Hey folks, Harry here with Mr Beaks taking the foggy lensed glasses off to examine THE CENTER OF THE WORLD for what it is... A film... And the dear Mr Beaks found the flick to be lacking in the starch. Apparently the flick didn't will his willy, failed to reach Captain Standish, the film did not cause a distension of the phallus, or create a concomitant of desire... Mr Beaks indeed failed to have an Irish Toothache a bit during this flick and he claims he has no sick dick... So is the film lacking what the website has a whiff of? Well, read and see...
Hey guys,
While I'm pleased by Artisan's decision to release Wayne Wang's THE CENTER OF THE WORLD unrated, as they did with REQUIEM FOR A DREAM, I'd much rather they do likewise with BATTLE ROYALE. They seem the obvious choice to rescue Fukasaku's controversial flick, now that Lion's Gate has plucked the troubled O from the Miramax.
Oh, how I long for the days of the New York City grindhouses, where BATTLE ROYALE would be double-billed with THE CHILDREN (that 1980 classic about adolescents turned into radioactive zombies w/ toxic arms) as DIE, SCHOOLCHILDREN, DIE!
Enough of my reverie! Here's the review.....
THE CENTER OF THE WORLD (d. Wayne Wang, w. Ellen Benjamin Wong)
Wayne Wang's THE CENTER OF THE WORLD tells the story of Richard (Peter Sarsgaard,) a newly-minted Internet millionaire, who meets Florence (Molly Parker,) a pretty musician/stripper, in a local cafe, quickly becomes enamored of her after many lap dances at her place of employment, and proposes that she join him for a three-day getaway in Las Vegas. She declines. He offers her $10,000 for her time. She agrees, but only after insisting on the following conditions: 1) No kissing on the mouth, 2) No talk about feelings, 3) No penetration.
While some have made obvious, cursory comparisons to LAST TANGO IN PARIS (and like the 1973 Brando & Butter opus, this project was bestowed with today's "X" equivalent, the dreaded NC-17, and is now being distributed sans rating,) Wang's film is thoroughly American in its business-like approach to sex, and its examination of the potential ill-effects of physical and emotional isolation in the connected age. In fact, the title refers to Richard's description of how he feels when ensconced in his home office; a techno-cocoon where he is surrounded by three flat-screen monitors constantly inundating him with today's holy trinity of online content: stock quotes, "Doom"-inspired gaming, and porn. While the first two are generally self-contained in their fulfillment, it is inevitable that Richard must venture out to seek the satiation of his sexual appetite, which leads to his pursuit of Florence, who sees little harm in acquiescing to this gentle, boyish naif.
Once the couple reach Las Vegas, it is agreed that Florence will have her own room, and will only be Richard's from 10PM until 2AM. The film works best as Wang slyly builds up to their first encounter, cutting between Richard -- waiting somewhat impatiently with a drink, chair positioned in front of the door leading to Florence's room -- and Florence meticulously applying her make-up. For the first night, they adhere strictly to the rules, which results in some Cinemax-ready action. Richard, timid at first, finally gives in to the kink, and imparts a deep-seated fantasy to Florence that, surprisingly, has a Chinese terminology (it's called "Fire and Ice," and it involves a strategically placed ice cube and a mouthful of tabasco sauce.)
The trouble starts, however, when the pair spend the second day together, visiting an old friend of Florence's (Carla Gugino) and unwinding with a little ganja. This leads to a casting off of inhibitions, and when they return to the hotel, the first of Florence's conditions is violated, causing both to confront the possibility that they have developed a genuine affection for one another.
Wang and collaborator Paul Auster (part of a cadre of writers working under the nom de plume Ellen Benjamin Wong) have set Richard up for a big emotional collapse. While it's unclear whether sex is all that is on his mind, and it's entirely possible that Richard, who we learn early on has been sexually dormant for a full two years, is stumbling blindly into this relationship for the sole promise of a brief, intimate relationship with another human being, it's patently obvious that the emotional ramifications of this adventure are well beyond his grasp, and, as the film begins to deal with this knotty issue, the complications prove too much for the filmmakers, as well (just as in Bertolucci's LAST TANGO... and Spike Lee's SHE'S GOTTA HAVE IT, sexual frustration, born of the protagonist's fear of inadequacy, leads to rape.) This is a shame, since both leads turn in fine work, particularly Parker, whose transformation from the awkward, death-obsessed teenager of KISSED to the sexually empowered Florence marks her as an actress on the verge of a breakthrough performance, while Sarsgaard's about-face from the vicious redneck of BOYS DON'T CRY to the sweet, soft-spoken Richard is also startling.
In the end, though, the film's biggest flaw is its failure to generate any sexual heat. What with Artisan's much-ballyhooed, too-hot-for-The-New-York-Times ad campaign and the ratings scrape with the puritanical MPAA, the lack of any erotic daring is surprising. The film skirts with danger only once when Gugino, frantic and bruised from a run-in with an obsessive boyfriend, who, not so coincidentally, sounds a lot like Richard, shows up at the hotel, and, despite her horrifically fresh wounds, tries to initiate a menage-a-trois. It's a truly uncomfortable moment in a film that could've benefited from more.
Ultimately, for film so ready to provoke and arouse THE CENTER OF THE WORLD is strictly missionary.
MR. BEAKS bidding you folks adieu
