By Michael Atkinson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Ernest Hardy
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Calum Marsh
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Chris Packham
Presently sitting in a very peaceful meditational facility. First time here. The location (which shall remain unnamed so as to maintain nondenominational vibe) was selected specifically for the loving creation of this review, as it provides an almost perfect contrast to The Center of the World, the new motion picture from acclaimed director Wayne Wang (The Joy Luck Club, Smoke). As scents of lavender and lilac waft past and hummingbirds hover, we'll assess the way people use, abuse, and trash one another sexually and emotionally. Cool?
From a story concocted by Wang, precocious filmmaker-performance artist Miranda July, novelist Paul Auster (who penned Smoke), and novelist Siri Hustvedt, Center's screenplay was written by Ellen Benjamin Wong. With this many cooks in the kitchen, one might expect a deceptively simple stew, filled with subtle nuances and mysterious spices. For better or worse, however, the movie is simply simple, and from its stripped-down production (shot on digi-Beta and mini DV, blown up to 35 mm) to its tiny cast (accented by cameos from Pat Morita and Balthazar Getty), the project's quality and significance depend upon one's perspective: Is this a daring and impressive homespun yarn or just a very middling stab at soft-core porn?
To sidestep these technical considerations, Wang dives in whole hog to produce the most lurid and frequently obnoxious sex drama seen in quite some time. Taking place mostly in Las Vegas (which the movie likens -- along with "the cunt" -- to the center of the world... though that desert town seems more closely related to a somewhat less noble orifice), it's the story of two lost, confused youngsters who try to employ and deny, respectively, the magic of sex to find meaning in their lives. Richard (Peter Sarsgaard of Boys Don't Cry) is a programming whiz with an IPO about to go through the roof and the world at his fingertips. The problem is that his hermetically sealed world lacks human contact.
Rather than seeking oneness with the universe among a bunch of glassy-eyed peaceniks (and there goes a herd of them right now, by the way), Richard instead opts to hit on the punkish Florence (Molly Parker of Sunshine), whom he meets in an urban coffee shop. When he quizzes her about what she does with her life, her response ("I make a lot of noise") seems intriguing but unsatisfactory. Yes, she may be a drummer in a band going nowhere, but how does she make her money? It turns out she's a stripper with a thing for lollipops who works a joint called Pandora's Box, and Richard, fully smitten, just can't wait to take off the lid.
That lid, it turns out, costs $10,000 -- a far cry from Florence's dubious lap-dance fee of $60 a throw -- but for this sum upfront, Richard convinces her to join him for a long weekend in Vegas. There, amid the Brooklyn Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, and the canals of Venice, he must adhere to certain terms, including "no talking about feelings, no kissing on the mouth, and no penetration." Thereafter most of the movie takes place in Nevada's hot sun and hotter nights as Florence provides nightly entertainment and Richard struggles with her rules. But of course we all know why rules are made.
Parker, a Canadian actress of great versatility (proved recently in Wonderland, Waking the Dead, and The Five Senses), gives what seems to be her all to bring Florence to life, and let's just say that conventional boundaries aren't much of a hang-up for the actress. Maybe, after doing Lynn Stopkewich's Kissed (in which she makes love to corpses -- a notion that would make most of the folks around here burst into tears of despair), she just passed the line where conventional decorum means anything. Here, despite the character's exorbitant rate for "friendship," the actress seems determined to lay down everything as cheaply as possible. Her challenge to herself, one might assume, is to keep a human face on this whirlwind of rage and lust.
Sarsgaard proves to be a helpful foil -- most of the time -- and his overwhelming desire for her feels real, looks real. Perhaps because Richard is a Midwesterner who recently lost his father yet beams with pride about his tight family, the actor strives to exude the superhuman beneficence of a bodhisattva, basically being too nice for his own good. Hidden beneath it, of course, is a smoldering vat of anger, which he tries his best to channel into his Quake video game. (Wang has apparently moved on from the subtler metaphors of mahjong.) It's only when that cup runs over, when Richard turns into a vulgar mouth-breather overcome by his own arrogance, that everything sags. Wang frames Sarsgaard's dirty talk in one long, obscene closeup that's meant to be gripping but comes across as knee-slappingly hilarious; you just want him to shut up and blow his nose already.
If this crew set out to top Last Tango in Paris, 9 1/2 Weeks, or especially Elisabeth Shue's unpleasant biological experiences in Leaving Las Vegas (a title with undeniable appeal about midway through this project), they may congratulate themselves most heartily. (A woman of perhaps 70 years, upon exiting our screening, was heard to say, "I wish I'd known some of those tricks about 50 years ago!") The Center of the World often seems silly in its attempts to push the envelope, but push it this film does, verbally as well as graphically. Some of its most powerful scenes involve Florence's pained, disoriented friend Jerri (Carla Gugino), whose exultant attitude toward sodomy and threesomes is almost impossible to shake.
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