I’m going to save you $10 and two hours of your life right here.  The movie Shame, with deep pretense to be about a disabling affliction for thousands — of New Yorkers anyway– is a real shame.  Sex addiction.  Joyless sex addiction.  Joyless male sex addiction.  The doo-dad only works if affection is not involved: prostitutes, quicky pick-ups against a wall in a seedy neighborhood, anonymous male on male sex, sex with magazine exciters, sex over the internet.  But try a little tenderness and willie goes wonkers.  Man holds his head. Woman says it’s OK, but it’s not.  But he gets over it: calls a prostitute and scratches the itch.

Two hours to show us the problem. No solution. Last scene, bereft and broken sprawled in a deserted waterfront scene.  Sister in a pretty bad way, too.  Boss, also.  One bright light is a co-worker with whom he can’t do it.  Too bad…

And slow.  Long held shots showing the man staring out on the river.  Long shots, with portentious music during a get-over-it three-some.  It reminded me of the old porn movies which started out with a doctor’s admontion that sex could bring disease, and here was what to watch out for.  This was more, let’s say art-porn.  This is an art movie, not porn, so you aren’t going to go to hell for watching it.

The hell is in watching it.

Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 78% though all think it is grim grim grim…

A good film might be made of the subject, but this was not it.