What's alluring is the way the characters played by John Livingston and Sabrina Lloyd savor each other, in between their troubles. Movies are too quick to interrupt romance with sex. Sarah and Rand fascinate us with their dance of dread and desire.

Would that we could extract the essence of this utterly enjoyable film and distill its creativity, intelligence and originality into a serum which we could then inject into all the tapped-out Hollywood screenwriters and directors out there.

A lot of bigger movies won't provoke you half as much.

That rare thing, an American romantic film that's not a comedy and that's more about love than sex.

Overcomes some forced artiness to be a sweet, smart romance without being saccharine.

Shakespeare asked, "Or in the heart, or in the head?" It's not a new question by any means, but it's one that is given a fresh and refreshing adult twist by Decena's heady yet steady-handed Dopamine.

Nothing happens as you might expect it to, but the Pinocchio ending is definitely out.

The moody, distinctively San Franciscan Dopamine has other charming little touches -- its humor, its characters, its city life -- that make you want the film to succeed. It doesn't entirely; it's more likable than it is good.

Dopamine could do with a bit more of whatever hormone governs pacing, but Mr. Decena is a director with a future. He knows how to connect with his actors.

An uncommonly smart and bittersweet romantic comedy.

There's no disguising the fact that, beneath all its talk, this is a very traditional, very predictable romance; it's sorely in need of some comic relief; and, if you're a non-smoker, you will get very tired of its heroine blowing smoke in your face.

A melancholy romance that has the distinction of being the first film set among San Francisco dotcommers that knows it's about the end of the boom.

A dweeby and unenchanting concoction as romantic comedies go, Mark Decena's debut feature also juggles enough storylines to fill five or six movies in barely 80 minutes of screen time, ending up with a whole distinctly less than the sum of its parts.

The premise (does modern neurochemistry debunk love?) is fresh enough, but too much would-be banter falls flat, and the story is woefully schematic.