After the magnificently-offbeat Big Night, writer/director Stanley Tucci reunites "his" cast (including Tony Shalhoub, Isabella Rossellini, Alison Janney, Campbell Scott, Oliver Platt, to name a few) in another offbeat tale of two over-zealous, out-of-work actors (Tucci and Platt) who offend an over-rated thespian (Alfred Molina), flee from his wrath and end up on the very ship that he is taking a vacation cruise on.

From its opening scene hommage to the silent-movie, this film characterizes itself as a vehicle which takes chances: Tucci and Platt engage in staged battle at an unsuspecting street-side café, Platt opting to "be killed" by Tucci, even though - we are to learn in the successive scene - that it was, in fact, Tucci's "turn to die". One twitch on the side of non-conviction and this delicately-humorous tableau would have fallen flat. Tucci pulls it off directorially and comedically.

Ultimately, "chance-taking" is a double-edged sword, and teetering on that blade will either get you lauded as a genius or slice your bollocks off.

Tucci's film is Damoclean in that the blade grimly alerts us to its presence many times, but is ultimately stayed by Tucci's deft comedic hand. For instance, editing seemed strained in a sequence which saw Tucci and Platt seeking a room on an ocean liner to conceal themselves - yet through this device, new characters were introduced to the mélange; then too, certain characters are colorfully realized whilst others float wraith-like through the script - until Tucci's clever storytelling unites all these disparate strands at the Captain's Ball, when a character bellows "Impostor!" and we see how each of the varied players may be guilty of that accusation, all of whom flee at the indictment, which is, of course, not even remotely aimed at them.

Alfred Molina, scenery-chewing like Tim Roth on crank, is that bellowing character, his dexterity at mutton-headed slapstick a revelation; Billy Connolly shines as the aggressively-gay tennis pro; Tony Shalhoub is overboard as the ambiguously-foreign, terrorist First Mate, but no one can upstage the singularly uproarious performance by Campbell Scott, opting to veer off the grid completely in his rendition of Nazi purser, Meistrich.

Though Tucci's script stoops to Stooge-like pratfalls at times, he stays ahead of the Great Unwashed's pedestrian sensibilities by embellishing it with brilliant minutiae, sprinkled liberally - the bedraggled shot of Molina during an intermission of his Hamlet and his melodramatic apology to the theatre audience, replete with crooked wig and burp; Platt's mindless, drunken soliloquy, including dialog which seems to be way off-script ("Boozy boozy boooy - sucky farty boooy - I poke you I poke you I poke you!") - and then there's Campbell Scott, who arguably steals the movie, whether entering the frame and making the soundtrack skip off-record, or propositioning the Social Director (a beautifully "Brick House" Lili Taylor), or impassively telling the ship's discomfited detective, Marco (played with witless Euro abandon by Matt McGrath), that learning how to kill people, "is not that hard"; Shalhoub's passionate radio call to his lover, including more seemingly off-script entreaties ("Touch me pure! Touch me good! Touch me hard!"); Connolly's man-wooing of Platt with seductive scenarios of wrestling naked on the steps of the Acropolis, "that's where we'll wrestle, my semi-Grecian lad - that's where I'll make a man of ye!"

And the joie de vivre of the last dance sequence is an utterly contagious masterpiece of the director's self-awareness, which could have easily gone awry. These are not "unknowns" peopling this film - any one of these well-respected actors could have mutinied Stanley's decision to unify them in this last, ridiculously-genius dance number. Instead, they joyously partake of the bunny-hopping and arm-waving like a naïve coterie of first-year acting students who have nothing to lose; in so doing, beautifully rounding off a superbly-entertaining film. This dance sequence, which takes them outside the set, through the crew, across the camera tracks and ultimately out of the studio building, is Stanley's knowing nudge to movie viewers on many levels and seals his brilliance as a director willing to take those offbeat chances. One of those rare "Gee-I-wish-I'd-thought-of-that" moments in film. Here too, we are indulged with the prominent soundtrack, which lent itself perfectly to complementing the film's action with its noticeably-distinct, recurring themes to signify melodrama, suspense, romance and slapstick.

Is it just me, or has everyone already pegged that Tucci and Platt's first names echo those of a past generation's legendary comedy team? Stanley tips his glass at Oliver to utter the film's last lines: "To life, and its many deaths."

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