Those "GAMES"? From hunger: second-hand, second -rate, and like taking Seconal

Or, as my companion (who walked out around halfway-through) observed: "This makes the Twilight series look like a classic." Second-hand? Yes: Because the Japanese beat Suzanne Collins (the author of the book series and co-adapter of the screenplay) to the punch over a decade ago with Battle Royale. And even if Ms Collins did not read that original novel or see the film made from it, their central idea was bandied about internationally and would have been difficult to miss by any semi-literate person. Second-rate? Yes: Because the execution of the film, no doubt to obtain the PG-13 rating, is efficient but nothing more. Often it is much less, falling into the most cliched effects and featuring those held-for-nearly-ever "sad" moments (the segment with the little black-girl warrior is the most telling example). The overall effect is generally dismal; it brings the book, not to life, but merely to the screen.

Further, nothing really grabs us. Not the characters, not -- of all things -- the situation, and certainly not the would-be society that's shown us with absolutely no zing, panache or enjoyable satire. Even usually ulta-reliable actors such as Stanley Tucci (above) and Elizabeth Banks (below, left) seem barely serviceable here. And the less said about the pointless, tiresome "costuming," the better.

Woody Harrelson (below, left) chews the scenery impressively, but since he has barely a character to speak of, this amounts to little.

Only Lenny Kravitz, shown at right, imparts some actual feeling to the proceedings. His connection with our heroine, Katniss, registers as strongly as anything in the movie. But as his character is relatively minor (I am told he was much more important in the book version), this seems odd, particularly when stacked against the supposedly intense but, as played out here, rather paltry friendship/love interest the movie provides.

As for those would-be killers/lovers, neither Jennifer Lawrence (above left and elsewhere above) nor Josh Hutcherson (above, right), packs much punch. In Winter's Bone Ms Lawrence got away with minimal acting (she actually registers a bit more strongly via her smaller role in Like Crazy), but she seemed stilted and ill-at-ease in X-Men: First Class. In Hunger Games that uncomfortable quality takes over and it prevents the kind of large-scale performance that might bring the movie home.

Mr. Hutcherson is perfectly OK -- when called upon, he can be sweet or angry or action-ful, but there is nothing special to him or his character -- just as there is not to the entire enterprise. While I admired the work of the director Gary Ross (shown below) on Pleasantville, and somewhat less on Seabiscuit, I suspect he was simply used as a conduit via which the "brand" of The Hunger Games might be allowed to surface in the most prosaic, one-size-fits-all manner. Well, they got it.

Yes, the movie -- a marvel of modern-day marketing -- will rake in a billion dollars or more. Should we be glad for that? It'll help keep theaters afloat awhile longer, so maybe. But what are we to think of our nation's critics -- who supposedly gave the film a whopping 84% positive rating on RottenTomatoes.com. Well, that's not true, either. The RT site refuses to count any review as mixed -- even though a large percent of those for The Hunger Games definitely are. So, being a shill for the movie industry, as the site most definitely is, it counts many mixed reviews as positive. Read these reviews in their entirety and you come away thinking -- Boy that was mixed. But not on good old RT. Those ripe, juicy red tomatoes just keep on comin'! Just as Netflix used to serve its clients and public much better by allowing a rating of "just so-so," the company now makes us either like a film or dislike it. No middle ground. This is good marketing, of course. But otherwise, it's plain bullshit.

The Hunger Games, from Lionsgate Films, an unconscionable 142 minutes long -- and, according to those that loved the book, they still left out most of the good parts -- is playing just about everywhere. And next door to there, too. To find a theater near you, go to the film's web site, click on GET SHOWTIMES - BUY TICKETS in the upper right hand corner of the screen, and enter your zip code. Watching this film, however, will soon convince you that, to paraphrase the line heard ad infinitum during this silly, puddle-shallow movie, the odds will be never in your favor.

Useless "art" -- Steve McQueen's SHAME shows Fassbender & Mulligan to little effect

You may want to steal the first shot from SHAME -- the follow-up film to Steve McQueen's impressive debut, Hunger -- and hang it on your wall in pride of place. It's that close to perfect. Simple, as so many near-perfect things are, it's just a shot of Michael Fassbender between the sheets, his pale, slightly pink skin stark against the monochromatic gray-green of the bedclothes. But the composition, the cropping -- literally everything that goes into art and photography -- simply nails you. Then the movie begins, and that, you soon discover, was pretty much it.

With Hunger, McQueen, shown at right, used his photographic art to tell the story of Bobby Sands (Fassbender again), the IRA and the hunger strike that eventually took the rebel's life. It was a grueling movie, and a gorgeous one. Sometimes a little too gorgeous: a shit-scrawled wall was probably never meant to look like a work of art. With Shame, this director seems less concerned with making every frame artful-to-the-max. But, whether due to the constraints of the "story" (such as it is), he has also neglected to make it much of anything else.

Fassbender, above, whom I have never seen give anything less that an excellent performance -- until now -- plays a sex addict named Brandon, whose sister Sissy (Carey Mulligan, below) arrives unexpectedly and asks to stay with him. I would call Sissy his "estranged" sister, except that Brandon appears to be estranged from everything and everyone, except the call of his needy prick.

Sissy's being around makes our guy increasingly uncomfortable. But then so does everything else: his boss, his co-workers, even the many hits with whom he has sex. That's it for the movie's plot (until heavy-duty melodrama sets in and we get an embarrassing mea culpa scene in the rain and mud), and there is even less characterization. This emptiness of character occurs despite performances from literally everyone that -- in another movie in which the director and his writer (The Iron Lady's Abi Morgan, with the help of Mr. McQueen) had endowed their cast with anything approaching complex characters -- would have had us at "hello."

This film is one lengthy goodbye, and as the never-explained negatives pile up, we can't wait to see the thing end (its 101 minutes begin to see like hours). I am more than willing to believe that sex addicts, like most addicts of any kind, are never really having much fun. But you can't build a scenario around sex-addiction as your main character's sole feature -- even with an actor as gorgeous of face and body as Mr. Fassbender, who unveils both, from front and rear, and proves engaging and beautiful from all angles. There is one incredible shot of him -- from the rear, standing above a toilet with his legs slightly spread -- in which his body makes a perfect "V" on top and then a perfect inverted "V" from the waist down. (Although we were told that his full-frontal shots were quite something, as well, the movie proves a cheat on this score, as the actor's seemingly ample package is mostly shown in shadow. (Perhaps, for the U.S. theatrical run, the movie was trimmed slightly?)

Ms Mulligan gets her time in the full-frontal sun, too, but she really shines brightest during her very odd gig, singing in a restaurant (or it it a night club?) in which she warbles, above, in a reedy, faint but lovely voice, Kander & Ebb's New York, New York as though it were a dirge.  And damned if the song doesn't work like that -- beautifully, too.

Otherwise the movie itself is a dirge, a deadly one in which, for all his artful framing and muted color palettte, McQueen has nothing to say except embarrassing cliché.  Hints (if they are even meant as that) to various meanings abound at every possibility from the incest taboo to closeted homosexuality to intimacy inability. But when anything and everything is possible, nothing much matters.  

Shame, from Fox Searchlight, is currently playing around most big cities, at various venues, hoping to pick up some Academy nomina-tions. (Good luck.) Click here to find those venues nearest you.