Fifty shades of grey reviews movie

Spank me like you do. This film was undoubtedly one of the biggest box office hits of the decade, but it was largely due to the already dizzying success of the original material, the erotic novels by E. L. James. I have no doubt that the audience that went to see this film did it out of curiosity or because they had previously read the books and liked it. So, the film already had a well defined target audience. But as I have not read the books (nor do I intend to) I will speak only of the film. Overall, I found the plot very weak. Anastasia Steele is a shy, sexually inexperienced young woman who immediately feels a strong attraction to Christian Gray, a young millionaire with an almost latent aggressiveness. From there, the two have a relationship full of fetishes of authority and pain, where the romance insists on arising and leaving both confused and bewildered, especially Gray, who seems to carry a lot of childhood traumas and like to discount all that on the body. of their young sex slaves. This is the plot of the film, and I am aware that the book is the same, but the truth is that it makes no sense, if we take into account the normal and expected reactions between a man and a woman ... Observe carefully: first, it is almost impossible to find, today, a young adult totally inexperienced in bed and in sex. It can happen, of course, but it is rare. The first meeting between them is also something that could only happen in a book: Anastásia, who should interview Gray, is so tense and shy that she doesn't even know what she is doing! And he, a very busy man, gives ten minutes to a young woman who has not rigorously prepared herself for the interview she wanted to do! He is an intense, even brutal man, who could have any woman, but he is enchanted by the tastiest girl on the planet. Even so, he does not intend a normal courtship, but a sexual and possession relationship, bureaucratic, well defined on paper, forgetting that quickly when the desire and passion became uncontrollable. And everything happens in a fraction of ... days? One day she is in his office, not knowing what to ask him and, a short time later, she is relaxed talking to his mother as if she were already part of the family. None of this makes sense, but this is just a bit of the absurdities of the whole story, common to the film and books. Dakota Johnson is perfect for her character, as she is a totally uninteresting woman, who could go unnoticed by the eyes of the most ardent of males. For his part, Jamie Dornan is too kind and friendly to be Christian Gray. His character should harmoniously combine the beauty and virility of a young adult with a more mature and somber personality than normal at his age and some brutality and strength of character. I even dare to think that the ideal actor for Gray should be (or appear to be) slightly older than Dornan. The rest of the cast is OK but has no room to do anything really good. The dialogues are hideous, and if they originated from the book then I did well not to read it. It goes without saying, I believe, that this film is totally inappropriate for children and teenagers, given the heavy erotic material and the language used. The film's nudity is something that the fans considered residual, but I would consider it too much if it did not take into account the original material in which the film. The film has good production values, starting with good photography, good scene props (it would highlight the famous red room and all its paraphernalia), satisfactory editing work and, above all, a good soundtrack, which is in the heard and has good songs (I would highlight "Earned it" and "Love me Like You Do"). In short: when starting with bad source material, the film was doomed from the start. The only thing that made E. L. James's book good for the cinema was the number of copies sold and the absolute guarantee that the film would sell equally.

If the figures are correct, “Fifty Shades of Grey,” by E. L. James, has been bought by more than a hundred million people, of whom only twenty million were under the impression that it was a paint catalogue. That leaves a solid eighty million or so who, upon reading sentences such as “He strokes his chin thoughtfully with his long, skilled fingers,” had to lie down for a while and let the creamy waves of ecstasy subside. Now, after an enticing buildup, which took to extreme lengths the art of the peekaboo, the film of the book is here.

Nothing has exercised the novel’s devotees—the Jamesians, as we must think of them—quite as much as the proper occupants of the central roles. Who could conceivably play Christian Grey, the awkward young billionaire with the extensive neckwear collection, let alone Anastasia Steele, the English-lit major who is also, as we gasp to learn, one of the leading virgins of Vancouver, Washington? Many combinations were suggested, my own preference being Nick Nolte and Barbra Streisand, who made such a lovely couple in “The Prince of Tides,” but in the end the lucky winners were Jamie Dornan and Dakota Johnson. Good choices, I reckon, especially Johnson, who, as the granddaughter of Tippi Hedren, knows everything about predators who stare and swoop.

Ana, as she is usually called, first meets Christian Grey at Grey House, which is home to Grey Enterprises, in Seattle. (Don’t you adore rich men who hide themselves away?) She is there in lieu of her roommate, who was meant to interview Grey for the college newspaper but has fallen sick. Ana, ushered into his presence, stumbles first over the threshold and then over her words, but begins to melt as he expounds on his bountiful gifts. “I’ve always been good at people,” he says, as though people were Scrabble or squash. He is interested in “what motivates them—what incentivizes them.” Any woman should run a mile from a man who uses the verb “incentivize,” but things could have been worse, I guess. He could have said “monetize.” He also lends her a pencil, bearing the word “Grey,” the tip of which she rubs against her lip. Either she has a cold sore or these folks are getting ready to rumble.

