The fans get their big moments - the first clinch in the lift, Grey’s catchphrase, “Laters, baby” - but sceptics can glean the sense that the filmmakers are wise to the ludicrousness of it all. They also seem to pitch the action on two levels. Firstly, they strip away the book’s ropy language, all the “Holy mackerel!” this and “inner goddess” that. She yearns for a more typical movie-and-a-Nando’s-type relationship but tests her ‘hard’ and ‘soft’ limits anyway.įor the first 45 minutes or so, Taylor-Johnson and screenwriter Kelly Marcel play this smart. He lavishes his wealth on her (a first-edition Tess Of The D’Urbervilles, a snazzy red Audi) hoping she’ll sign a contract to become his “submissive”. The set-up is a simple one: bookish Anastasia Steele (Johnson) meets Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan), a business tycoon hiding a troubled past, a lust for BDSM (not the driving school) and a penchant for playing really miserable tunes on the piano. Instead, we get a sparky first third, a rote obsessive love story, anodyne kinkiness, contentious sexual politics, slivers of skilful filmmaking and a promising turn from Dakota Johnson. James’ Twilight fan fiction-turned-phenomenon is neither so terrible to be laughable nor so brilliant to be powerful. Arriving with all the appendages of a modern blockbuster - a Beyoncé tie-in, a trailer YouTubed 193 million times, a LEGO parody - Fifty Shades Of Grey is one of those movies that the “internet” had condemned terrible, sight unseen.
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