ISAAC: Hey, I want to talk to you. I want to give you a piece of my mind.
SHAME: Shame.
ISAAC:  Yes.
SHAME: Shame. Say it with me: shaaaaame.
ISAAC: Oh my god, yes, shame, you’re a movie called Shame.
SHAME: It’s also what I’m about.
ISAAC: (palm to forehead) That is clear.
SHAME: I seem to have hit a nerve. It’s OK — I did at Cannes, too.
ISAAC: No, no. What hit a nerve is that you didn’t hit a nerve. Look, I know shame. I traffic in shame. I once rode the subway 95 blocks before realizing I had cum in my hair. And last night I ate an entire bowl of cereal in the dark.
SHAME: Jesus.
ISAAC: You could’ve been great. You could’ve been incisive and fair, painful and seductive. You could’ve been a complicated experience, impossible now given your grey color palette and ludicrous soundtrack –
VIOLINS: (screeching) Sex with strangers!
CELLOS: (moaning) Can’t connect!
PIANO: (furious arpeggios) Horrible life!
ISAAC: Instead you’re judgmental and heavy-handed and kind of miserable.
SHAME: I bet you enjoyed my sex scenes, though, you dirty fuck.
ISAAC: Not really.
SHAME: Not even Michael Fassbender’s big dick?

MICHAEL FASSBENDER’S DICK: Not even me?

ISAAC: I mean, my god, does the thing wear a sock and a shoe?