I’ve seen a lot of people reading Fifty Shades of Grey in recent years.
I’ve seen them reading it at airports, in front yards while kids are at play, while driving cars on the freeway, at church with the book cleverly tucked in a hymnal, while violently kickboxing and, most notably, in public lavatories while jovially humming. (It’s very unsettling, that jovial humming.)
Everybody, everywhere, has been reading that crazy book in which the girl gets all bondage-like with the rich guy who has major, major mommy issues.
The Fifty Shades phenomenon has been impossible to avoid, and that virus has now spread to movie screens. While I managed to avoid the book as if it were an ill-tempered grizzly bear infected with ebola, I have a job to do, so off to the Red Room of Pain I go.
Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson) is a mousy college student who is so innocent that she doesn’t know what a butt plug is, despite the fact that she has a porn-star name. Subbing for a sick roommate, she goes to Seattle to do an interview for a student newspaper with billionaire-business-guy-douchebag Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan). Grey’s offices are immaculate and adorned with supermodels. The place is also riddled with fancy pencils that have “GREY” stenciled on them, so that when Anastasia erotically sticks one in her mouth, its sort of like she’s sucking on Grey’s dick.
Shortly after the interview, Grey starts stalking Anastasia at the hardware store where she works, but that’s OK, because he has billions of dollars and looks like the result of a night of passionate lovemaking between Ryan Phillippe and Eric Bana. Let’s face it: If Grey looked like Zach Galifianakis and only had a quarter in his pocket, he’d go straight to jail for such behavior.
His psychotic courtship eventually leads to Anastasia becoming his prospective bondage slave. He offers her a formal contract that, if she signs it, will allow him to become the Dominant, with her as the Submissive, in a kinky sex relationship that will involve spanking, humiliation, nipple clips and eating toast in bed.
The sex scenes eventually happen—and, if anything, they provide some good, hearty laughs. While the screenplay doesn’t explain much, Grey’s sexual proclivities and needs to abuse his mate have something to do with his being a crack baby. I guess we are supposed to feel sorry for him while he’s torturing his girlfriend, because his mom was a stupid crack whore. Fair enough.
When people aren’t having sex in this movie, they are talking in a somber, slow, irritatingly elongated manner. Everybody in this movie is a mopey, sodden sop. I love Seattle, but watching how the residents behave and communicate in this movie made me want to never visit the city again, even if the Mariners make the playoffs.
Back to the subject of Grey’s dick: Dornan signed a “No Dick Whatsoever … Sorry!” clause, so he never whips it out. There’s plenty of Dornan ass, and Dornan chest, and even Dornan chin scar, but no Dornan dick. Those of you dying to see some massive Dornan dick will have to score a real-life date with the guy, because there is no Dornan dick to be found in this flick. The guy could be a eunuch for all we know.
The movie sort of just ends after 125 minutes. Those of you who get intensely, emotionally involved in the plight of Anastasia and Christian will have to wait, Empire Strikes Back-style, for the sequel. Frantic negotiations have no doubt commenced with Dornan to get him to show his dick.
I saw Fifty Shades of Grey at a late-night showing on Valentine’s Day. I suspect there might’ve been some tug jobs and finger-banging going on in the theater; after all, it was the sweetheart holiday and, well, I heard grunting and snorting. If there were various acts of covert sex commencing around me, I’m sure they were 1,000 times more erotic and genuine than the hilarious antics occurring onscreen.
Fifty Shades of Grey is regrettably playing at theaters across the valley.