This film's insistence on "random" acts insults both transgression and imagination. Forget "The Duke of Burgundy" -- even the pale imitation of perversity in "Secretary" possesses more genuine frisson. The rote, joyless recitations of kink feel less like exploration and more like a boardroom brainstorming session. This isn't the ecstatic "freakuency" of shared desire, but a discordant hum of obligation. That such supposedly magnetic performers elicit not a single wet seat is a condemnation of its complete aesthetic failure. The clumsy invocations of "good girl" energy reek of a manufactured eroticism for the chronically online, utterly detached from the unsettling allure of true carnal knowledge. The very real tragedy? Somewhere, Littlefoot weeps, his prehistoric innocence tarnished by this cinematic desecration of basic human hunger.