Allelujah, based on the stage play by Alan Bennett, is set in a geriatric ward in a Yorkshire hospital and has a stellar cast: Jennifer Saunders, Derek Jacobi, David Bradley, Julia McKenzie, Lorraine Ashbourne, Dame Judi Dench – but not Dame Maggie Smith, inexplicably. Maybe she missed the call. It’s directed by Richard Eyre and produced by Nicholas Hytner, among others, so it has all the credentials you could wish for and yet, and yet, and yet. It’s weirdly lifeless and perfunctory and introduces a tonal shift at the end that belongs to a different film. That part did make me laugh but for all the wrong reasons, alas.

The hospital is the Bethlehem, known as ‘the Beth’, which is old and Victorian. It is beloved by the local community but threatened with closure by Whitehall bean-counters. It has wards named after famous singers. Mostly, we are on the Shirley Bassey ward although there is a Dusty Springfield ward too. I kept waiting for the comic potential to be exploited – ‘Ralph has died on Shirley Bassey!’; ‘What’s Eric doing in Dusty Springfield?’ – but this film has a habit of not seeing anything through. The ward’s doctor is Dr Valentine (Bally Gill), who is fantastically saintly, and says in voiceover at the outset: ‘I love old people.’ What, all old people?  What about Josef Schuetz, who was recently convicted of Nazi crimes at the age of 101? I found it hard to believe that Bennett could be so banal but then clocked that the screenplay is by Heidi Thomas of Call the Midwife fame. I have nothing against Call the Midwife, as I like a homily as much as the next person, but if you’re going to do Alan Bennett, don’t meddle with Alan Bennett. Or the rhythm of his language.

We are introduced to several patients but as most drop by the wayside it proves a redundant exercise. The main focus is on Ambrose (Jacobi), a former teacher, Joe (Bradley), an ex-miner, and Mary (Dench), who was a librarian and is fascinated by marginalia. The ward is run by Sister Gilpin (Saunders) who is formidable, ominously keeps a list of ‘incontinents’ and is due a lifetime achievement award. As she seems to be the only nurse in the entire hospital, I would hope so.

The central drama, such as it is, concerns the hospital’s fight to stay open but the practical details are murky. Dr Valentine appears to be the only doctor. There are no beeping machines or drips or tests or consultants. We understand why it would have to be like this for the theatre, but this is not the theatre. Also, the hospital offers singing and crafts, but wouldn’t that make it a care home? Nothing has the ring of truth. Particularly unbelievable is the scene where Joe’s son, Colin (Russell Tovey), a management consultant who advised the government to close the hospital, turns up to visit his dad. At least Joe has a visitor. Curiously, no one else does.

The film is intended to sing the praises of an NHS where compassion is key and the bean-counters can go hang but it’s heavy-handed and never involving. Colin learns to care but his Ebenezer Scrooge turnaround is, frankly, laughable. The old people are portrayed as simple. Mary is baffled by an iPad which made me think of my own dad who was using one right up until the day he died (at 96). The witticisms – ‘I’ve got lymphomania’ – fall flat without the rhythm of Bennett’s language while the twist at the end is wholly out of keeping. It lacks the spirit of even, say, a Last Marigold Hotel. And Dame Maggie Smith? A narrow escape, you could say.