Somewhere between the cooing close-ups of Barbra Streisand and the stuffed widescreen compositions of street parades, Hello, Dolly! hits its sweet spots. Director Gene Kelly, adapting the 1964 Broadway musical, fares best with the ensemble dance numbers that elegantly combine group movement and individual footwork. “Put on Your Sunday Clothes” grows from a cheery aspirational duet between Michael Crawford and Danny Lockin to an acrobatic celebration involving the entire town of Yonkers, N.Y. I also like “Elegance,” in which Crawford, Lockin, Marianne McAndrew, and E.J. Peaker feign sophistication down a snooty New York City Street. Even there, though, the performers have to work against Irene Sharaff’s costume design, which seems to be guided by the principle that there can never be enough layers of fabric. (Ruffles, lace, taffeta—you name it, someone’s wearing it.) The story, meanwhile, is nonsense, involving an 1890s matchmaker (Streisand) who tries to orchestrate a number of romances, including one between herself and a crotchety businessman (Walter Matthau, completely wasted as a humorless sourpuss). Streisand’s Dolly is supposed to be the toast of the town, but I’ll have to take the movie’s word on that. The actress gives her all to every individual moment, but never manages to create a fully formed (or even likeable) character. Jumping from sassy New Yawker to pining widow to husky seductress—the pedal to the metal each time—it’s as if she’s auditioning for five different parts. By the time Streisand takes over the entire movie with the title number, in which the massive waitstaff of an upscale restaurant gathers to sing and dance her praises, I couldn’t help but wonder what all the fuss was about.