The ending of Fifty
Shades of Grey really made the picture. Before a finale in which meek
Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson) firmly turns down the imposing and domineering
Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan), the movie had been a modestly enjoyable adult
drama, a sort of half-sexy, half-preposterous interlude between pretty young
people engaging in teasingly revealed sexual exploration between bouts of bland
business speak and low-boil rom-com flirting. Ah, but in its final moments it
turned what had been a lopsided power dynamic – rich sadist gets off hurting a
sweet underling who likes it, but only up to a point – into a loaded denial. He
pleads with her to stay. She, having finally realized he liked hurting her more
than she liked it and more than her willingness to play along could withstand,
says a firm, simple, strong, “No.” It’s the last thing we hear as the elevator
doors close on the final cut to black. Because Johnson had been such a fun
performer, equally enthusiastic and full of personality in bedroom scenes and
barroom conversations alike, she almost single-handedly kept the movie from
tipping over into prurient giggling or exploitative leering, especially with Dornan’s
dour wooden display at her side. This final assertion of her control over the
situation lent the movie a nice, contained little arc the sequels were bound to
trample.
As Fifty Shades Darker
begins, Anastasia continues to rebuff Christian’s creepily insistent
attempts to get his way back into her life. Alas, as following the dictates of
the garbage book that inspired this whole thing demands, she must allow this to
happen. If the first film was ultimately about a young woman trying out a
relationship with a cold, distant, persnickety man just to see if she could
make it work, the second is about that same woman getting pulled back into the
relationship just because. If these stories are theoretically about true love,
and I suspect that’s the ending we’re angling towards in next year’s supposed
finale, it has done a poor job showing it. This installment, directed by James
Foley (both a long way, and somehow not, from his better, similarly icy-toned,
attractively cast and photographed 90’s thrillers Fear and After Dark, My Sweet),
finds the couple trying out a new dynamic, with fewer rules and diminished
expectations. She gets a new job. He buys the company. She meets his family. He
takes her sailing. Playing out with smooth adult contemporary ballads under the
glossy catalogue spread looking montages – people standing around in sweaters,
on boats, at masquerade balls, and beside fireplaces – it tries to gin up
interest with some workplace drama and Dark Secrets From The Past. At least it
allows for the introduction of Kim Basinger, a welcome sight in an all-too-tiny
role.
What little attention paid to the central relationship takes
their chemistry and compatibility for granted. Even the sex scenes, the most memorable a fully-clothed shower make out session, aren’t as
entertaining as the first’s, more actors’ contract negotiation than character
development. (That’s really saying something when the original had literal
contract negotiation built into the plot mechanics.) It’s like everyone
involved suspects this couple’s long-term happiness won’t, or shouldn’t, work
out, but are obligated to stand by them and see it through. (I’m sure many of
us have been to weddings like that.) Even when we learn Christian is not just a
dominant lover, but also a bit of a burgeoning cult leader – an ex (Bella
Heathcote) still falls submissive before his meekest gestures, like she’s still
under his spell – the weird sense of inevitable True Love pulls at the main
couple. But why would the movie insist watching the funny, bookish, charming
young woman continue to be drawn back into the world of this clearly unwell,
closed-off, stone-faced billionaire is a route to a happy ending? It tries to
be both a romance and a modern Gothic mystery (the question simmering underneath:
what’s the deep darkness at the heart of family Grey?), but the latter
continually turns the former far more sinister than intended.
And yet, why, then, does the movie give off the dull,
consistent feeling of moderate surface pleasure? Perhaps it is because Johnson’s
tremulous, dancing, sparkling line readings pirouette off the clunky dialogue
(scripted by author E.L. James’ husband) and Foley’s use of competent cold grey
photography is seductive Hollywood sheen. And even when I was baffled by the
plot’s direction – and by how little actually happens – I was tickled enough by
the splashes of melodrama – a drink thrown in a woman’s face at a fancy party!
improbable publishing office politics! a random helicopter accident thrown in
to gin up false suspense before the movie’s narrative totally flatlines! – to
get carried along in its dumb gloss. It’s an empty-headed diversion, as silky a
nothing as the original Zayn/Taylor Swift duet that twice slickly slides in one
ear and out the other on the soundtrack. These are hardly the best reasons to
recommend a movie. And, sure, it’s the sort of faux-transgressive that, say, The Handmaiden’s silver bells would make
blush. But I was moderately entertained by this low-key mind-numbing polish.
