A movie that casts Morgan Freeman and Sir Ben Kingsley as rival mob bosses can’t be all bad. And the new slapstick noir film “Lucky Number Slevin” isn’t all bad; it just happens to be not all that good, either. As long as your expectations aren’t too high, this movie won’t disappoint.

And there is a lot of good, especially if you like your whodunits sexy, quirky, and ultra-violent. “Slevin” has a fantastic ensemble, and not just its Academy Award winners, Messrs. Freeman and Kingsley. Granted, those two have enough gravitas that they could read a Taco Bell menu and instill a sense of national purpose. And to their credit, they both chew the scenery as only God and Gandhi can.

But a surprisingly likable and charismatic Josh Hartnett carries the movie, and even sacrifices his pretty-boy mug with a broken nose, a la Jack Nicholson in Chinatown. And for the ladies: Mr. Hartnett spends a good chunk of the opening draped in nothing but a bath towel. To sweeten the deal, Mr. Hartnett is backed up by the always reliable Bruce Willis and an adorable Lucy Liu, who abandons her ice queen image.

Aside from an excellent cast, “Slevin” has a hilariously convoluted plot that employs every cliche, trick, and device in the thriller playbook. When it tires of delivering thrills, “Slevin” has moments of loony, and sometimes funny, farce. And despite a slow, confusing start, the film picks up speed without stopping for gas. It is never boring, even if it doesn’t always make sense.

Here’s the short story: Slevin (Mr. Hartnett) is a man at the wrong place at the wrong time, etc. He finds himself trapped between two warring crime bosses – the Boss (Mr. Freeman) and the Rabbi (Mr. Kingsley) – the latter having earned his name because he’s actually a rabbi. And if that’s not bad enough, Slevin is being hounded by an unorthodox cop (Stanley Tucci) and stalked by a hit man (Mr. Willis).

With the help of his plucky neighbor Lindsey (Lucy Liu), Slevin has to unravel the mystery of why they think he is who they say he is, as well as simply survive. And all this happens at a breakneck pace, fast enough that you’ll never ask questions like, “Is there a such thing as a Chasidic hit man?” An independent film that made a splash at this year’s Sundance, “Slevin” makes brilliant use of its economy-class budget. Director Paul McGuigan, who directed Mr. Hartnett in the dark romance “Wicker Park,” uses clever, eye-popping design here to make his intimate interiors more vibrant. The resulting movie suggests a big Hollywood production.

But then there’s the bad, as “Slevin” is big on style, and small on substance. It strives for originality, but never transcends its genre and comes off, ultimately, as a hollow homage to “Pulp Fiction.” The latter is a movie unjustly remembered for its gratuitous gore, ’70s music, and pop culture references. The fact that the movie also had a strange credibility and – even more improbably – a heart has gotten lost in the hype.

“Slevin” borrows the flash of “Pulp Fiction” – its dialogue is laced with so many pop culture references, it might as well be called “The Gilmore Gangsters.” But it doesn’t deliver the nuanced thrills that come with really connecting with a character. And the film’s proximity to achieving that is a point of frustration. None of the characters are ever anything more than slick ciphers dispensing information, or bullets. A lacquer of cool further obscures a game cast shackled by stereotypes.

I enjoyed “Slevin,” and hardly checked my watch (the surest indicator of a movie that falls outside one’s kingly graces). But as the movie unfolded, and twists were revealed, I found myself wanting more – the way an uninspired meal makes you look forward to dessert. And upon the briefest of contemplations, the only explanation for my cooling opinion was that watching Mr. Willis’s face, now older and more sunken, kept reminding me of a superior movie.

Much the way I can’t watch a killer-animal-kills-people movie without thinking of “Jaws,” or a man-flips-backward-in-slow-motion movie without recalling “The Matrix,” I couldn’t help but want “Slevin” to be better than the sum of its parts. But imitation is a form of flattery. And when the imitation is as well-crafted as “Slevin” is, it’s hard not to lavish praise on the object of its derivation as well.