Chalk this one up as the Last Tango in Las Vegas. The rather crass definition of the title refers to a female's private parts, and it doesn't pick up much from there. Silicon Valley übernerd Peter Sarsgaard pays a goth-crunchy stripper (the alluring Molly Parker) 10 grand to accompany him on an erotic Las Vegas weekend. But there are rules: no kissing, no penetration and no emotions--which doesn't leave for much except a lot of heavy petting and some risqu&3233; role playing.
The point of the film? Money can't buy you love? We still don't really know. But we do know that Vegas has never looked so flaccid on celluloid. And while the actors do a fine job with their two-dimensional, soft-core roles, it's unsettling to see Wayne Wang (the cerebral director of The Joy Luck Club and Smoke) do this Pretty Woman redux as if it was a depraved, carnal fantasy. What a bust.
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