I knew I wanted to eventually see Shame, the second directorial effort from visual artist Steve Mcqueen about the eponymous emotional consequences of sexual addiction, it just took a bit of self-convincing. I set my jaw, bought the ticket, entered a half full theater comprised completely of middle aged/elderly couples, and immediately rethought the whole thing. I knew what I was getting into, I couldn’t say the same for them.
And what I got into was pretty much as expected: that old trope of a man dealing with sex addiction when his crazy (with a capital CRAY) sister forces herself on his life, giving us an understanding of where his problem comes from, and everything spirals down.
The concept of this movie remains interesting to me. Many, myself included, regard sexual addiction with a certain skepticism. Obviously, one has the immediate tendency to write off self proclaimed sex addicts as annoying douches. Since hearing about this movie, however, I have thought a lot about it and found myself understanding the devestation such an affliction could wreck on a person’s life. It seemed to me the cinematic trouble was that, as with most emotional disorders, the drama largely plays out internally while externally it’s just boobs and fun. And that gets to the strength of this movie, through suberb acting by both Michael Fassbender and Carey Mulligan, Mcqueen truly captures the hollowed out despair that lies inside the character of Brandon as he destroys himself with pleasure. I have to give credit, because juxtaposing the pain and pleasure while still creating a sense of a real character was acheived to a moving degree. Not only that, but I sympathized for him. I saw what made him tick and looked down the dark tunnel of his life. Ultimately, this proved a satisfying movie. And I refuse to make any innuendos.
It did have many flaws. As said, Mcqueen truly wanted to peer inside this person, to really inhabit the sensual trials and frustrations. At times, he went in too deep. Again, there will be no innuendos. While not exactly navel-gazing, the movie had the tendency to revel in itself.
Here:
Near the middle of the movie, Michael Fassbender stands over a sink and masturbates while looking into a mirror. This sums up many of the movie’s sins and a few of its virtues. Mcqueen has a vanity with his self gratification and sometimes he deserves it. There are many long shots, played for effect to study a character in a space in time, and half of them are unneccesary. At the same time, the ones that work, do so beautifully. Also, with the concentration on the internal, it makes the environment around the main character lean toward two-dimensional. While I believed in Brandon, his work bros were laughable and I would have apprecieated a more fleshed out Manhattan giving that he spent so much time staring at it out of windows.
Discussing the vain self gratification and two dimensionality brings me to my biggest concern: Women aren’t that easy to get. It’s not that Brandon has mastered the picking up of women; I understand that sexual addiction could hone that talent. My problem lies with the sheer number of women just drawn to him of their own accord. Forever, they stared at him, openly giving themselves to him and his disorder. It took me out of the experience and seemed off.
Carey Mulligan deserves a small paragraph, in a movie totally concerened with one man and his problems, she refuses to be background. Her performance was layered, recognizable, and true. Their scenes together shone and her physical presence became a tangeable and emotional threat.
In the end, I found myself looking for a moment close to Taxi Driver, where De Niro takes Cybil Shepard to the porn theater and is confronted with how far removed he is from the rest of the world. It took a bit for me to realize that Brandon DOES understand this. He watches the tragedy unfold, seemingly helpless to stop it. This gave so much weight to the emotional connection needed. I commend Michael Fassbender. The whole movie essentially revolves around his face and expressions, and he pulls it off impressively. Somehow, the story remains subtle underneath all the boobs and fun, which made the ending hold a good deal of value. It is a tricky movie to recommend, and talking about it with people earns more smirks than interest. But, as I have said, I want art to challenge me, I want to meet it halfway, I want to put in effort. Shame did challenge me, and I put in the effort to meet it halfway. Thankfully, it was worth it.
Post script:
So, like I said, the theater was full of older couples and I bet none of them reacted in the same way as the 40ish couple who sat behind me. Hand to god, they tittered more than the audience at the Artist. And while some of it was sophomoric, the majority was finding humor in ABSOLUTELY everything in which the slightest bit of humor could be found. It made me so angry. My guess is that they were just trying to lighten the awkwardness of what they unwittingly walked in on. The highlight still, was in the very beginning. The camera is only set to capture from the neck down of a naked Michael Fassbender walking around his apartment. Without laughing, the woman behind simply says, “hmmm, his penis.”
I wish them luck.
