50 Shades of Grey is a story. And, a story is a story is a story, I get that, but this one has no purpose. I can only assume the author, E.L. James is ignorant to the psychobabble bullshit that tumbled out from between her ears and onto the page.
There is no reason. No why to the chaos of this narrative.
I tried to see if James wanted to show the greater depth of human emotion but it’s divorced of anything human; there’s no awkward queef in the dungeon. The author does nothing more with her characters than mash their genitals together like two action figures. The other characters are plastic as expected: Archetypes and echo chambers that offer no value other than redundant exposition.
I tried to see if James understood what she was doing and there’s one gleaming moment of self aware hope where Dakota Johnson acts out Grey’s troubled relationship tactic of pushing people away and reeling them in. But it’s immediately circumvented by Grey taking her back to his hotel room and dressing her like a Barbie without her consent.
See this is abuse, and the film confuses it for BDSM. BDSM, in my limited knowledge, is where someone admits vulnerability and submits on one’s own accord. There is no BDSM in the film. Grey forces her into submission with his constant money, power and presence, like some new age Don Corleone, making Steele an offer she can’t refuse. She’s forced into the shit situation at ballpoint by E.L. James. No wonder the actor who plays Grey displays such awkward disgust when interviewed.
I can’t blame E.L James for all of it. We want to see this: Women moan when Grey says he exercises control in all things, and the men may groan with intolerable boredom, feigning distance from the subject, but they admire his control. We’re all complicit to this disjointed plastic mess. Can we please have a blockbuster that values it’s audience as more than just the sassy submissive and a monotonous dominant? Something human?