent really) for a hunting party. He gets murdered more than once (I shan't go into details) and almost everyone of the not-so-distraught guests is a suspect with a motive.

Robert Altman's Gosford Park is set up as a classic whodunit, but it really isn't. It's an acutely insightful look into the different classes - the "above stairs" guests and the army of "below stairs" butlers, valets and servants.

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Even when the police arrive to investigate the murder, it's not at all about cracking the case, but to have a bit of fun with the "classes" - the pompous, pipe-smoking Inspector is an idiot, while the lowly Constable actually tried solving the mystery.

While that's all fine and dandy in an "evaluating social snobbery" sorta way, I personally would have been better entertained if the movie actually did unfold as an Agatha Christie type murder mystery. I'm not saying throw all that keen eye for observation stuff out the window, I'm just saying why disregard the whodunit bit completely when the movie was set up that way in the first place?

The hugely talented cast though, is a delight to watch. For the price of one ticket, you get Dame Maggie Smith, Emily Watson, Kristen Scott Thomas, Jeremy Northam, Richard E. Grant, Stephen Fry, Helen Mirren, Eileen Atkins, and the impressively cute, but not so impressively talented Ryan Phillippe (his wife does have plenty of reasons as to why she makes more money than he does). As Altman usually does, he lets this mostly wonderful thespians do what they do best, instead of encouraging any scene-stealing, which I'm sure must have been very tempting.

That brings me to me next grouse. The script is superbly on the spot, but it feels to be lacking in witty one-liners. The ones that do exist, almost always belong to Maggie Smith, who spits them out with delight ("There's nothing worse than breaking in a new maid"). I don't know, maybe I was just in a mood to laugh a little more, and not merely be amused.

Don't get me wrong though. Gosford Park is a good movie and definitely worth a watch. Maybe that's why I'm being a little hard on it.

Altman still is the king of ensemble movies (although Paul Thomas Anderson is catching up with his Boggie Nights and Magnolia) and Julian Fellowes' screenplay is wonderfully abound with rich characters and a seemingly simple flow to incorporate that complex weave of characters. All in all, the slew of Oscar nominations deserved, but I couldn't help but feel it was a little more novelty than heartfelt.

Tea, anyone?