The premise of The Muse sounds familiar--a semi-successful writer loses his gift and a mysterious beautiful woman must inspire him again. Writer Tom Stoppard brought a similar script to Harvey Weinstein--and it turned into a Academy-Award winner.

But the effort from super hyphenate Albert Brooks replaces the Elizabethan romance of Shakespeare in Love with Hollywood neurosis, as he provides a smart comedy for modern times.

Brooks plays Steven Phillips, a middle-aged screenwriter with a lovely wife Laura (Andie MacDowell), two adorable daughters, a nice house and a career that's suddenly in jeopardy, despite his recent acquisition of a "Humanitarian Award".

When his young hot shot producer decides he wants someone with more of an edge, Steven is left defending his life's work to no avail. When Lorenzo Llamas is getting greenlighted ahead of him, it's time for a crisis.

Enter buddy Jack (Jeff Bridges), who's recently acquired the industry's top hardware. Jack has avoided the over-the-hill label, so Steven goes to his friend for a little "hang-in-there" reassuring. Jack instead reluctantly offers his trade secret--he has kept his juices flowing by investing in the services of a mythical muse named Sarah (Sharon Stone).

Steven's desperation forces to him give Sarah Athenaesque respect as his creative consultant. Stone, who isn't always appealing as upscale seductress woman, shines here as an asexual pampered demi-goddess--easily her best performance since Casino.

As he's on Sarah's beck and call and has little to show for it on paper, Steven becomes the classic loveable loser who you root for to keep losing--as constant misery loves comedy.

Brooks is a riot when Steven feels his muse is being abused. Sarah pals up with Laura, and the next great cookie batter gets more attention than his blockbuster plot in an aquarium. It drives him crazy to see the likes of Martin Scorsese, James Cameron and Rob Reiner draining the muse's juices.

Steven and Laura go to great lengths to keep "their" muse in check, as not to offend Sarah and draw a irrevocable curse from the gods. The wacky chain of events sustains itself in the subtle humor found in Brooks' vintage dialogue.

The irony of this motion-picture sendoff is, classy veteran writers like Brooks, Stoppard and Steve Martin--go see that other summer '99 movie about movies, Bowfinger--are hip and hot properties again in critcially-acclaimed Tinseltown, appealing to the intelligent twentysomething demographic. Their experienced knack for storytelling is a refreshing alternative to the action-suspense "up-and-coming" scribes like confusesmith David Koepp (Mission: Impossible to Understand) and punmeister Akiva Goldsman (Batman Forever Destroyed).

Brooks' latest reminder of his talent seems half-biographical about script-selling and half a slap in the face to big-budget studios that reward rookie writers for penning FX vehicles. It's clear that no entertainment exec is going to tell Brooks that he's lost his edge anytime soon.