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.
And there you
have the problem with this film. It is gray with good taste—shade upon shade of
muted naughtiness, daubed within the limits of the R rating. Think of it as the
“Downton Abbey” of bondage, designed neither to menace nor to offend but purely
to cosset the fatigued imagination. You get dirtier talk in most action movies,
and more genitalia in a TED talk on Renaissance sculpture. True, Dakota Johnson
does her best, and her semi-stifled giggles suggest that, unlike James, she can
see the funny side of all this nonsense. When Christian, alarmed by Ana’s
maidenhood, considers “rectifying the situation,” she replies, “I’m a
situation?”—a sharp rejoinder, although if I were her I’d be much more worried
about the rectifying. Even Johnson’s valiant performance, however, cannot
pierce the gloom, or persuade her co-star to lighten up. He brings color to her
cheeks, courtesy of mild slaps, but she brings no light to his spirit in
return. He spends half the time badgering her about a contract that has been
drawn up, in which she—“the Submissive”—must consent to his supremacy. Clauses
and subsections are haggled over in such detail that one feels bound to ask:
How much of a sex film can this be, given that the people most likely to be
turned on by it are lawyers?
“Fifty Shades
of Grey” was released in time for Valentine’s Day. That’s a bold move, since
the film is not just unromantic but specifically anti-romantic; take your
valentine along, by all means, but, be warned, it’ll be like watching
“Rosemary’s Baby” at Christmas. Try holding hands as the hero taunts the
rituals of sentiment, such as going out for dinner and a movie: “That’s not
really my thing.” What his thing actually is, Lord knows, although, to judge by
the importance that he attaches to grooming, regular feeding, and nicely buffed
leather goods, my suspicion is that he doesn’t want a girlfriend at all. I know
Mr. Grey’s whopping-big secret. He wants a pony.
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