Late night phone calls from James Lipton aside, the opportunity to play a bastard must be the fondest dream of most folks in Hollywood. Walking the audience-approved dark side of the street can often allow actors to break out of demographically imposed behavioral ruts, serve as serious Oscar bait, and, sometimes, place a southbound resumé in turnaround. (Think Alec Baldwin, whose five glorious minutes in Glengarry Glen Ross somehow manage to justify an entire career of unwise decisions.)

With this in mind, the behind-the-scenes battle between up-and-coming actors to land a part in Mike Nichols' latest film, Closer--in which the respected, award-friendly director adapts a notoriously controversial play where every single character has an aura of 40-weight Valvoline--must have been legendary. The results, unfortunately, don't quite live up to the potential. Viewed scene by scene, the unfettered, constant venom on display is bracing, thrilling, and almost as much fun to watch as it must have been to perform. Taken as a whole, however, it proves to be a bit too much of a bad thing.

Set within a thoroughly GQ'd London, the film follows four horndogs (mysterious stripper, jaded photographer, wannabe writer, porn-fancying doctor) as they meet quite by chance and swiftly proceed to launch into a series of unstable relationships. Once the dominos are set in place, the narrative lurches forward in time, the atmosphere becomes steadily more toxic, and the literal and figurative f-bombs drop fast and furious.

Author Patrick Marber, who adapted Closer from his own 1997 play, displays an admirable willingness to explore the modern human animal as a wholly craven, sex-obsessed creature. Anyone who's ever carried a crush a tad too far or filled up someone's voice mail with post-midnight drunk talk will find something here to wince at. Such single-minded spelunking, however, which likely worked like gangbusters on the stage, comes off as far too studied on film. For every line or situation that scores a point, half a dozen stick in the craw as being a tad too clever or self-aware. This staginess stands as a particular disappointment coming from a director such as Nichols, whose recent cable adaptations of Wit and, especially, Angels in America served as brilliant reconceptions of the source material. Here, he seems too entranced by the rampant nastiness on display to think much with the lens, offering up an occasional slow zoom as the only concession to the cinematic medium.

The actors certainly give it their all, even if it sometimes isn't quite enough. Jude Law does well in the early scenes, where his character is allowed to get a charge out of being evil (especially during an uproarious chat-room sequence, which should confirm the worst fears of every cyber-dater), but his character arc soon flattens out into passive, albeit gorgeous, bitchiness. He comes off as particularly whiny compared to Clive Owen's magnificent Neanderthal physicality. Owen, who played the part on stage, is the only one in the cast who proves able to successfully project the inherent glee in playing a complete and utter rotter. Whenever he's front-and-center, the film threatens to break out of its too-rigid frame. Julia Roberts, who came late to the project after Cate Blanchett bowed out, also proves game, to lesser effect. She's never looked better (props to cinematographer Stephen Goldblatt, actually, who makes every single person on screen look almost obscenely divine), and certainly seems up to the challenge of playing an unlikable character, but her inherent wholesomeness never quite synchs up with her character's increasingly casual malice. This wishy-washiness unbalances what should have been the showcase scene, where her and Owen unleash a Penthouse Forum-worthy stream of naughty talk at the top of their considerable lungs. Finally, Natalie Portman continues to fulfill both her early and post-Lucas promise (and her nearly nude scene in a strip club stands a very good chance of permanently breaking the Internet), but her performance is hamstrung by the conception of her character, who pinballs between prenaturally wise and hopelessly thick, often during the same scene.

Even after droning on about this veritable grocery list of shortcomings, I'm finding myself perversely wanting to recommend Closer, as it, warts and all, represents the sort of ambitious, unflinching, personality-driven type of film that Hollywood rarely has the stones to attempt. (People looking for stimulating post-flick conversation topics should certainly hit up Fandango as soon as possible, although probably not for a first date.) Ultimately, however, the unrelenting seediness and, most crucially, the lack of a character which the audience is willing to side with takes a toll. After a while, in a sense, every scene becomes the same scene. Smarmy git trades self-satisfied, inwardly loathing quips with partner. Repeat.

In Nichols' body of work, the closest comparison to this film is his earlier and underappreciated Carnal Knowledge, which, awkward 70isms and unfortunate casting of Art Garfunkel aside, still retains its power to shock, especially when Jack Nicholson's big wolf is going off and getting off on the unsuspecting sheep surrounding him. By contrast, the lack of any real innocence to play off of keeps Closer, smart and sophisticated as it is, from attaining any significant resonance. They may have been cornball, but the old Westerns had it right: For the cool black bad-guy hats to have any meaning, you've gotta have someone willing to wear white.