Fifty Shades of Grey- Review

A couple of weeks ago I had the dubious pleasure of sitting through the Wachowski siblings latest cinematic folly, Jupiter Ascending. It was inept to the point of inutility, uproarious in its failings and as narratively muddled as an eight year old’s Christmas list. I gave it a frankly generous three Pauls out of Critoph and had assumed that the worst was over for 2015. This was an error, for lurking just a few weeks down the release schedule was a movie to strike fear and boredom into the hearts of all but the most easily pleased: Fifty Shades of Grey. It is rare for a truly bad film to be elevated thanks to a worse one but that is the case here, for whilst Jupiter Ascending was a disjointed affront to entertainment at least it was trying. There was the definite sense that the Wachowskis utterly believed in their botched little film and desperately wanted to share its shonky universe with a legion of imagined fans. There is no sense of that with Fifty Shades. Everything about it is calculated, half hearted and tepid. It is lowest common denominator film making of the worst degree; a cynical exercise in taxing the stupid.

For those unaware of the Fifty Shades phenomenon, this is the adaptation of the first novel in E L James’ ludicrously successful, whips and wellies erotic fiction series. My own limited experience of the book was when I read the first chapter of my sister in law’s copy out of a sense of morbid curiosity. I was left in no doubt that it was the work of an enthusiastic idiot who had somehow nurtured mass appeal in spite of a dearth of  literary ability. It was bafflingly written in the present tense, a style chiefly used by children as they aren’t yet able to process anything but the here and now and into her leaden dough she mixed handfuls of laughable prose and witless dialogue. This ensured that I put the book down feeling both superior and slightly more stupid all at once. Here is the chief difference between the novel and the film; in print form the reader has the benefit of baring witness to E L James’ own inept voice. It is possible to read the book and garner some enjoyment from her cack handed attempts at first person narrative. Once these elements are removed what remains on screen are the unembellished bones of her story and without that unintentional humour all we have is turgid, morally questionable dross.

The story of both film and book concerns our heroine, Anastasia Steele, a drab, wispy husk who is blown into the path of a sinister and unbelievably young billionaire, Christian Grey, when she interviews him for her university magazine. It is not long before he has efficiently stalked her two hundred miles back to her place of work at a hardware store in order to freak out the audience by bulk buying cable ties and masking tape. Anastasia even points out the creepy, serial killer vibe he exudes but this is not enough to prevent her from falling hopelessly in love with this clearly troubled young man. From this point she is swept into a mind numbingly irrational romance of domination, abuse of power and BDSM. Now I can understand if those last three ingredients make it sound like Fifty Shades of Grey may hold exciting hidden pleasures. I can assure you it does not. What we have here is the neutering of the taboo, the alchemy of transforming hot oil into cold porridge. I’m finding it hard to know where to start with its many, many errors; the weight of cinematic puss dripping from its mouldering form is almost overwhelming.

A major concern is the stagnant pacing. The story in this film is so slight and malnourished it is an affront to editors everywhere that it is allowed to meander over two hours. I was barely fifteen minutes into the film before a cloak of fidgety boredom descended over me. This was exacerbated by director Sam Taylor-Johnson’s stilted camera work. Fifty Shades of Grey is a movie lacking any sense of visual identity. She shoots the film like she is helming the commercial for a half price reduction sale at a regional furniture store; everything is flat on, easy mid shot to easy mid shot. She seems more fascinated with the hollow displays of opulence in Grey’s apartment than by the actors. But then who can blame her? Our two leads have the unenviable task of attempting to bring E L James’ wafer thin characters to life and sadly the job is beyond them. Jamie Dornan, who I’m assured is a fine actor by friends who have watched him in the TV series The Fall, looks awkward and exposed as Christian Grey. One gets the impression that he would be happier if the character was allowed to settle on any one distinct path; either a balls to the wall psycho or a truly relatable romantic lead. As it is he is left floundering with a steely eyed look of mild confusion, his character coming across as a spoilt child rather than a rakish scoundrel. As Anastasia, Dakota Johnson conjures tedium from every frame. She is dull, under powered, weak of voice and conviction and is totally unbelievable as the focus of anyone’s passion. Now, I understand this is not entirely her fault, she is at the mercy of the worst author of the twenty first century, not to mention a director who couldn’t care less but even so, her performance is cinematic Nytol. Her Anastasia is an irritating, anti feminist mouse; a brow beaten human sigh who deserves neither the audience’s interest nor pity.

And now we get to the allegedly exciting part; the red hot S & M sex scenes! I will happily confess that I tossed the book aside before the story reached these encounters so I’m not able to say whether they are faithful to E L James’ strange vision but if they are then I am seriously out of touch with what is considered sexy. Taylor-Johnson has managed to turn what should be the selling point of this film into an awkwardly chaste ordeal for actors and audience alike. She has scrubbed clean the filth, straightened the kink and diluted the sauce. Each sex scene is an incredibly tame procession of humorous feather dusting and half hearted lashing, before Christian climbs on top for that most exotic of sexual manoeuvres: the missionary position. Compare these beige contortions to those found in the genuinely sexy ‘Secretary’ or even ‘Basic Instinct’ and it becomes clear just how under endowed Fifty Shades is.

This is not a good film. It is not even a bad film. This is a film which is rotten to the core. It glamourises abusive, controlling obsession and implies that happiness can be bought. This film should never be seen as a romance; it reduces love to a contract, degrades women to the position of sex dispensaries and then has the gall to present this as a desirable option. It is damaged and damaging and should never be seen by anybody with an ounce of self respect. Fifty Shades of Grey is irredeemable and is quite possibly the least enjoyable film I have ever endured.

I give Fifty Shades of Grey zero point five Pauls out of Critoph.