Kink-related sexuality is often the point of ridicule in mainstream cinema, its practitioners reduced to simple, easy stereotypes (think of the “lust” victims in David Fincher’s Se7en). There is a decent amount of vanilla sex, classy bondage, and a few light whippings, but at the end of the day, one has to wonder how a film so explicit about sex could end up being so… boring. (By the film’s end, the latter apparently doesn’t even matter anymore). This supposed fantasy of a young ingenue (Dakota Johnson) being seduced by a brooding, horny billionaire (Jamie Dornan) fails to produce even a remote sense of tension, as a majority of Anastasia Steele and Christian Grey’s relationship revolves around dramatic events such as her not telling him she’s going home to see her family for a weekend, or the two sitting in conference rooms negotiating the terms of their dom/sub contract. Yet despite the raunchy source material (which was toned down significantly for the film adaptation, most critically with the removal of the book’s controversial tampon scene), Fifty Shades of Grey fundamentally fails as a narrative work of art.
This isn’t pornography, after all, but a high-budget film adaptation from a major studio, so naturally people are curious as to what it can get away with. James’ fan-fiction-turned-bestseller revolves entirely around how much sex is shown and exactly how kinky it gets.
There is no need to play with metaphors or innuendos here, because the mainstream curiosity around the film adaptation of E.L. Let’s be blunt, shall we? Fifty Shades of Grey is about kinky sex.
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