Some of the most distinctive American films of recent years -- ''Pulp Fiction,'' ''The People vs. Larry Flynt,'' ''L.A. Confidential'' and now this one -- have invoked a sleaze-soaked Southern California as an evilly alluring nexus of decadence and pop culture. ''Boogie Nights'' further ratchets up the raunchiness by taking porn movies and drug problems entirely for granted, and by fondly embracing a collection of characters who do the same.

The film's unofficial family group is immersed in exploitation movies, which becomes the same collective eccentricity that country music was for ''Nashville.'' Mr. Anderson, who begins his film spectacularly with a version of the great Copacabana shot from ''Goodfellas,'' has no qualms about borrowing from the best.

As the camera roams with incredible agility through a disco in the San Fernando Valley (in a long, bravura shot that Mr. Anderson apparently rehearsed and filmed in a single night), the movie introduces all of its major characters with thrilling ease. The godfather of this motley group is Jack Horner, porn auteur. (''Before you turn around you've spent maybe 20, 25, 30 thousand dollars on a movie!'') Burt Reynolds rises to this occasion by giving his best and most suavely funny performance in many years. Like Jerry Lewis in ''The King of Comedy,'' he gives the role an extra edge by playing a swaggering, self-important figure very close to the bone.

In the disco on that first night, Jack's eyes alight on a busboy named Eddie, whom he pronounces ''a 17-year-old piece of gold.'' Eddie, who has already learned to peddle himself to $10 customers, will soon become Jack's new star, thanks to his exceptional anatomy, about which he says, ''Everyone's blessed with one special thing.''

The movie's special gift happens to be Mark Wahlberg, who gives a terrifically appealing performance in this tricky role. Mr. Wahlberg must do many things here: attract all the film's other characters, rise credibly from naive kid to arrogant cokehead, behave as if he thinks Dirk Diggler (Eddie's nom de porn) is a really grand name. He does all this with captivating ingenuousness and not a single false move.

Eddie's room in his parents' unhappy home is covered with posters: bathing beauties, sports cars, martial arts, all the elements of his particular American dream. The movie's first hour watches him attain all this during the course of a hot, meteoric rise. Mr. Anderson has great fun with the mundaneness of his porn filmmakers, who remain unflappable almost all of the time, except for when they first see Eddie take off his pants.

''Boogie Nights'' doesn't depict much nudity or sex (except during a lengthy sequence showing Eddie's first movie scene), but does make its point with sly, expert reaction shots of crew members watching Eddie, um, act. Among his colleagues: Julianne Moore, wonderful as the vaguely lost soul whom Jack has transformed into a porn queen (her studiously bad acting in movie-making scenes is perfect); Don Cheadle as the aspiring cowboy who is much too nice for porn stardom; William H. Macy, in a wig borrowed from the Partridge Family, as the crew member whose wife enjoys embarrassing him most unmistakably; Philip Seymour Hoffman as Eddie's most ardent admirer; Robert Ridgely as the shady financier who, like Jack Horner, is so discreetly excited by young talent; Ricky Jay as the unflappable cameraman, and John C. Reilly as Eddie's main sidekick in this wild new world.

Mr. Reilly had a major role in ''Hard Eight,'' the 27-year-old director's only previous feature, which was slow and stagy in ways that gave no inkling of this. The film, which begins in 1977 (just in time for a dancing ''Saturday Night Fever'' homage), casually incorporates such milestones as Dirk Diggler's virtual baptism in a hot tub and the New Year's Eve gunfire that ends the 1970's with a bang. Then it's downhill, as video changes the porn world, and drugs transform its stars.

On the night when Eddie literally runs out of gas, Alfred Molina embodies total drug insanity as a rich, out-of-control freebaser who is the target of a robbery attempt. His terrifying meltdown announces once and for all, in a movie full of show-stopping party sequences, that the party's over.

Yet the film's many intimations of how badly this bubble will burst, in a story drawn loosely from the career of the porn star John Holmes, never really coalesce. And since Mr. Anderson shows no interest in passing judgment on his characters, the film's extravagant 2-hour 32-minute length amounts to a slight tactical mistake. ''Boogie Nights'' has no trouble holding interest; far from it. But the length promises larger ideas than the film finally delivers.

Unlike ''Nashville,'' this crowded, entertaining ensemble film doesn't aspire to any epiphany. Mr. Anderson just sees a lot of good stories in this particular naked city, and he wants to tell them, with enormous flair.

So ''Boogie Nights'' invests much attention in enjoyable surface details: a Greek chorus of a jukebox (''Oh what a lonely boy!'' sings a pop song when the son of Ms. Moore's character can't reach his mother at a party), witty film parodies, perfect period ephemera and flashy costumes that are an evil treat. Mr. Anderson also has a fine ear for dialogue, especially at such absurd moments as when Eddie compares himself to Napoleon ''in the Roman Empire'' or when two coked-up porn actresses madly extol the joys of taking a pottery class. Madness it was. And now it is madly well preserved, forever after.

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