Like a scenario contrived for your neighborhood black box theater, Mike Nichols's film adaptation of Patrick Marber's critically acclaimed 1997 dramedy Closer leans heavily on its playbill to explain its characters and their otherwise inexplicable motivations. Jude Law is Dan (frustrated writer with boyish charm that verges on petulance); Julia Roberts is Anna (successful photographer and, therefore, damaged divorcée); Clive Owen is Larry (self-assured doctor who takes a clinical approach to matters of the heart); and finally, Natalie Portman is Alice (stripper). Thrust onto the stage, these character “types” struggle to break free of their bracketed descriptions only to inevitably realize the futility of the entire exercise. Coincidentally or not, a sober audience is likely to come to the same realization.

Closer purports to be a comedy of manners with its finger on the pulse of contemporary relationships. But, on balance, Closer is essentially a melodrama masquerading as social commentary. That is, it's the story of two couples-in this case two highly attractive, sexually rapacious couples-crossing paths, becoming infatuated with one another and eventually succumbing to temptation. Adopting the storytelling milieu of the afternoon soap opera, what Closer mostly shows of these relationships is the meeting and cheating-liminal scenes meant to chronicle the violent trajectory of modern romance in telescopic leaps through time. Perhaps unintentionally these narrative jumps simulate the jarring experience of a mid-movie bathroom break. You return to your seat over and over again, struggling to suspend disbelief as the film charges ahead.

What insights Closer offers on the nature of human intimacy are mostly limited to depictions of male fantasy. In an early scene, Dr. Larry signs on to an X-rated chat room for Sim Sex with Dan, whose writerly talents now aid him in posing as a large-breasted nymphomaniac who invites the good doctor to “sit on my face.” The exchange quickly leads to climax (--“I'm cumming…” -“Did you enjoy it?” --“No.”). And, thus, the film arrives at its answer to why fools fall in love: It's the cum, stupid! This thesis is quickly validated as the narrative swerves into a game of one-upmanship to see which cock truly rules the hen house. Is there any homoeroticism lurking behind this case of mistaken identity and the subsequent sparring? Any film that casts Jude Law is likely to prompt that question. And so does Closer, meekly, but it balks at the emotional complexity required to deliver a convincing follow up.

Instead, we're left with Dan and Larry competing to see who can cum in who (and how many times, and for how long), and their receptacles, Anna and Alice, who never really assume the shape of fully conceived characters. Rather, they represent a difference of taste-the former, mature and intellectual; the latter, nymph-like and oversexed-with the common denominator good looks. When reaching to produce any semblance of raw emotion from the two, Closer's occasionally punchy dialogue becomes a blunt object more in tune with slam poetry: “Where is this 'love'? I can't see it, I can't touch it, I can't feel it. I can hear it. I can hear some words, but I can't do anything with your easy words.” That tortured monologue, by the way, is delivered by Alice, who is kept in various stages of undress throughout the film.

With Angels in America freshly under his belt, Nichols's curriculum vitae has evolved into an intimidating syllabus of major works of modern drama. But while film adaptations like Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf ? succeeded by accelerating the kinetic energy of Edward Albee's frenetic script, with Closer Nichols stumbles into parody. Most of the missteps result from the director's attempt to sharpen the aesthetic “edge” of a script burdened with operatic flourishes like, “Have you ever seen the human heart. It is a fist wrapped in blood!” Not exactly a soft touch. But Nichols's choice to match such leaden language with sets that look as if they've been ripped from the pages of an interior design catalogue only thickens the air of ridiculousness. Each character gets his or her representative set. A minimalist loft for the doctor; an earthy den for the writer; a plush nightclub for the stripper, and so on and so forth. These environments do not serve as windows to the soul so much as window displays to be populated with stylish, emotionally sterile mannequins. Occasionally the ensemble strikes the right pose, and we glimpse a skillful imitation of human interaction. These moments come in the form of quick sketches that make clear Closer's aptitude at rendering the mannerisms of the intimate relationship rather mining its depth.