On the surface “Fading Gigolo” doesn’t sound particularly promising. After all, it’s about a failed book dealer recruiting his friend, a part-time florist, to become a lover-for-hire to needy women. The possibilities of what might develop from such a premise are pretty horrendous. But contrary to expectations, the film turns out to be a sensitive, often touching yet funny fable about people searching for connection in lives that have grown increasingly solitary and unsatisfying.

Part of the reason for its success is the setting—an area of New York City with a very Woody Allen ambience. That’s hardly a surprise, since Allen offered suggestions about the script to John Turturro, who actually wrote the screenplay, and also plays Murray Schwartz, the rare book seller who’s forced to close his shop after many years in the trade. In a casual conversation with Fioravante (Turturro), who’s known Schwartz since his boyhood, Murray remarks that Dr. Parker (Sharon Stone), his wealthy dermatologist, had mentioned her interest in a three-way involving her, a female friend (Sofia Vergara), and a man other than her husband, and he suggests that Fioravante might be a perfect choice for the job. Initially Fioravante is taken aback at the idea, of course, but eventually agrees; and his quiet, solicitous demeanor proves a distinct change for Parker, who’s apparently accustomed to something brasher and more mechanical.

Thus is a business partnership born, and Murray, fussing over the monetary needs of his family, identifies another possible client in Avigal (Vanessa Paradis), the beautiful young widow of a Hasidic rabbi and the mother to six children. Murray senses her loneliness during an appointment to have his kids de-loused, and arranges a session for her with Fioravante that consists of nothing more than a back massage but reawakens in the fragile woman, controlled by the constraints imposed on her by the highly regimented community to which she belongs, a longing for human contact. And Fioravante finds himself moved by her as well.

Avigal’s uncharacteristic trips beyond the neighborhood catch the eye of Dovi (Live Schreiber), a neighborhood-watch officer who’s clearly enamored of her but unable to express his feelings. His investigation of what’s going on eventually results in Murray’s being hauled before a Hasidic court where he and his amiable lawyer (Bob Balaban) find themselves questioned by a trio of stern elders. The outcome is not what one might expect.

Turturro and Allen prove a nifty couple here, with the latter generating chuckles if not belly laughs with his usual snappy patter and nervous delivery, while the former—hardly a matinee-idol type—exudes a tender, gentle side that one can actually believe women find attractive. (Fioravante’s way with women is further demonstrated by his affable relationship—outside the escort orbit—with a lovely Tunisian singer played by M’Barka Ben Taleb. Meanwhile Paradis brings a soulful quality to Avigal and Stone a pragmatic edge to Parker. Schreiber, meanwhile, makes Dovi convincingly bewildered, and Balaban contributes a delicious cameo as Schwartz’s lawyer. The supporting cast is filled with memorable types, with David Margulies, Abe Altman and Sol Frieder standouts as the ancient rabbis in the courtroom sequence.

The picture is technically proficient, with lenser Marco Pontecorvo making fine use of the New York locations and the interiors realized by production designer Lester Cohen, art director Sarah Frank and set decorator Sheila Bock. Simona Paggi’s editing lets the story unfold in a leisurely fashion, even when Allen is stammering, and the score by Abraham Laboriel and Bill Maxwell mixes nicely with the pop tunes selected by music supervisor Chris Robertson.

With its potentially unsavory premise and mixture of comic and dramatic overtones, “Fading Gigolo” is a cinematic high-wire act that constantly threatens to slip into tastelessness but manages to keep its footing, emerging as amusing and even moving.

An abysmal horror movie that apparently wants to evoke the spirit of paranormal thrillers of the sixties (like “The Haunting”) but quickly degenerates into a chaotic mishmash of modern genre tropes, “The Quiet Ones” ends up an unholy mess. It’s particularly depressing as the second offering from the rejuvenated Hammer banner, following their far more successful Daniel Radcliffe vehicle, “The Woman in Black.”

Set in the 1970s and based—very loosely, as it turns out—on what an introductory blurb calls a real incident, it tells of Joseph Coupland (Jared Harris), an oddball Oxford don who’s a specialist in paranormal psychology and takes a trio of students—mini-skirted Krissi (Erin Richards), her gregarious boyfriend Harry (Rory Fleck-Byrne) and sober-serious Brian (Sam Claflin—to an isolated estate to help in an experiment involving Jane Harper (Olivia Cooke), a deeply troubled young woman whom he’s apparently rescued from an asylum. A committed scientist, his goal is to explain in rational terms a condition that many might ascribe to some sort of demonic possession (in particular by a force personified in her darker side, a figure called Evey). He intends to prove that Jane’s malady has been fabricated by her own mind from her life experience, and can be cured; and if he succeeds with one, he can succeed with all.

Coupland’s methods are indeed strange ones, involving locking poor Jane in a room and using various means—none of them particularly gentle—to get her to remember the past so that the symptoms of her illness (like setting things afire or smashing up rooms by psychic force) can be eradicated. Krissi and Harry support him in all this with only occasional reservations, while Brian—a studious, quiet fellow who was just added to the team to film all the details of the experiment—quickly becomes solicitous of Jane and harbors concerns about what Coupland is putting her through. Eventually he also goes off by himself and, in a single afternoon at the library, uncovers information about the girl’s past, including links to an ancient cult, that apparently fell outside the learned professor’s ken. The final reels bring lots of commotion, including fights and, of course, a few deaths.

This narrative—haphazard and ragged as it is, as scripted by Craig Rosenberg, Oren Moverman and John Pogue—is told by Pogue (also serving as director) utilizing all the modern clichés of the genre. The fact that Brian is recording all the phenomena allows for the use of the hackneyed “found footage” technique, with its herky-jerky hand-held camerawork (courtesy of cinematographer Matyas Erdely) an faux-sloppy editing (by Glenn Garland). And that’s punctuated with excerpts from older, black-and white footage showcasing an earlier case of a boy who suffered from symptoms similar to Jane’s—the relevance of which is held in “suspense” until a none-too-surprising revelation of the lad’s identity near the close.

And contrary to the title, the picture is hardly a quiet affair; apart from Jane’s shrieks and screams, which occur with remarkable regularity, the running-time is replete with the usual assortment of unworldly thumps and crashes. When one adds to the loud music that for some reason frequently fills the soundtrack (not merely Lucas Vidal’s music but some period standards), the result is a terrible racket.

The performances are no better than the material deserves. Harris contributes his customary highly affected turn, coming off as the campy mad scientist. (I guess it’s thought typically seventies that he smokes like a chimney.) Richard flounces about like someone escaped from the Swinging London scene, while Fleck-Byrne plays Harry as a goofy prankster in immediate need of a good thrashing. Cooke swings ably enough from a haunted, stricken look to wide-eyed hysteria. Claflin who’s being promoted as a prospective leading man in the business, is stiff as a board here. Admittedly the drab, dull Brian isn’t a character that w

Though it’s a loud movie, “The Quiet Ones” is in one respect aptly titled. Unlike “The Woman in Black,” it will make no noise at the boxoffice, and will quickly sink into silence.