Fassbender's Oscar snub is a shame

The taboo subject of sex addiction has been explored several times in the past, i.e. Showtime's Californication, American Psycho or the 2005 documentary I Am a Sex Addict, all of which portrayed it in a light-hearted manner. Shame is different. It's not a pretentious P.S.A. style narrative about the obvious hazards of addiction, nor does it intend to fully dissect or define sexual addiction. It explores something much deeper. It intends to portray one man's negative path of shattered emotional disconnection through his vices.

Much like in American Psycho, Brandon (Michael Fassbender) is a businessman living in New York, wearing the facade of a normal 30-something-year-old, but concealing some serious peccadilloes (minus the murdering thing). He has good self-control, able to work steadily during the day and release his demons (no pun intended) in a seedy night club, or sometimes even at work. He occasionally comes across a few slip-ups (ever hear of a USB drive?), but nothing he can't smooth talk his way out of. That is until his sister Sissy (Carey Mulligan) temporarily crashes in his apartment. Both share an awkward and apparent distant connection. They're both broken internally, but as much as she tries to reconnect with her brother, Brandon pushes away because it's obvious they share the same dark and concealed past that led him to his current state.

It's not a film about sex addiction, Brandon's addiction is the result of some past trauma the audience is left in the dark about. To say his character has relationship issues is an understatement, his emotion-void sexcapades--which there are plenty of--are testament to that. And in case you heard George Clooney's comment about Fassbender at the Golden Globes--he wasn't kidding. But I digress. As devoid Fassbender is of emotions in his racier scenes, he is able to produce some emotionally-packed scenes and one of the best performances of 2011, without a doubt.

Written and directed by Steve McQueen (not the one you're thinking of), he wastes little space in his film to get his point across. New York City was the perfect setting. A dimly lit restaurant, a shady downtown sidewalk and dark bars add the notion of an unclear mindset, a dark past Brandon is suppressing, waiting to re-submerge into light. But McQueen is technically savvy here, he shows us little of Brandon's past, only in emotional breakdowns and close-ups of his facial expressions. We know nothing about how Brandon came to be how he is, but as long as we watch for McQueen's technical cues, there's little need. In one scene Mulligan's character sings an original song. We don't need a thorough background, we deduct from the lyrics more-or-less what's happened. These scenes can stretch for a few minutes, but they perfectly execute the point.

Mulligan, known for her smaller independent roles, hasn't failed to impress yet. However, as fearless as her performance was, it lays in the intentionally dark shadows of Fassbender's performance.

 Harry Escott adds a hauntingly poignant score, appropriate to the film's theme.

It is a true shame some prestigious film institutions could not recognize an amazing performance from Fassbender, perhaps it was the taboo theme or the NC-17 rating? Either way, all I have to say is: Fuck you Academy!

Raing: A

Psycho is a mess of a slasher

     He's rich, sophisticated, has an ivy-league education, exquisite taste in music and occasionally will blow off steam by committing voluntary manslaughter, all before his 6:30 dinner reservations, of course. That's the joke behind American Psycho: murderers lurk all around us, sometimes concealed in an upper-class, yuppie guise.

     The film is based on the Bret Easton Ellis novel of the same name and is set in the 1980s. Our protagonist here is Patrick Bateman (the name even sounds vanilla), played by Christian Bale (Batman movies). Patrick wakes up every morning, showers, and proceeds with his rigorous routine of moisturizing and man-pampering his chiseled, smooth face. He walks out of his pricey New York apartment, fresh-faced, clean cut and you might even say dressed to kill. On the outside he's a composed banking executive with a hot girlfriend (Reese Witherspoon); he's surrounded by shallow friends, who share his interest in the tangible and temporal; and enjoys listening to Phil Collins with a glass of wine. Some might say he has it together, but we all know that's his sly plan. Who would suspect a N.Y. businessman, obsessed with perfecting the font on his business card, of murder in the third degree?

     The film, directed by Mary Harron, starts off with potential. We're introduced to Bateman's character and how his life is structured around his routines, encounters with co-workers, his job and you quickly see how his shallow and repetitive life-style can invoke an alter-ego. But the process in which this two-dimensional character switches from normal New Yorker walking the streets during the day to malicious assassin during the night is just that: night and day.

      His first victim in the film is a homeless man on the street. Why was he the target? He was just there, apparently. We're given no background on Bateman, no formal motive, no clue as to why he commits these acts, we're just left to assume he was probably a disturbed youth who started out killing puppies and eventually switched to people. Not to mention, he's messy. You would think someone as orderly as Bateman would consider the mess he's about to spill on his expensive furniture, before he slaughters his victims on his couch. (Maybe Dexter can give him a lesson in murder 101?) At one point, he tries taking his bloody sheets to the cleaners and wonders why the stain won't come out.

      Bateman balances his two lives pretty well, until an investigator (Willem Dafoe) shows up in his office one day, asking where his friend Paul (Jared Letto) is. Paul came over to Bateman's apartment one evening and asked too many questions about his girlfriend and well, I'm sure you can figure out the rest. This is one of the few times his lethal actions are ever validated. The film is a mix of gory and disturbing slayings, intertwined with Bateman's equally disturbing sexcapades, one of which involves a three-some, a camera and reconstructive-surgery.

     As much as Bale is clearly committed to the role (and he certainly seems crazy), Psycho fails to connect the two worlds the film illustrates together and ultimately is more of a comedy than a drama. Right before he murders one of his victims, he seduces them, with spiked wine and shares his knowledge of Whitney Houston's greatest work. There's just nothing serious to take out of this adaptation and probably would have fared better if Harron had a clearer image. You're best off, reading the book.

Rating: D