Okay, I did it sooner than I thought. No, I refer not to the misplacement of my virginity all those years ago, but to the my attendance at the local cinema late yesterday afternoon for a screening of '50 Shades of Grey'. It had been my plan to view the cinematic slop on DVD with some equally cynical girlfriends, over some wine and nibblies. As it turned out, a friend was going with some girlfriends, and asked could her kids come to mine, and would I like to accompany them to the cinema. Mr Bingells babysat and watched a bit of a kids' movie (and had the better deal, I think). Thinking it would be a laugh to go out with some other ladies, I agreed. And yes, I enjoyed the company of the ladies; we had a nice time.
I was still embarrassed to be seen going to this, but as you, Gentle Reader, are aware, I wanted to be in a position to comment. I am now in a position to comment. I had considered folding my collar up to disguise myself, and hoped I wouldn't see anybody I knew. Just as I was sitting comfortably and chomping into my popcorn, someone waved from across the aisle and shouted, 'Hello, Simone!' D'oh! Oh, I must have a word with the candy bar there. They really do oversalt their popcorn. By the last, dried kernel, the area just inside my lips (my MOUTH!) felt puckered and shrivelled, like a slug that has been bombarded with a bag of the stuff. Adult patrons are allowed to take alcohol in, and one of my companions said she was going to the bar. Because my mouth was fast dehydrating like a neglected houseplant, I handed her some money and requested a vodka/lime/soda. Regretfully, the bar has a limited stock of drinks, and whilst my friends got their requested beers, I was handed the closest thing they had to a vodka/lime/soda: a fruity vodka-based alcopop. I like to think I have a discerning palate (from this you can correctly construe I am an utter snob), so therefore drinking a sickly alcopop is anathema to me. However, fearing the overabundance of salt I had just ingested was going to turn me into a giant chunk of prosciutto, I gratefully accepted the beverage, and if my benefactor is reading, I AM grateful to you for going to the bar for us. Double thumbs up: you're a legend.
The film began. Before I continue, I don't think I am giving out too many spoilers. The wretched drivel has been over-analysed and discussed, so unless you've been on the moon (in which case, welcome back and I hope you haven't had too much difficulty adjusting to the Earth's gravitational pull), I don't think I'll be writing anything you haven't already heard about it, plot-wise.
First up, it was what I expected: crap on celluloid. I have said it before, and will say it again: Anastasia Steele is the most aggravating milquetoast to grace a page, and has translated to the most aggravating milquetoast to grace a screen. I am adding her name to the list of movie characters whose faces I wish to take to with a cheese grater. If you're wondering, she's in company with Muriel from 'Muriel's Wedding', Blaine from 'Pretty in Pink', and Bridget Jones. She has all the sex appeal of a soggy cracker. Hey, I occasionally lecture about creative writing and always point out one's main characters need not be actually likeable people. But this one is so weak, even her menstrual blood would be diluted.
Everyone knows the basic plot: virginal, irritating wimp meets controlling fuck-up with a knot-tying fetish. I will say I found viewing the movie easier than reading the book because I didn't have to wade through so much execrable prose and cruddy dialogue. But yes, the silly bitch did keep biting her lip in the movie, and I did sit there in the darkened cinema, gagging on alcopop, wondering would it be possible to actually reach through the screen, grab her lip, and pull it up over her bloody head (as was my reaction reading the book).
There was some nudity, but not too full on. Hey, I've actually read articles dedicated to the fact the character has pubic hair. The fact that someone thinks pubic hair on a stupid character is worth writing about is making me want to yell, 'Stop the world! Time to get off.' Illness or medical conditions aside, we all grow it when puberty hits, okay? Take a moment to absorb this.
When she timidly and meekly asked, 'Are you going to make love to me?', and Grey replied, 'I don't make love. I fuck, hard', I muttered to my companion that his option sounded like a hell of a lot more fun. I will take this opportunity to apologise for making my friend almost snort popcorn through her nose.
So she looks like she'd fart and fall over, and he looks like he's constipated. And this is pretty much their expressions through the entire film. As you're no doubt aware, they enter into a sub/dom contract, and she asks for clarification of some terms. 'What are butt plugs?' she asks. I wanted to shout at the screen, 'Something your boyfriend has stuck in his arse, if the look on his face is anything to go by!'
In one scene, where she padded into the room, wrapped in a sheet, and he was playing something pretty and soft on the piano, she offered the opinion that what he played always sounded 'sad'. For some reason, I sat there wishing he could suddenly break into 'Mouldy Old Dough' by Lieutenant Pigeon. Remember that? It's a rather catchy piece, with what appears to be some good rather honky-tonk sounding piano playing. It's super-catchy, until the drummer croaks, 'Mooooouuuuld-dee old dooooouuuuuuugggggghhh!', and you just think, 'No.' Still, it would have livened up the film somewhat.
The film ended as abruptly as a guillotine chop. The credits started, and my friends and I looked at each other, and I asked, 'WTF?' I have never done that at a movie in my life.
My verdict, as you have guessed, is 'woeful'. But look, I did not go in with an open mind. I hated the book. The only really enjoyable bits were the scenes where Christian Grey removed his shirt. Seriously, that bloke has a body that could have been carved by Michelangelo.
However, I do not buy into the fatuous argument the film glorifies domestic violence. It no more glamorises DV, than 'Silence of the Lambs' glamorises cannibalism accompanied by Italian plonk. Even though the genuine BDSM community find the portrayal of its culture lamentable, it is still consensual. I will grant, as stated above, the bloke is a controlling fuck-up outside the bedroom. He sold her car minus her permission and tries to tell her what to eat. He's a dick. This behaviour is not romantic. This behaviour is offensive. However, just because some character engages in antisocial or unacceptable behaviour, it doesn't mean one can't write or make a film about it.
I will give this film half a star out of a possible *****. The half-star is because of Grey's lovely body. And I suspect I am turning into a dirty old woman.
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