For the follow-up to her 1998 indie hit High Art, Lisa Cholodenko delves once again into the world of hipster artists, with all the accompanying ego, self-involvement, and drama. In Laurel Canyon, outsiders/innocents are drawn to the artists’ milieu like moths to a flame. But whereas the central characters of High Art were heroin addicts, Laurel Canyon is an engaging, entertaining glimpse into the lives of musicians nestled in the title enclave in the Hollywood Hills.

Cholodenko builds her ensemble piece around a pair of buttoned-down Harvard Medical School grads, Sam (Christian Bale) and fiancée Alex (Kate Beckinsale), who arrive in LA from Cambridge so Sam can begin a residency at a mental hospital. They plan to stay at Sam’s mother’s vacant Laurel Canyon home, where Alex will complete her doctoral dissertation on the reproductive habits of fruit flies. When they arrive, the chainsmoking, straight-talking, hippie Jane (Frances McDormand) informs them she’ll be sticking around; she’s producing an album by the alterna-rockers who are also holed up in the house.

It’s at this moment that Laurel Canyon finds its groove. McDormand brings such spark to her characterization of Jane that in many ways she’s better than the film itself, but that’s a minor quibble when a character is this sexy and lively. Cholodenko draws her parallels a bit schematically: Jane is the sexually adventurous, free-spirited record producer with scads of integrity, a cross between Joni Mitchell and Chrissie Hynde, whereas Alex and Sam are uptight, bookish, and sheltered. As soon as they settle in, the couple begin to drift apart, though they’re too self-controlled even to talk about why. They gravitate toward the seductive web of Jane’s world out of their hunger for impulsiveness rather than from any calculation on her part; she’s much too focused on her own life to worry about their needs.

The mother-son dynamic doesn’t shy from its underlying sexual tension — after all, Sam can recite to Jane her litany of lovers, and presently mom is sleeping with band frontman Ian (Alessandro Nivola), who’s roughly the same age as her son. But Cholodenko presents their relationship with complexity and with sympathy for both sides: Jane had her shortcomings as a mother; Sam’s rebellion into conservatism and judgment is cloaked in self-pity and a dash of sexism. Eminem and Kim Basinger may square off in 8 Mile, but few other films have had the courage to examine the uneasiness some sons have about the erotic lives of their mothers.

While Sam is working at the hospital, Alex takes a break from her research to cavort in the pool with Jane and Ian and smoke a bit of weed in the in-house recording studio when the band struggle to finish their overdue CD. Meanwhile, in a somewhat contrived parallel, Sam is smitten by a comely fellow resident (Natascha McElhone, indulging Cholodenko’s apparent thing for accents by sporting an Israeli one), and they begin a flirtation. Sexual tension is everywhere, and the director uses it not for mere titillation — though McDormand and Beckinsale making out in the steamy pool more than qualifies — but to underscore the idea that art, and artists, fill deep voids in the world — and they’re just fun to be around. Cholodenko doesn’t explore the dark and dangerous side of indulgence and life on the edge, as she did in High Art. Laurel Canyon is far more joyous in its depiction of intimacy and the creative process.

At times the film is even reminiscent of Allison Anders’s little-seen but likable Sugar Town, which also was set in the LA rock world. The writing, as it was in High Art, is smart, tart, and humorous. The Brit-flavored alterna-rock soundtrack is winning and authentic (two tracks were provided by Sparklehorse); Ian’s band is made up of real musicians, and Nivola himself ably sings on camera. Laurel Canyon itself feels musical: languid, rich in color and light, and deliciously sensual.