I don't smoke, never have. Its appeal has always eluded me - just very thought of ingesting waste fumes into my lungs makes me cough. Mind you, some life-long teetotalers may have something to say about my drinking habits, so who am I to talk?

Smoking in films has in the past often been less a reflection of real life than a statement of cool - when Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall or Alain Delon smoked, they made it look like the hippest habit in the world. Which is, of course, the reason such cinematic portrayals have increasingly come under fire and why it has become such a no go area for American TV. Remember Cheers? Almost every episode was set in a bar, a location as notorious for the exhalation of smoke as for the ingestion of liquor, but how often did you see any of the main characters with a cigarette dangling from their lips? (Unless you wanted to make Rebecca look temporarily repulsive to Sam, of course.)

Smoking, of course, has often been linked with sex, the use of the cigarette as a seduction accessory and perverse advertisement for the sexuality of its user, its obviously phallic connotations, the famous post-coital smoke. This played a key part in Lawrence Kasdan's 1981 debut feature Body Heat, yet only recently I read an article rather judgementally slamming the movie as a prolonged advertisement for the tobacco industry. So in 1995 when Wayne Wang and Paul Auster made Smoke, set around a cigar store and featuring a cast of characters almost all of whom revel in the joys of tobacco smoke inhalation, it was most definitely flying in the face of fashion, and yet attracted barely a single negative comments to this effect. Title aside, this appears to have been achieved through an extraordinary sleight-of-hand that resulted in this aspect of the film playing an almost incidental second fiddle to its quietly delicious effectiveness as a character drama, and and to its open celebration of the power and pleasure of storytelling.

The film has five principal characters: Auggie Wren runs a cigar store on a street corner in Brooklyn; Paul Benjamin is a writer whose run of respected books came to a half when his pregnant wife was killed in a robbery; Rashid is a smart seventeen-year-old from a tough black neighbourhood who is new to the area looking for a place to stay; Cyrus is a down-on-his-luck garage owner with a prosthetic arm; and Ruth is a penniless, one-eyed ex-girlfriend Auggie hasn't seen in years. The relationships between the characters at the start of the film is either casual or non-existent, but connections are soon formed, often by chance. Paul wanders dozily from Auggie's store and is only saved from being hit by a truck by the quick thinking of the passing Rashid. Believing that karma can only be restored if he returns the favour, Paul offers Rashid somewhere to sleep for a couple of nights, which he eventually accepts. Later Paul secures Rashid a job at Auggie's store, which has a profound and unfortunate effect on Auggie's own plans. This triggers a monetary exchange whose story began before the that of the film, but in the course of events involves Paul, Rashid, Auggie and Ruth. Ruth by then has turned up unexpectedly with the news that eighteen years ago Auggie fathered a daughter, who is now strung out on crack and living with a psycho. Cyrus, meanwhile, may or may not be Rashid's real father, information that he will only become aware of when he is in the company of three of the film's other main characters. Oh it all makes perfect sense when you see it.

Everyone here has stories to tell, but all do so in different ways and for their own sometimes very personal reasons. Paul used to make his living through novels, but since the death of his wife he has not published, but still grinds away daily at his typewriter on work that is never openly discussed. He now uses his skills to engage others with anecdotes, whether it be the cigar store patrons with tales of Sir Walter Raleigh's attempt to weigh the smoke produced by a cigar, or Rashid with the true story of Russian critic and literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin, who in 1942 during the siege of Stalingrad, desperate for cigarette papers, smoked his only copy of a study of the Bildungsroman that he had been working on for ten years. Rashid also tells stories, and indeed has quite a gift for the gab, but the characters he creates are for himself, false identities and backgrounds to enable him to adapt to whoever situation he may find himself in. Ruth carries stories of past romance and present misfortune, and Cyrus's missing arm is a very visible story just waiting to be told, and when it comes, the tale of a tragic and drunken accident becomes an almost biblical tome in which God passes everlasting judgment on his humble servant. And then there's Auggie, telling the story of his store through thousands of almost identical photographs, and later delivering the Christmas Story that was the title of Auster's original published work. It provides the film with a simple but gorgeous final scene, one that may be the truth, Auggie's own fantasy, or the tale that Paul creates after hearing it. (This ambiguity is removed in the extras, it has to be said.)

The structural beauty and humanism of the script, coupled with the sort of long monologues that actors love, ensured that Wang and Auster were able to cast the film pretty much to their exact specifications. The actors respond accordingly with a series of wonderfully judged and largely low key performances that create fully rounded characters in just a few minutes of screen time. Having landed with a bang so early in his career with the likes of Altered States and the aforementioned Body Heat, William Hurt's star had faded somewhat, but here reminds us just what a great actor he is when given the right material, and makes Paul Benjamin a compelling screen presence from the opening scene. This troubled Brooklyn writer who later creates the story on which the film was based appears to be very much Paul Auster's cinematic alter ego, something reflected in Hurt's interpretation, which is clearly based on Auster (whose middle name is Benjamin, if you need confirmation), right down to his very distinctive vocal delivery.

