Being an aspiring filmmaker, naturally I still live at home. Whilst this comes with a plethora of upsides and downsides, an enduring constant is being acutely aware of the social lives of both my parents. As such, I am aware that my mother attends a bi-monthly book club, something which I find, or should I say found, entirely charming.
Although I haven’t read any of the literature (if you can call it that), I am aware of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey‘. Let’s face it, how can you not be, unless you live under a rock. I am also aware of how, although dumfoundingly extremely popular, there was much criticism surrounding not only the nature of the book, but the quality of the writing. My curiosity piqued, I will admit to watching the first film when it was released. Suffice it to say, the film didn’t disappoint- it was offensive- but not in the way it so pathetically wanted to be.
I consider myself a man of the world. It wasn’t the content which offended me. Film is supposed to be immersive, dealing with subject matter which wouldn’t ordinarily be debated, transporting audiences to imaginative places. Indeed, some of the best works contain the most sordid material.
But, and I will try not to digress too much, the film was like a teenage boy’s fantasy of a perfume advert, hopped up on too much red bull and masturbation. It was a reprehensible excuse for a film, for so many reasons, and why anybody remotely dignified and considerate of their prestigious career in the film industry would want to be in any way connected to it baffles me; conspiring to make this film is the equivalent of the police finding a rancid corpse with no clues, and somebody trampling onto the crime scene and fingering the murder weapon.
The only thing worse than the first movie was when I discovered there would not only be a sequel, but this was a trilogy of books- and by jove, they were going to make every single one. As I understand, the final ‘chapter’ in this farcical series was released last year. Popping my head up from behind the parapet, I believed all was quiet, and that the hail of bondage masks and pouting and gleeful women had subsided; it was once again safe to venture back into the cinema.
So imagine my dismay when I switched on the television this morning, and saw a sight I truly never expected. Mopping my spilled mouthful of coffee from my chin, I had to rewind to make sure I wasn’t having a nightmare. Alas, my eyes had not deceived me.
Four lifelong friends have their lives forever changed after reading 50 Shades of Grey in their monthly book club.
Just allow that premise to sink in for a second. And no, I haven’t made that up- that came directly from iMDB.
But that’t not all. Here is the top billed cast:
Diane Keaton.
Jane Fonda.
Andy Garcia.
Richard Dreyfuss.
Just to put this into perspective: Diane Keaton was in The Godfather.
I know actors have bills to pay. But, if it were a choice between do this movie to pay the mortgage on my Beverly Hills mansion or stay upwind and downsize to a project in Detroit? Get me that Greyhound ticket…Diane Keaton was in The Godfather!
Should I be surprised that this film was commissioned? Probably not. But that doesn’t for one second make the whole affair any less vomit-inducing. Let’s be clear:
It’s not the thought of some newly sexually-awakened sixty-somethings.
It’s not even the thought of respected actors taking a pay day- even De Niro has done that (see Bad Grandpa).
It’s the sheer gall of the producers who, after everything that has gone on in Hollywood recently, want to resurrect this festering turd of a work and let it air out in our newly purged minds. Fifty Shades, despite what any ears-pricked producer might tell you, did nothing for female empowerment. It did nothing for female sexual liberation. What it did was, capitalise on the very insecurities women in the #metoo movement strive to destroy; namely, sexual manipulation. And what it told us is that basically, if you’re willing to fuck a billionaire, everything will be alright.
I don’t care how it turned out in Chapter Three. That’s what I saw.
Not only that, but it belittled anything other than regular, heterosexual, missionary sex. It was like a group of schoolgirls who’d found her father’s Playboys, giggling at the thought that people might indulge in anything other than the perfunctory.
To even suggest it enlivened women of a certain age and class is absolute hogwash.
And the ultimate irony? The group that Fifty Shades back-handed across the face was exactly the group which pumped billions of dollars into the studios pockets. That’s the part I find the saddest.
I will, however, be keeping a closer eye on the material discussed at Mum’s book club.
Maximilian Ward 