The Center of the World thereafter aspires to existential porn: surveillance-video image, stupefied actors, broken-limbed plotting, an overall air of grasping improvisation. Developed from a story whose collaborators include novelist Paul Auster and avant-garde filmmaker Miranda July, the movie is oddly squeamish, and not simply because of its mistress's prohibitions—Florence allows no penetration, no "talking about feelings," and (an all-American Pretty Woman touch) no kissing on the mouth. The camerawork is skittish and, more often than not, safely above the shoulders. When Florence asks Richard his ultimate fantasy, he whispers it inaudibly in her ear. And the narrative rears away from its only promising theme—how money distorts love—when Richard goes bonkers, a twist that's abrupt, implausible, and wholly temporary. Even a standard-issue menstrual mishap is faked and pre-arranged; the film is hysterical but inorganic, lacking blood, sweat, or tears. Wang doesn't pony up any cheap titillation, but he can't approximate rough-hewn quotidian fumbling either. Any adult video worth its salt should offer both.

Neither can be found in The Girl, Sande Zeig's Eurotrash noir tracking a butch Parisian cutie, called The Painter, and her problematic infatuation with a mercurial cabaret sexpot, called The Girl. Endless, tongueless hotel-room make-out sessions alternate with The Painter's ruminative strolls along the Seine and jealous intervention by cackling nightclub thugs. Agathe de la Boulaye, as The Painter, gives off an appealing air of good-natured amusement, which is appropriate given her surroundings. Christopher Walken could walk in from the Saturday Night Live "Continental" skit and feel right at home.