I've seen The English Patient exactly one time and I don't intend to see it ever again. Not because it's a bad movie. Not because I hated it. Not even because I'm taking some moral high road on the grounds I find something objectionable in its length. Instead I will never see The English Patient again because I believe there were superior movies that should have claimed the Best Picture title.

On second thought, then, maybe I have opted to take the moral high ground in finding something objectionable with Anthony Minghella's film. To my way of thinking The English Patient is perfectly crafted entertainment meant to inflame emotions but not to stick to your metaphorical ribs. It's an appetizer on the way to a good meal and just because the appetizer is a good one doesn't make it worth the meal you're asked to give up when you enjoy it.

Now that I've stretched my gastronomical metaphors to their logical limit, let's just say I'm not in thrall with those who claim the movie's greatness simply because it's a sweeping tragic love story. Nor do I give much credence to those who believe it to be a grand adaptation of a sensuous love story filled out with all the bells and whistles of a glorious costume drama.

Instead I think The English Patient is a lot of pap substituting strong production values and appealing performances for weighty material and meaningful art. The illusion it holds up about the trials of passionate romance and the often times tragic coincidences of history seem neither original nor particularly suggestive. It becomes, to use my earlier line of metaphors, a platter of well-seasoned fried potatoes that forgets to include a complex protein or accompanying beverage.

Having not read Michael Ondaatje's source novel about a '30s era English mapmaker sent by the Royal Geographic Society to chart the Sahara Desert, I'm left feeling I wouldn't care for his book in light of the resulting film. That film, starring Ralph Fiennes as Laszlo de Almásy, the '30s era Hungarian mapmaker, abuts the complications of World War II and is told in flashback style as Laszlo lies on his deathbed from burns sustained in a plane crash. Attending him is the Canadian nurse Hana (Juliette Binoche) and troubling him is the awkward way his personal history haunts his past and present circumstances.

As we quickly learn dear Laszlo was gifted at circumventing the Nazi threat but was nonetheless caught up in local politics to the extent he couldn't help but make a few enemies and fall in love with Katharine Clifton (Kristin Scott Thomas). While telling Hana about his love affair, and as the wartime environs echo outside Laszlo's death chamber just as they do in his past, the tragedy of his professional undertaking, his heart's desire and geopolitical events comes full circle.

Not only was Laszlo unable to save Katharine's life at a moment of acute personal need, he compromised many others in his efforts over time on behalf of himself and the Royal Geographic Society. Among them is Caravaggio (Willem Dafoe) who lost his thumbs to Nazi torturers and who intends to seek his revenge on Laszlo before the Hungarian dies.

In the end, of course, Laszlo's suffering is somehow indicative of his worth and the depth of his feelings so he's left to his natural end as a pawn in the world of bad timing. Caravaggio is appeased, Hana is set on the course of her own love affair with the wonderfully handsome Naveen Andrews as Kip, an Indian soldier, and Laszlo and Katharine fade into cinematic amber as the exemplar of tragic true love lost.

Produced for $27 million using locations in Northern Africa and Southern Europe, The English Patient went on to earn some $78 million domestically and another $153 million internationally. A hit by any stretch of the imagination the film also parlayed its 160-minute length into meaningful movie entertainment for a truly mass audience.

What particularly incenses me about The English Patient, though, has almost nothing to do with the movie itself. No the thing that really bugs me is the way Minghella's picture created a cult around the idea of epic romance on film. I really didn't respond well to Fiennes and Thomas as tragic leads, in fact I found them oddly without chemistry on-screen, and I found myself relieved with the film's end rather than upset or wrung through the emotional machinery that was seemingly intended.

More to the point I was struck by the film's eventual nomination and final victory as the Academy Award winning Best Picture of the year. It simply missed its mark on me and not simply because I tend not to like romantic melodramas and old-fashioned musicals.

1996 was one of those years where Academy voters picked out quirky independent movies that had somehow managed to appeal to broad audiences, at least one box office hit and a self-possessed epic to nominate for top honors. While I think Fargo is a fun movie and particularly unusual when it was released, its nomination as picture of the year was as mystifying to me as was The English Patient that was, along with Jerry Maguire, the most obvious shoe-in in the nomination process.

Similarly I detested co-nominee Shine but I felt the awards process was working like a charm when Secrets and Lies was put up for picture of the year alongside it. Clearly the Academy avoided Trainspotting in favor of the less titillating, though still United Kingdom-originated, Secrets and Lies, and they were also sure to award Sling Blade with a writing award as apology for not getting a Best Picture nomination as much for its own merits. Lastly, Academy voters consigned When We Were Kings to the documentary dustbin where it cleaned up those honors easily but not before leaving a lasting impression with this viewer, at least, that it may have been Best Picture or, at the very least, a contender for the title.

All this background simply supports my purpose in writing that The English Patient was far from being my movie of the year. When given its kind of excellence and embrace as that class of Oscar winner that appeals to more refined sensibilities like Out of Africa, Gandhi and Chariots of Fire before it, the movie has, nevertheless, been put on museum shelves for posterity with nobody paying attention.

That The English Patient won Best Picture is a matter for the public record. That anyone would care to see it at some point in the future is entirely up for grabs.

Co-nominees Fargo and Jerry Maguire, while limited entertainments with some negative qualities, have enjoyed a life long after the Oscars presentation of 1996. So have Trainspotting, Sling Blade and When We Were Kings. Not so Minghella's picture that will likely stand through time on video store shelves collecting dust and the attention of Ralph Fiennes' fans who may wish to see his full filmography rather than focusing on his better roles in movies like Schindler's List.