PLAYING BY HEART, a Robert Altman wannabe of a film written and directed by Willard Carroll, opens promisingly, but fails to live up to its promise. The sparkling Angelina Jolie is shown quoting a friend as saying "Talking about love is like dancing about architecture." This is a wonderful quote, the last of which was the original title of the film. That such a great title was lost due to fears about confusion with DANCING AT LUGHNASA, and that the quote no longer even appears in the tag line, is another example of the "dumbing down" of Hollywood fare. It's a shame, too, because adept performances and smartly-written dialogue mean there is a lovely little film in here screaming to get out.

The film follows the romantic adventures of four couples as they attempt to deal with The Human Condition and The Battle of the Sexes. Sean Connery and Gena Rowlands are Paul and Hannah; she a cooking show host, who are dealing with terminal cancer and discovery of a near-upheaval in their marriage over twenty-five years earlier. Gillian Anderson and Jon Stewart are Meredith and Trent, he an earnest, nice guy; she an emotional basket case. Madeleine Stowe and Anthony Edwards are Gracie and Roger, each married to other people and having a no-strings affair. The aforementioned Angelina Jolie is Joan, in the process of breaking up with a boyfriend and ardently pursuing the sullen-faced and mysterious Keenan (Ryan Phillippe). Ellen Burstyn is Mildred, whose son Mark (Jay Mohr) is dying of AIDS. Finishing off the ensemble is Hugh, portrayed by Dennis Quaid, who spends the first half of the film picking up women in bars by telling each one a different sob story.

It's not as awful as it sounds, though it isn't great either. Gillian Anderson demonstrates in this film that Agent Scully is the perfect role for her, because it requires no nuance, no emotion, and no vocal inflection. Perhaps it's just that her character is supposed to be embittered and damaged and we just want to smack her anyway, but Anderson merely plays her as Agent Scully on a particularly bad day. Madeleine Stowe and Anthony Edwards as the married-to-other-people lovers try mightily to make something out the ciphers they've been given to portray. Their characters are not well-drawn, and even actors of this caliber cannot make something of nothing. Furthermore, the Mildred/Mark subplot is also completely gratuitous, and serves no purpose except to add a manipulative, contrived, and utterly predictable tear-jerk to the stew.

However, in a film driven by performances, most of them do shine. Connery continues to light up the screen in every scene in which he appears, even if his brogue is becoming so thick and his eyes so sparkly he's becoming Ewan McGregor's geriatric clone. Rowlands brings both dignity and pathos to her role, and is clearly having a wonderful time working with Connery, even when she's telling him to go screw himself.

Dennis Quaid, an underrated actor, has never been better as Hugh, the mysterious guy who seems to be role-playing his way through every bar in town. Ryan Phillippe is surprisingly touching as Keenan, the green-haired, aloof but drop-dead gorgeous club kid who "doesn't date" for reasons that I ought to have caught earlier than I did. If the teenyboppers ever wake up and notice this young man, it's going to be "Leonardo who?"

Jon Stewart, taking a break from his new role as anchor of Comedy Central's nightly smirkfest THE DAILY SHOW, is a revelation as Trent, the basic nice guy. Stewart eschews all the wink-wink nudge-nudge of his regular job and all the Jewish angst of his stand-up act and gives a remarkably understated, but effective performance with the exactly right touch of humor.

Angelina Jolie's remarkable gifts (all of them) burst off the screen again. This young lady has energy, sass, and pathos, all housed in a body that is Not Of This Earth. I only wish someone would give her a role where she can ease up on the makeup and spandex and really show that her talent in her head, not just on the front of her chest.

One refreshing theme in the film is that everyone seems to have pets, and these add to the story without upstaging their human counterparts (with the exception of a mastiff belonging to Gillian Anderson's character -- and he doesn't have much competition). The chief weakness in the film, however, is in the cross-cutting among the subplots. No sooner does the viewer become interested in one plotline when the film cuts to another, making it difficult to become involved with any of the ultimately interlocking plotlines (in a script contrivance of mammoth proportions). The film could also stand to have about a half-hour edited out (I recommend the Stowe/Edwards and Burstyn/Mohr segments).

It's been said that a good script makes a film, and perhaps it's true, but self-indulgent, yet choppy editing can, and in this case does, create a film in which even crisp dialogue and sparkling performances add up to a whole that is less than the sum of its parts.