The heavily anticipated sophomore effort from video artist-cum-filmmaker Steve McQueen has finally dropped, and it’s a mixed bag to be sure. Tackling the de rigueur attitude that civilized nations take toward how we tame our sex lives (or don’t), McQueen once again casts ubiquitous heartthrob Michael Fassbender as a man quarrelling with the basic functions of his body. Shame is certainly not suffering from timid performances, which are solid across the board despite a belaboured script. Where it really wavers, though, is in its suspect ideological footing and an ultimately sententious tone. Combined with glimpses of homophobia in the final reel, the lasting taste is alarmingly conservative.
Fassbender stars as Brandon, a fairly reserved office worker who we eventually come to identify as a sex addict. Though we’re left to ogle the quiet, frequently stark-naked protagonist and decide for ourselves what infects his weary soul, it is only through the film’s title, soundscape, and the behaviour of the supporting players that the film’s subject emerges. Later supported by voicemails from submissive females, dispassionate encounters with prostitutes, and some malware that wages ‘shock and awe’ on his office computer, Shame sets off (-albeit with little by way of subtext) as a portrait of a disquieted and fanatic bachelor who is at war with his innate urges.
A kink emerges in the relatively loose narrative when Brandon’s sister, who is conveniently named Sissy (Carey Mulligan), literally trespasses on his life. Serving both as a breach into his sacred private world, as well as a relic from his pre-sexual life, it seems clear that she is to embody the film’s beating heart. This duty is made explicit in a lounge scene in which Sissy takes centre stage to perform a glacial cover of Sinatra’s ‘New York, New York.’ Serving as a microcosm – or, better yet, a litmus test – for the entire film’s themes and sensibilities, viewers can gauge on a personal level how much mileage the rest of the film will carry for them just by noting how affective these five minutes are. Lulling, out of tune, and uninspired, at least Brandon was stirred to tears by her warble.
Donning several traditional aesthetics of an art film, Sean Bobbitt’s (Hunger) scope compositions scrupulously evoke flesh-toned De Stijl grids drawn by the surrounding urban scapes. Attending to the complete breadth of the screen, figures are often held to the far edges for no discernible purpose. Whether this is an effort to acknowledge a full consideration of space, or to emphasize the marginality felt within Brandon’s psyche, or if this is purely to be unconventional, the effect is nonetheless irritatingly self-conscious. Further touting the calamity of Brandon’s turmoil, two climatic montages are set to a stripped and slowed down rendition of Hanz Zimmer’s iconic score from The Thin Red Line. Lest anyone take this exercise lightly, these guys mean business.
Engaging and competently-produced as it may be, Shame‘s biggest downfall can really be sourced to its questionable worldview. In an age of political progression regarding sexual liberation, McQueen’s film posits a stubbornly one-sided debate between family and hedonism. What is being suggested outright is that familial negligence – as triggered by embracing one’s primal urge to spread one’s seed – portends personal and emotional tragedy (in this case, in a most extreme fashion). In structuring its points, the film also joins ‘the wall of you-know-what’ when it comes to representing the gay community as an animalistic bunch of sex-crazed fiends. Serving as a last resort source for pleasure, the sole vibrancy in Shame‘s colour palette comes via a trip into a hellishly red gay club that’s straight out of the opening scene in Irreversible. Handsome package aside, McQueen’s film is an irresponsible, and essentially flaccid, piece of work.
Reviewed on September 6th at the 2011 Toronto Int. Film Festival – Special Presentations Programme
99 Mins.
