REBECCA TUCKER C
hristian Grey is kind of nuts.
That was my prevailing thought during Fifty Shades of Grey, the two-hour screen adaptation of the E.L. James book that, at one point, was selling two copies a second. I haven’t read the book, so maybe there’s enormous nuance to the Grey character that Jamie Dornan does not accurately depict — if at all.
But having seen the film it’s difficult to reconcile how anyone’s fantasy would involve being stalked and harangued by a billionaire whose goal is to have you sign a sex contract.
Grey and Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson as the mousey English lit student) meet when she goes to interview the 27-year-old billionaire she somehow knows nothing about. She literally falls into his office. He stares at her. She asks him if he’s gay. He says something about “harnessing people.” She admits to being an English lit student. He declares she must like Jane Austen. She gets up to leave. He steals her paperwork. She is intimidated by him. Boom. Romance.
Before there’s even any idea of a sexual relationship, Grey declares himself “not right for her,” says he is “not yet” a se- rial killer, tracks her down at a bar, buys her a new computer and eventually has her sign a non- disclosure agreement about their relationship. (How is that not a red flag?)
These events unfold just about as quickly and dryly as listed here, leaving no room for character development or any idea of why this guy is so into this girl — other than that she’s easily manipulated, inexperienced and virginal (in the literal sense of the word, though this is a problem “rectified” in one of the film’s many unfortunate choices of wording).
In other words she’s a woman over whom he can exercise total control. This he hopes to do in the form of an actual contract outlining the type of sex he likes to have. This contract — not the sex itself — and its negotiation comprise 75 per cent of the film’s running time and most of our romantic leads’ conversations. It is the longest, unsexiest board meeting of all time.
She says she’s not interested. He nevertheless shows up unannounced at her home in the middle of the night, walks into her bedroom, ties her up and has sex with her. This is not the grand romantic gesture of a scorned lover trying to win back the lady of his desire. This is an intrusion, and a crime.
The problem isn’t that Christian likes his sex kinky. The problem is his wooing tactics. He describes himself as “not normal” and “50 shades of (messed) up” in his affinity for bondage and light BDSM. No, he’s “not normal” because he’s a coercive, boundary-less emotional manipulator.
The problem is that this is presented as some sort of darkly sexy Cinderella story, when really it’s some sort of psychological horror story that has little to do with unconventional sex.
And while the film’s focus is almost singularly the notion of sex, director Sam Taylor-Johnson goes light on actual erotica. Unless your appetite for screen depictions of human sexuality is particularly low or puritanical, it’s unlikely Fifty Shades will leave you scandalized. It’s so benign that it barely titillates.
That’s a shame, too: The cinematography is beautiful and artful in a way that would have lent itself quite well to the type of erotica many will be expecting.
And calling the characters two- dimensional gives them credit for an extra dimension: Ana is submissive. Christian is dominant. Christian and Ana’s romantic arc is so telegraphed that by the time it hits the inevitable, “I want more from you!” “You’re changing me!” argument, viewers may find themselves wishing for more contract talk.