A tale about a washed-up poet seeking the truth to seemingly miraculous cures of healing at a country estate, rife with the landed gentry, touring European madames, buckets of whisky, and more wordplay and linguistic tongue twisters than you can shake a dictionary at. Throw in some fanciful excuses for teenage promiscuity and enough sarcastic comments to fell an elephant, and it becomes incredibly obvious that this film was written by Stephen Fry. Well, at least the book the film was based on was.

Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but it is a particularly strong brand voice, if you will. At times, that voice is cleverly sardonic or interestingly witty, but at others it feels a little like Fry just got to write what he wanted, without any particular interference from any editors. The result feels more than a little like navel-gazing at times, lacking the pacing that you would expect from a film or the depth you would expect from a good novel. The core mystery is neat enough, and kept well enough guarded as to make the reveal enticing, but it's not exactly a Sherlock episode in terms of intrigue. Nor does it have a great deal to say with the story, apart from lamenting the loss of that particularly peculiar brand of British toff-based society, something which I fail to really see as negatively as our main character (or, indeed, author) clearly does.

Plot aside, the cast are all great fun and the performances are generally excellent. Design and direction all work perfectly well. The result is an entertaining-enough romp with some flashes of excellent humour and character, but I doubt it will stick long in the memory.