FIFTY SHADES OF GREY FILM REVIEW BY PRIMULA BOND
This is a film to be savoured in the communal atmosphere of
a darkened cinema. The solidarity of those eager, giggling bodies around you,
some women dragging along sheepish male partners, most tripping in with a shoal
of girlie mates, all bearing glasses or even bottles of wine and/or champagne,
made the experience enjoyable from the off.
As I waited
for my three girlfriends to escort me inside, two others emerged po-faced from
the earlier showing. I stopped them for a quick vox-pop. In unison they
muttered, tipping away their bottles of warm wine disguised as mineral water:
'Disappointing.'
As the
lights went down, two nattily dressed Chinese boys rushed to the front, which
made us wonder if a) this trilogy has already become a gay destination event
along the lines of those sing along SoundaMusic or Mamma Mia viewings
(everyone whispering huskily iconic lines such as 'Enlighten me!' or 'Fuck the
contract' or b) they thought they were seeing a film about interior decorating.
Disappointing
it may have been to some, but the auditorium was already hot and steamy by the
time we took our seats. One of my friends hadn't read the book, so was coming
to this box-fresh, but you'd have to be living in Outer Mongolia not to know
something about this film. Even so, as
my sister pointed out on hearing I was going to see it, there's bound to be at
least one fan even in Outer Mongolia.
In other
words it would be impossible to have absolutely no preconceptions. But I do wish
I hadn't watched the Lego spoof trailer beforehand. I don't mean that a clutch
of plastic figures with no joints and only one expression had more animation
than the actors in this film. But it did make me splutter on my smuggled
chardonnay when Ana first arrived to interview Christian. Watch it. You'll see
what I mean.
Also, it
doesn't help that my real name is Anastasia (and Ana for short) so that every
time Christian uttered it in that soft, hectoring accent I felt my subjective
faculties evaporating.
Ah,
Christian. I was relieved that Jamie Dornan's previous, mesmerising incarnation
as Paul Spector in The Fall was soon dissipated, because once I'd
accepted the lack of beard, and that this role was not a natural fit for him, I
was able fully to focus on the strengths and weaknesses of the movie, some of
which were unexpected.
As an
erotic author, my critical antennae were exercised by the uneven pacing of the
action and scenes and the introduction then abandoning of secondary characters
such as the flatmate and the families - although, and maybe it's my age, I
found myself identifying more with the naughty, feisty moms than with Ana, and
wanting to see more of them. And what was the point of Rita Ora/Mia in that
hideous syrup? The one line she spoke was, I think, supposed to be in French,
but I certainly couldn't understand it.
The
dialogue, impeccably faithful to the original text, was sometimes clumsy ('What
am I doing here, Christian?' Answer from the back row of the audience: 'Duh!').
Such distractions drained the central relationship of its essential intensity,
and more fatally highlighted the inconsistency in the relationship between the
ill-matched lovers.
I'm all for
a coup de foudre, but I also like a little foreplay before getting down
and dirty. Any film needs dramatic tension and an erotic film needs sexual
tension. We had two hours. What was the
rush? But we moved too quickly from one stage of their 'relationship' to the
next. Within days of their first meeting, Christian had bought some equipment
from a hardware store, cut short a meaningless cup of coffee, and was then
storming into a night club to shove Ana's poor male friend aside for trying to
kiss her. Meanwhile Ana was already
teasing him for playing push-me, pull-you (and inadvertently summing up a
central flaw in her own story) as if they'd known each other for weeks.
I can buy
the idea of a troubled, solitary man blowing hot and cold with an enthusiastic,
wholesome virgin, but this is a successful billionaire who doesn't seem
wholeheartedly to believe in or enjoy his actual work. And who has an appalling
taste in casual wear. Nor can he converse naturally or easily in his home life.
His default tone is conversely both to lecture and conceal.
In the
fantasy world of fiction we expect to travel with our characters in order to
care about them, to see them evolve, witness a flowering and development of
their dynamic even if conflict arises and they argue or separate along the way.
But Christian loses our belief in him when in one breath he's telling Ana he
doesn't do romance, or sleeping together, or even making love, tells her he
won't touch her without her written consent (which raised another laugh from
the audience), yet does all the above within their first night together.
Similarly
Ana, who also has an unnervingly childish dress sense, dilly-dallies over
signing the contract in order to get to know and test him– some of the best and
unexpectedly comic scenes in the film – agrees to some of the punishments,
admits she is falling for him, then after allowing him, indeed asking him
to show her his worst, throws a massive strop when he makes free with the
riding crop and stamps back into that goddamn lift. Not that I blame her. The
initial slapping on the rump moments are unintentionally comical, and there
seems little relevance or eroticism in that Red Room of Pain. Christian appears
agonised as he practises his reef knots and brandishes the cat o-nine tails.
Even then Ana is way ahead of him, sighing and gasping before he's even touched
her.
Nevertheless
Dakota Johnson was a revelation and it was a bonus that she was relatively
unknown. First off, am I the only person who thinks she looks like a younger
version of the writer E L James? Secondly, by pure chance I'd seen her in The
Social Network climbing out of
Justin Timberlake's bed just a day or so earlier, and thought her cute in those
few screen moments, but she truly owns this film. She's not quite sexy or
alluring enough for an erotic heroine, but she's charming, has an infectious
giggle, and is believable to look and listen to, knocking spots off her
co-star.
9 and a half weeks this wasn't. Or at
least, parts of it were. Parts of it were also
pure Pretty Woman. The sex was graphic, as you'd expect, and
beautifully and daringly choreographed, but oddly untitillating. After a while
I found myself wishing it would end so we could hear what Ana had to say next.
Which, as I say, reveals both a terrible weakness and an unexpected, delightful
strength.
I'll leave
the last word to the audience. About halfway through we were disturbed by some
heavy breathing from the row behind us. Had Sam Taylor-Joynson, Dornan et al
succeeded in 'moistening us' as one reviewer promised?
No. It was
one of the champagne wielding ladies. Fast asleep.
© Primula Bond 2015
