And his talent for directing actors merits a good deal more than respect. Some good actors don't escape the strictures of their roles here. Molina isn't required to do more than show his disapproving walrus face; I wish he hadn't been required to roll like a pig in chocolate in the movie's climax. Others sail right past them. Dench has been so praised -- Oscar, honored by the queen -- that she's on her way to achieving that international treasure status where actors barely have to do anything to be lauded. Luckily, she's got the instincts of a working actor -- one who just happens to be a master.

Armande is one of those crusty on the outside, soft on the inside old-codger roles. Dench feels crusty all the way through -- even her expressions of affection carry the implicit warning "Don't push it." She has a great moment when Vianne persuades her to try a mug of hot chocolate with chili powder. Dench sniffs at the concoction suspiciously, then takes a sip and momentarily forgets herself by emitting -- and then abruptly cutting off -- an earthy chuckle that sounds as if it were coming up through a crack in the earth from Satan himself.

The movie provides an unlikely charming couple in John Wood as a man whose only companion is his dog and Leslie Caron as the long-grieving war widow he falls for. Wood's hair flies away from his skull in curly wings and it somehow lightens him, makes him into a dear fool. (He looks a little like Ed Wynn.) The poignancy of Caron is that, approaching 70, she has never lost her gamin looks. The pair of them suggest Shakespearean lovers under a spell that turns back the clock. If only they were allotted the screen time to shine.

Johnny Depp, as an Irish vagabond gypsy whom Vianne becomes involved with (and sets the locals' tongues clacking even louder), has a laid-back sexiness that keeps the movie from feeling too cushy. Depp can fool you into thinking he's not doing anything, but if you've got liquid eyes that take in a woman the way he takes in Binoche, that's enough. And Binoche gives a confident star performance. She's presented to us as immaculately as one of Vianne's chocolates, done up as an icon of late-'50s glamour, almost always dressed in shades of red.

The role depends as much on Binoche's presence and charisma as on her acting abilities. Luckily, Binoche isn't just imitating a movie star -- she is a movie star. And it's eminently more enjoyable to watch her flirt and seduce than it is to watch her in some of the "substantial" roles she's been stuck in, like her existential masochism in Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Blue" (the art-house equivalent of a Lana Turner movie, but a hell of a lot less fun).

"Chocolat" toddles along pleasantly enough, though the best things are fleeting -- like Hallström's homage to Albert Lamorisse's classic children's short "The Red Balloon" or a whimsical glimpse of Anouk's imaginary playmate. Viewing the rural-chic look of the film's interiors (shot by Roger Pratt) is like killing a few hours leafing through one of those coffee-table books that purport to show European country living (as enjoyed by the gentry, that is).

I just hope that next time out Hallström gets to use his craft in the service of something with a little more meat on its bones. As trivialities go, there are films a lot worse than "Chocolat." But it's a little too "Why not pause a moment and savor a rich, international coffee?" for my taste. It somehow manages to let you down and leave you feeling pampered at the same time.

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