For a shamelessly small, sentimental project like this, the formulaic plot itself is as comfortable as one of Fred Astaire's worn-out tap shoes; you're relieved not to be asked to swallow anything more ludicrous than usual. Latin pop star Chayanne plays Raphael, a mechanic who leaves Cuba to find his father in Houston. Pops turns out to be Kris Kristofferson (in a non-dancing role, mercifully), who runs a dance studio full of colorful characters: Joan Plowright as an aging flirt, Jane Krakowski as a ballet-trained freestylist, Beth Grant as an acid-tongued receptionist. For romance, there's Vanessa L. Williams as Ruby, a professional dancer and teacher who's determined to win the Latin dancing title at the upcoming Las Vegas championships, even if it means partnering with her jerky ex and forfeiting all the joy of dancing. Of course, it's Raphael's job to teach her that real dancing comes from "feeling the music" rather than doing steps.

There are no unexpected plot twists here, but there never were in an Astaire-Rogers picture, either. At their worst the non-dancing scenes are amiable, short, and not taken too seriously; at their best they convey a simple delight in the fact that, in the movies, the person you're meant to love is always right under your nose. And the dance sequences, which are frequent and varied, occasionally induce goosebumps. A set-to on a salsa-club dance floor, with partners passed around and sudden group steps emerging out of thin air, is the most original dance sequence I've seen in years. In sharp contrast, but just as effective, is the final rhumba in the championships, a vivid, theatrical, melodramatic three minutes of film that Haines shoots in tight close-ups of Williams' pained face.