Also given the chance to gently shine is Forest Whitaker, Auster's first choice for the role of Cyrus and one that Whitaker himself was immediately enthusiastic to play. Making fine use of his natural twitchines and bulk, it is in his own storytelling scene that he really shows what he is capable of, trying to make light of an event that forever changed his life, all the while struggling to fight back the painful memory that this brings up. Later, when he is delivered news that he does not want to believe or deal with, the anguish he expresses is very powerfully communicated.

As Ruth, Stockard Channing displays a controlled desperation that is always convincing, and if Ashley Judd at first seems to be slightly overplaying the angry daughter Felicity, just watch the extraordinary expression of suppressed despair that slides onto her face when her mother departs - now THAT is film acting.

As Rashid, newcomer Harold Perrineau Jr. (later to memorably play the Greek Chorus August Hill in Oz) is an instantly likeable delight, especially given that this is a performance within a performance, a young man who copes with human interaction though a carefully constructed play on the truth, something that eventually drives Paul to let out in frustration, "Cut it OUT!" and later crumbles to reveal the real boy underneath.

And then there is Harvey Keitel, a man who repeatedly gives fine performances that don't look like performances at all, here making Auggie a most believable star around which the others can orbit. It's also great to see him play a genuinely nice guy, a far cry from many of the roles he is most famous for.

Though Wayne Wang is credited as director and Paul Auster as writer, no secret has been made of the fact that this was very much a collaborative effort, with Auster involved very directly in the film-making process at all stages (the opening credit announces this as 'A Film by Wayne Wang and Paul Auster'). In some ways the direction is the most low key aspect of all, and it kicks resolutely against the prevailing fast-cut, roving camera style of modern American cinema in its almost complete lack of close-ups, with most of the action observed in master shots or simple two-shots, which are held for far longer than many modern viewers will be used to, reflecting the intention of the director and writer to make "an Ozu film in Brooklyn." This is particularly astonishing when you realise that one of the executive producers was a certain Harvey Weinstein.

It all works divinely. If one or two of the plot points seem designed purely to prompt a narrative turn then it's only because the character-based sequences are so unforced and natural, and it is these scenes that provide the film's principal enjoyment, as characters sit with each other, interact, reveal things about their lives and tell each other interesting tales. The plot unfolds almost unseen in the background and has only one function, to develop the characters and their relationships to one another - if you want proof that plot is driven by character then here it most definitely is. Everybody ends up affected by their past, and the results are often genuinely moving, in particular the quietly extraordinary scene in which Paul looks though Auggie's photo collection. Initially bemused, he only begins to understand what they are about when Auggie advises him to slow down. As he does so and begins to appreciate the pictures for what they are, we are given the opportunity to do likewise, to enjoy the subtle differences that make each picture unique, and in its own way surprisingly captivating. And then Paul spots his lost wife Ellen in one of the photographs and all of his suppressed grief wells to the surface. In many ways a simple sequence and one that occurs early in the narrative, it nevertheless carries extraordinary emotional clout. But that's what happens when we genuinely care for characters without feeling we have been bullied into doing so.

Smoke is a gorgeous piece of modern American cinema, a wonderfully written, played and directed study of character and community and the importance of storytelling, and a rare example of an insider and an outsider working in perfect harmony to produced a unified vision. Here, in an age of on-line information, email, text messaging and an explosion of TV channels, is a perfectly judged reminder of the simple pleasures and benefits of direct vocal communication. And, of course, of a quiet, relaxing smoke.

Sound and Vision

How do you go about promoting a DVD to the buying public? Well one way, if the disc has a number of nice features, is to plaster that information all over the cover. Or at the very least mention it. Mirimax, however, either don't seem interested in what they have here or simply haven't checked out the disc. Either way the packing does this disc no favours, and simply fails to inform any potential buyer (and any on-line DVD site given to listing such information) just what lies within. But more of that below.

We are informed on the back cover that the transfer is framed at 1.85:1, but no mention is made of any anamorphic enhancement. Serious omission number 1, as a fair number of us are instantly put off by the thought of a non-enhanced transfer, but Smoke is not only anamorphically enhanced, it looks terrific. Pin sharp, with excellent reproduction of the film's sometimes pastel-weighted colour scheme and contrast that is close to perfect, the only blip occurs in a single shot of Paul's unlit apartment, where the black levels have greyed out a little and compression artefacts are clearly visible. Otherwise this is a treat.

The 5.1 sound is for the most part subtle and front-weighted, though the urban atmospherics during the opening credits are very impressively spread and the LFE thud of music from a passing car early on reminded me that I have a subwoofer. Music and dialogue are very cleanly and pleasantly presented - a good if unflashy mix.