"God Save My Shoes," by Julie Benasra Watching "God Save My Shoes," Julie Benasra's blithely blinkered documentary, is like gorging on empty calories: flavorful, diverting and with a slightly nauseating aftertaste. While syrupy narration insultingly suggests that no woman is immune to the charms of a Louboutin pump, a small group of well-heeled addicts share their lust for fabulous footwear. "My shoes have names," the singer Kelly Rowland confesses, though they're all from the same family: exorbitant. Smug designers, most of them men, proffer smirking observations on their besotted clients - all the while mentally caressing their profits - and earnest psychologists waffle on about the utility of stilettos to convey social status and sexual availability. "An arched foot is a foot having an orgasm," an interviewee informs us, an experience that several of the film's flushed enthusiasts, fondling their preciouses as eagerly as Gollum, seem constantly on the verge of. Oblivious to the contradiction of labeling towering heels a symbol of independence while admitting that wearing them requires assistance to cross a cobbled street, the film resolutely ignores the dark side of its obsession. No deformed toes, shrunken hamstrings or warped spines block our view of its fetishized objects, though a montage of supermodel wipeouts on the runway - urban gazelles brought down by unhappy hooves - allows for a brief intrusion of reality. Like high-end hoarders, most of the women profiled here seem content merely to acquire. What's missing is any consideration of their lower-income sisters, especially those in debt - or in therapy - for a culturally cultivated craving they cannot afford. Instead the film takes 70 minutes and a lot of silly chatter to conclude what every woman well knows: wearing hooker heels will have most men eating out of her hand. Or, if she's lucky, licking her aching feet.