When Jean Renoir set out to make The Rules of the Game, his fascinating account of the two radically different sides of a high-society rendezvous, one has to wonder whether he knew he was inadvertently setting the standard for an entire sub-genre of media that has remained omnipotent to the present day. One of the most notable films that has taken its cue from Renoir’s masterpiece is Gosford Park, a film that director Robert Altman has said was inspired by the incredible work done by the esteemed French director. Waxing poetic on the nature of Gosford Park is redundant, since it has easily ascended to the status of a modern-day classic, an entertaining film that combines elements of high-society humour with a riveting murder mystery. Considering the fact that Altman was at the helm, it should be unsurprising that he’d create something that not only blurs the boundaries between genres, but also somehow manages to take it in entirely unexpected directions, to the point where every subsequent viewing of the film comes to have new meaning, with the viewer picking up small details that we may not have noticed originally, which gives the film an immense amount of depth, as well as making it something that the viewer is invited to revisit occasionally. There are many secrets lurking beneath the surface of Gosford Park, and while it is a slight departure from the films Altman was known to make (while still retaining some of the director’s key elements that make it inextricably his own work), he proves that it is never too late to reinvent oneself, and that through the process, you might even find a masterpiece gradually arising from the effort put into the production.

The first time watching this film is likely defined by a sense of surprise at how neatly Altman compartmentalizes the story. The first half of the film is an elegant, entertaining comedy centring on a lavish shooting weekend being held at a gorgeous countryside manner, focusing on both the hosts and their guests (plucked from all corners of upper-class society), and their various servants and assistants that accompany them. The “upstairs-downstairs” genre is essentially one that may not have been invented by the aforementioned Renoir, but was certainly popularized as a legitimate means for a solid story, and which Altman used as the cue when conceiving of Gosford Park, which was certainly helped considerably by the presence of Lord Julian Fellowes, an actor with a working knowledge of the machinations of the high-society. There’s something so captivating about a story that looks at both sides of a single event, and even in the way Altman shoots Gosford Park reveals his interest in the entire process of hosting such an event. Whether it be the graceful, luxurious sequences set amongst the guests, or the dizzying, machine-like operations of the people “backstage” who are tasked with organizing and executing the event, the film looks deep into the heart of the affairs of the upper-class, both in terms of the people who take part in it, and those who provide the invaluable assistance needed to effectively make it happen. It leads to some hilarious moments, since the contrast between the two groups is very well-composed, each actor developing their role to suit the material, and most importantly not taking it too seriously, allowing themselves to surrender to the inherent absurdity of the story, which Altman seems to be actively promoting, especially leading into the second part.

Even if the viewer has a general idea of where this film is heading, we tend to forget that this is actually a murder mystery, since we’ve become so enveloped in the intricate details of the event, we forget that this is all just the preamble to something much deeper. The actual murder takes place over halfway through the film, which naturally changes the direction the story is heading. However, Altman very cleverly doesn’t change the tone of the film, and rather than having the more jovial tone come to a screeching halt in order to make the narrative more serious, he assimilates the same kind of pitch-black humour into the later parts of the film, turning Gosford Park into one of the most deliriously dark comedies of its era. Despite being around an actual murder, and each one of them being a potential suspect, the guests go about their affairs as usual – as much as they’d like to marinate on the fact that they are in close proximity of a killer, they realize the show must go on, and the justice system will presumable prevail. This blasé approach to developing these characters is at first very funny, since the entirety of Gosford Park seems to take place in a world divorced from genuine human emotions, and the general lack of reaction from the staff and guests (with the exception of a small handful of characters who realize the gravity of the situation) contributes to the multilayered nature of the film. It allows for the director to once again engage in his peculiar brand of cinematic experimentation, whereby he takes something as traditional as an upstairs-downstairs drama and filters it through the lens of a darkly comical mystery, and develops an unforgettable blend of the two genres.

Ultimately, as Altman mentioned while discussing this film, Gosford Park wasn’t intended to be a murder mystery, or at least entirely defined as one. Another potential source of inspiration could be Alfred Hitchcock’s The Trouble With Harry, a film that takes a very similar approach to framing an exuberant comedy around a cold-blooded murder – and like this film, Gosford Park uses the killing of one of the characters less as the centrepiece event, and more as a MacGuffin, a plot device used to progress the narrative, rather than be structured around it. The death of Sir William McCordle is important, but it is only one of several impactful moments in this film, with Altman and Fellowes being much more interested in exploring the class divide. The film is as much focused on looking at the circumstances surrounding his death as it is exploring the potential homosexual relationship between the American film producer and his enigmatic valet, or the long-lasting effects of the deceased’s deplorable actions in his rise to the status of one of the nation’s finest industrialists. This is an ensemble film, and while the cast is used exceptionally well in relation to the “everyone is a suspect with a motive” aspect of the story, it also lends the film a deep wealth of storylines, each one of them being given time and attention to flourish into poignant components of this already complex, layered film. Altman had a knack for working with larger casts, and as we’ve seen in some of his most famous work (especially in his greatest achievement, Nashville), it’s entirely possible to have a central theme that all the other stories revolve around, without only focusing on one particular storyline. In the hands of someone else, Gosford Park may have been more conventional, but far less memorable, with Altman’s magical touch being absolutely invaluable to bringing Fellowes’ marvellous script to life.

Promoted as a thrilling murder mystery, but in reality a dense and fascinating exploration of the class divide, Gosford Park is a magnificent achievement. Altman is the kind of director whose career is so wide-ranging, both in quantity and quality, that choosing a definitive best is often a challenge – I’ve already established that Nashville is the peak of the prolific director’s career, but Gosford Park is not a bad alternative, at least in terms of looking at the later stages of his output, where he was engaging in more experimental works that may not be massive departures entirely (often keeping with the sprawling ensembles and very precise, scathing humour), but demonstrated his keen ability to function in essentially any genre. Whether it be the fantastic cast, which is filled some truly talented actors that attempting to choose a standout is nearly impossible, the hilariously bleak approach to the murder mystery genre, or the lavish production design that immerses us directly into the English countryside in the 1930s, Gosford Park is incredible. It’s the kind of film that has only grown in esteem over the past twenty years, and remains the gold standard for both ensemble films and period pieces, showing the extent to which a simple premise can be turned into a thrilling, complex character-driven odyssey that captivates all viewers, whether newcomers or those returning to the luxurious halls of an estate that, much like England at the time, harboured many sinister secrets, most of them directly correlating to the class divide that serves as the theoretical foundation for this fascinating work of cinematic genius.