Their next encounter comes at a hardware store, where Christian is stocking up on masking tape, cable ties, and rope. “You’re the complete serial killer,” Ana says. Now, there’s a thought. We know Ana reads Jane Austen, and here, for a second, she sounds like the heroine of “Northanger Abbey,” who is mocked for always assuming the worst, or, at any rate, the most gothically arousing. Also, Dornan is no stranger to wickedness; in “The Fall,” a BBC drama that shows on Netflix, he is a serial killer, armed with a rasping beard, his native Belfast accent, and roughly ten times the sexual allure that he projects in “Fifty Shades.” Could Ana’s fears be well founded? Is Christian a terminator? No. He is many things—a pianist, a pilot, a pervert, and a tremendous bore—but evil is not in his wardrobe. Ana asks casually if he is a “do-it-yourselfer.” That would explain a lot.

Christian, it transpires, has a private passion, the cause of what James calls “his odd I’ve-got-a-whopping-big-secret smile.” Down a corridor of his apartment, behind a locked door, lurks his Red Room. Lavishly stuffed with the tools of domestic torture, it is supposed to radiate a breathless lust, although the result looks more like a spread from House Beautiful. Here, within these crimson walls, our hero is free to express himself as a “dominant,” meaning not that he is the fifth tone of the diatonic scale, which really would be hot, but, rather, that he constrains and chastises women who wish to be treated thus. At least, that’s what he tells himself. Mostly, he sounds like your basic stalker: “I’m incapable of leaving you alone,” he informs Ana—a notion that appears to stimulate her, although it would easily warrant a call to 911. She succumbs, up to a point, but her recurring doubts lead Christian to dish up one of those crusty old no-means-yes propositions which feminism has battled for decades: “You want to leave? Your body tells me something different.” Pass the butt plug.

So how does the movie, directed by Sam Taylor-Johnson, stack up against the book? And what’s in it for non-Jamesians? Well, we lose Ana’s introduction to fellatio, set precariously in a bathtub; in a similar vein, we skip the breakfast that she shares with Christian at an International House of Pancakes. Above all, we are denied James’s personifications, which are so much livelier than her characters: “My sleepy subconscious has a final swipe at me.” “yes! My inner goddess is thrilled.” “no! my psyche screams.” Couldn’t someone have got Sarah Silverman to play the psyche?

On the other hand, the film, by dint of its simple competence—being largely well acted, not too long, and sombrely photographed, by Seamus McGarvey—has to be better than the novel. It could hardly be worse. No new reader, however charitable, could open “Fifty Shades of Grey,” browse a few paragraphs, and reasonably conclude that the author was writing in her first language, or even her fourth. There are poignant moments when the plainest of physical actions is left dangling beyond the reach of her prose: “I slice another piece of venison, holding it against my mouth.” The global appeal of the novel has led some fans to hallow it as a classic, but, with all due respect, it is not to be confused with “Madame Bovary.” Rather, “Fifty Shades of Grey” is the kind of book that Madame Bovary would read. Yet we should not begrudge E. L. James her triumph, for she has, in her lumbering fashion, tapped into a truth that often eludes more elegant writers—that eternal disappointment, deep in the human heart, at the failure of our loved ones to acquire their own helipad.

Much of the novel’s fixation with style, or with the barrage of stuff that a sense of style can buy, is carried onto the screen. Where the money shots should be, we get shots of what money can provide. The subtle silk ties that adorned the paperback covers, and which somehow made it O.K., by a dazzling sleight of the publisher’s hand, to read soft pornography in public, are arrayed in the opening scene. Ana can barely move for Audis. Christian wows her with rides, first in his thunderous chopper and then in his smooth white glider, presumably praying that she won’t have seen Pierce Brosnan do the same in “The Thomas Crown Affair.” The only viewer, in fact, who may feel shortchanged by “Fifty Shades of Grey” is Liam Helmer, who is listed in the credits as “BDSM Technical Consultant.” Check out the Red Room: rack upon rack of cutting-edge bullwhips, a variety of high-end ass paddles, and more restraining cuffs than you can shake a stick at. And how much of this kit gets used? A mere fraction, and even then Christian, supposedly the maestro of pain, can do little more than brush his cat-o’-nine-tails over Ana’s flesh with a feathery backhand. He looks like Roger Federer, practicing gentle cross-court lobs at the net.

Was 50 Shades of Grey a good movie?

It was almost like a Saturday Night Live skit, except they weren't playing for laughs in this movie they were serious, but it was cringeworthy at best. Christian Grey is no hero, and Dakota Johnson was so understated it was like she wasn't even there at all.

Is Fifty Shades of Grey a hit movie?

Fifty Shades of Grey grossed US$166.2 million in the US and Canada and US$403.5 million in other countries, for a worldwide total of US$569.7 million against a budget of US$40 million.

Should a 12 year old watch 50 Shades of GREY?

The Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) rated it "R," meaning that children younger than 17 need to be accompanied by a parent or adult guardian. The British Board of Film Classification gave it an "18."

Was Jamie Dornan wife okay with Fifty Shades of Grey?

Amelia Warner