That makes it noteworthy in industry terms more than can be said of it artistically. As for arguments about the feminism and/or misogyny of the narrative, it’s worth noting that, like the first Twilight film, this remains an all-too-rare example of a blockbuster movie whose three key creatives (author, screenwriter, director) are women. While the novel’s “inner goddess” guff is gone, Christian’s toe-curling character exposition (crack-addict mothers, Mrs Robinson molesters, “so sad” piano recitals, etc) smarts more than his leather belt ever could. Meanwhile, the consumer-porn accoutrements (private helicopters, fast cars, gliders) remind us that this “fantasy” has more to do with princess-in-the-tower fairytale than sexual role play, a factor emphasised by the screenwriter, Saving Mr Banks’s Kelly Marcel. James’ Fifty Shades of Grey is such a dull, decorous affair, about as erotic as an ad for Pottery Barn. Despite citing Bertolucci’s Last Tango in Paris as a tonal touchstone, and nodding cheekily to American Gigolo/ Psycho, the result smacks more of Adrian Lyne’s blandly naff 9½ Weeks, the S&M frankness of Barbet Schroeder’s Maîtresse usurped by the archaic softcore of Just Jaeckin’s The Story of O. I’m shocked shocked, do you hear me that the film version of E.L.
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