It seems like no other city in the world is more apt to serve as a multifaceted cinematic canvas than New York City. Probably the most common setting for any film (American or maybe even otherwise), the Big Apple has been seen through the camera lens as a grungy, paranoid hellhole (Taxi Driver, Mean Streets), a land of opportunity (In America), a backdrop for whimsical romanticism (Manhattan, Breakfast at Tiffany's), and of course a prime target for over-the-top destruction (The Day After Tomorrow).
The city that never sleeps by now had become so heavily mythologized that it can easily become a distinct character in whatever movie it appears in, probably best personified by the similarly-titled song from Martin Scorcese's less-than-stellar musical-drama New York, New York. Though the movie itself had left much to be desired, the theme song famously sung by Liza Minnelli was eventually adopted as the unofficial anthem for the city, celebrating New York as a land of love, happiness, and opportunity.
There's a scene in British director Steve McQueen's Shame where Carey Mulligan's troubled, emotionally-devastated lounge singer delivers a heartbreaking rendition of the tune that does the impossible, and strips away the bombast and show-tune facade of the original song and makes the listener feel as empty, lonely, and helpless as Michael Fassbender's sex-addict protagonist. It's a powerful, haunting scene that serves as only one broad stroke on the massive cinematic canvas that Shame represents.
Thirtysomething Brandon Sullivan (Michael Fassbender) seems to have it all: he's good-looking, has a high-paying executive job, and lives in a fancy Manhattan high-rise apartment. But he also suffers from sex addiction: completely unable to control his sexual urges, Brandon seems pathologically terrified of intimacy and instead fills that void with rampant casual sex and consumption of pornographic material.
One night, he discovers that his estranged, wayward younger sister Sissy (Carey Mulligan) has crashed at his apartment. Despite not being thrilled at this prospect, Brandon reluctantly allows her to stay for the next few days. But her presence turns out to be less than ideal for Brandon, as her neediness and intrusion in his private life exacerbates his own demons, causing a downward sexual and psychological spiral that Brandon cannot escape.
Shame starts off with a (metaphorical) bang. During a montage for the first ten or so minutes, we get a nearly-wordless glimpse into Brandon's daily routine. Lying naked in bed, Brandon stares into the distance, seemingly devoid of warmth and satisfaction despite commanding the attraction of women like a flame does a moth. His carnal compulsions are almost robotic in nature, as if the constant copulation, covert masturbation sessions, and video sex-chats are actions without any actual human feeling or perception.
And the world around him seems to match his emotional sterility. His office, his apartment, even his clothing are a drab palette of grays and whites. Brandon clearly gets no enjoyment from his illicit activities. He loathes himself for his inability to get close to anyone, and his experiences have sullied his views on the importance and legitimacy of intimate relationships.
There's a subplot where Michael proactively attempts to fly right by courting his cute coworker Marianne (Nicole Beharie). But he's clearly uncomfortable with attempting monogamy from the very beginning, from an almost voyeuristic dinner date (accomplished with a multi-minute long take that successfully borders on cinema verite), to their bedroom tryst that Brandon stops because the affection involved is too much for Brandon to bear.
This contrasts beautifully with Mulligan's character, whose addiction is one for constant love and affection. Her Sissy possesses a sadness and vulnerability that, for that one prolonged moment during her musical performance, starkly aligns with Brandon's despair. He recognizes what she's conveying, and maybe subconsciously, he realizes that cannot do anything to reach out to her because of the stone wall he's placed around himself.
To say that Shame is a bleak and less-than-enjoyable film is a massive understatement. I drew many comparisons between this film and Darren Aronofsky's tragic and disorienting Requiem for a Dream. Both films feature characters possessed by a crippling addiction, unable to dig themselves out of their hole no matter how hard they try, until the story climaxes with a staggering crescendo of self-destructive depravity. Simply put, don't walk into Shame and expect The Muppets.
Luckily, one of the aspects that makes Shame worth seeing is the powerful, heartwrenching performance by Fassbender. Having had a stellar year (gaining plenty of exposure with Jane Eyre, X-Men: First Class, and A Dangerous Method), the 34-year-old Fassbender caps it off with a role requiring serious discipline and bravery.
Clearly unshy about dropping trou for the camera (and I mean it when I say "dropping trou", because this film earns its NC-17 rating), Fassbender effortlessly manages to convert his physical nakedness into one of emotional nakedness. His vulnerability is masked by a steely gaze that can lure in a woman far more easily than any words can. But his Casanova is only skin-deep. Underneath is fear, emptiness, and, yes, shame. It's a bravura performance that's immediately deserving of any accolades he's awarded.
It helps that the direction by McQueen (who reunites with Fassbender after McQueen's 2008 debut Hunger) helps transform both Brandon and New York City into symbolic twins: alluring and seductive on the surface, hollow and emotionally primitive on the inside. McQueen's New York isn't exactly as diseased or mean-spirited as a director like Scorcese would portray it, but by the third act serves as a stand-in for the descending circles of Hell that Brandon plummets into during his worst moments.
Shame certainly isn't an easy film to watch. Covering a serious subject that hitherto hadn't been heavily discussed in the movies, it serves as an effective mirror to our own personal neuroses and afflictions, but most importantly, it shines a light on interpersonal connection and how irrevocably lost we are without it, no matter what vice we attempt to cover the wounds with.
Letter Grade: "A"
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