By PAUL ANTHONY
What arises from Fifty Shades of Grey is only the best piece of cinema that could become of an already fragile and mediocre novel. I will not waste time writing about the plot of the story, for I will assume that anyone reading this review has most likely read the book by E.L. James, on which this film is based. Needless to say, Fifty Shades of Grey follows in the footsteps of all films based on fantasy novels: it does not live up to the hype of the media. Perhaps, by reading the book, readers can infuse their own imaginations and personal experiences into the plot, rendering the book more per se.
The movie, however, was simply an erotic, light porno in which the surreal plot creates an idea that sexual violence (whipping, handcuffing, and sexual objectification by physical brutality) is “okay.” In fact, I felt like a foreigner in the movie theater, where everyone besides me was exploding with excited expectations. It seemed like the brutal and questionably sensual scenes provoked sentiments of love from the watching couples.
During one particular scene, when Jamie Dornan was whipping Dakota Johnson like one does to cattle, the man in front of me turned to his wife and said, “Ti amo, amore,” to which the wife responded with a kiss. Maybe my preferences are different than most, but I definitely would not have been motivated to confess my love for a woman with that on the screen in front of us. Surely, I am not judging anyone about whatever it is that gets their crank turning. But, if this movie is working, perhaps you need to take that thing out for a spin more frequently. That being said, I think it is time for all of us to recognize that fantasies come in more than 50 shades; they are, in fact, not real.