Ballroom dance as life-revitalizing taboo made sense in the original Japanese version of ‘‘Shall We Dance?’’ (1996), but now that director Peter Chelsom has moved the story stateside — where a man kicking up his heels is less likely to earn disapproving clucks — does the conceit hold up?

Well enough, as it turns out. Sure, ‘‘Shall We Dance?’’ has moments that are nauseatingly precious — watching Richard Gere twirl himself across a train platform, you can almost feel your blood-sugar levels spike — but it also has an infectious romantic bounce that carries you through the sticky spots. Just clean your shoes afterward.

Gere (‘‘Unfaithful’’) achieves a nice synthesis of weary midlife longing as John Clark, a happily married white- collar commuter who is nonetheless deeply unhappy. Captivated by a beautiful Latin woman (Jennifer Lopez) he glimpses standing in the window of a Chicago dance studio, Clark decides that dance, by gum, is for him. Somewhat guiltily, he keeps his new hobby secret from his wife (Susan Sarandon).

Lopez (‘‘Maid in Manhattan’’) says a total of about 10 words during the first 45 minutes of ‘‘Shall We Dance?’’ and it is, as fate would have it, her most deliciously tolerable performance. Damaged emotionally by an ex-lover, Lopez spends much of the movie bound in silent suffering, bathed in dramatic neon hues that frame her high-boned Latin profile just so.
She's a sad-eyed dance robot and Clark is smitten.

At first, it appears that ‘‘Shall We Dance?’’ is setting itself up as a tale of adulterous temptation, but Chelsom (‘‘Serendipity’’) — directing from Masayuki Suo's original screenplay — changes course before things get too hairy. Ultimately, Clark isn't moved by sex, but by the unfettered youthful joy of making friends and trying new things. He glides, he dips, he bonds with his classmates, including butchy, girl-crazy Chic (Bobby Cannavale from ‘‘The Station Agent’’) and shy, overweight Vern (Omar Benson Miller).

Ballroom dance might not be taboo in ‘‘Shall We Dance?’’ but that distinction still applies to overtly gay characters, apparently. Character actor deluxe Stanley Tucci (‘‘Big Night’’) gives the year's loopiest performance as Clark's co-worker, a closeted dance-lover who bills himself as the world's only sequin- wearing heterosexual. He keeps making the point: heterosexual, heterosexual, heterosexual. As if wearing sequins weren't a greater offense.

Which leaves one question: Why does Clark refuse to come clean with his wife about his dance habits, especially when there's no affair involved?

The answer is both plausible and distinctly American, something to do with manufacturing glitches in the suburban dream. So instead of having an affair, Clark learns the two-step and discovers the romance of fidelity anew.