Less a sequel than a companion piece to the glorious Smoke, Blue In The Face treads a precarious line between charm and self-indulgence. Where that first film was hardly overburdened with plot, this has none to speak of. It returns to The Brooklyn Cigar Company and to its proprietor Auggie Wren (Harvey Keitel), but dispenses with almost everything else. Gone are even the semblance of story and character in favour of a parade of largely improvised celebrity sketches. It could have been ghastly, but is actually Smoke's endearing delinquent brother.

The story goes that, having finished the first film, writer Paul Auster and director Wayne Wang had a little time to spare and a disinclination to let their magical corner of Brooklyn go. So they negotiated a little more money and shot three extra days, returning six months later for another three. Film finished. Given its ramshackle assembly, the cast list is enough to shame many a big-buck production.

The first five minutes boast a terrific cameo -- and a brilliant short story -- featuring impossibly tall Oscar winner Mira Sorvino as the victim of a youthful bag-snatcher. It sets the tone for what follows. Rolling through the doors (or staying just outside) come the likes of Giancarlo Esposito, Keith David, Ru Paul, Roseanne, Michael J. Fox, and a dragged-up Lily Tomlin. Roseanne does nothing you wouldn't expect, coasting on her fucking swearing, while David plays his five minutes (as a ghost) without once turning to camera. Fox is the surprise, his nervous, unsettling pollster -- penis size and bowel movements -- is the five minute highlight of a nondescript career.

Cleverly, Wang and Auster don't throw everyone away in a single cheap shot. Identifying singer Lou Reed and indie king Jim Jarmusch as potential left-field stars, both are allowed to ramble their outstanding monologues throughout the picture. Reed, sporting the most extraordinary poodle-shag of his career, drolly explains why he loves New York and his plans for a flip-top spectacle store called, inevitably, Lou's Views. Jarmusch, topped-off by that characteristic fag-ash coiffure, is there to burn his last butt. With Keitel in tow he expounds on his reasons for starting in the first place, and his thoughts on film-making (why do actors always toss expensive guns when they're empty?) Jarmusch has always been something of the garrulous charmer, but Reed's rarely seen self-deprecating wit is a revelation. Actor/musician John Lurie pops up again and again lazily honking horn with his trio.

If Smoke looked barely directed, Blue is ever more leisurely. The resolutely static camera is anchored either inside the store or on the pavement outside. Scenes that take place elsewhere account for no more than five of its brief 89 minutes. People drift into frame, perform and leave. It relies on sheer force of delivery and succeeds like a dream. Only Madonna's singing telegram is appalling. Cut into the action, such as it is, are videotaped interviews with real Brooklyn residents.

Blue may lack the dramatic depth and emotional undertow of its sensible older brother, but from just six days work no one is expecting miracles. It knows what it can do and sets about doing it in a warm, unforced, and, above all, very funny way. A double bill with Smoke would be nigh on irresistible.