Cultural Capital 12 February 2015 More M&Ms than S&M: Fifty Shades of Grey is noxiously sweet – and totally blank We can’t disparage these actors any more than we can blame a man in a hammerless world for failing to bang a nail into the wall. Actors Jamie Dornan (L) and Dakota Johnson at a fan screening of Fifty Shades Of Grey. Photo: Mike Coppola/Getty Images Sign UpGet the New Statesman's Morning Call email. Sign-up Mindful of how E L James’s sadomasochistic love story Fifty Shades of Grey became a hit and then a phenomenon and finally a laughing-stock by word of mouth alone, Universal Pictures decided not to preview the film version to critics more than a few days in advance of its release. The studio wanted to give it to the fans first, which is awfully altruistic of them. Providing, that is, that the movie didn’t transpire to be the insult to cinema that the book is to literature. Whether it is a philosophical disquisition on baby oil (“From makeup remover to soothing balm for a spanked ass, who would have thought it was such a versatile liquid”) or the unerring eye for evocative detail (“The Mac laptop… has a very large screen”), nothing done in the book with crops and whips is half as painful as the humiliations visited upon the English language. The achingly dramatic Fifty Shades of Grey trailer Sam Taylor-Johnson’s film version is neither as bad as it could have been nor as good as it needs to be. The source of the book’s wretchedness was its interior monologue (“Sitting beside me, he gently pulls my sweatpants down. Up and down like a whores’ drawers, my subconscious remarks bitterly”). So it was wise to announce visually the abandonment of that first-person perspective. The film begins with a shot that the book’s narrator, Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson), could not have witnessed: the billionaire businessman Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan) preparing for his morning run. He then heads to his office where Anastasia, a student, arrives to interview him for a magazine. His answers are laced with feeble innuendoes. “I exercise control over all things… I enjoy various physical pursuits… My tastes are very ‘singular’.” The Monty Python pervert played by Eric Idle (“nudge, nudge, wink, wink, say no more”) starts to resemble a character of Strindbergian complexity. Each clue Christian gives Anastasia as they begin to spend time with one another is converted by her into a romantic challenge. He tells her he is bad, the wrong man for her, and she can only wonder at the enormity of his heart. The movie attempts a similarly self-defeating transformation. For all its bondage trappings, this is a noxiously sweet love story, more M&Ms than S&M. The camera strives for jeopardy and unease in its shots of Anastasia surrendering to Christian’s sexual demands. The soundtrack, dominated by slow-burning ballads with a disco pulse, tells a more reassuring story. The effect is similar to a “Danger! Keep Out!” sign daubed in smiley faces, or the “Not!” disclaimer made famous by Wayne’s World. It is hard to know what is at stake in Fifty Shades of Grey. The grammar of its sex scenes is rudimentary and orthodox. A bead of sweat or a clinch not shot in immaculately-lit silhouette or a foot that didn’t arch in pleasure would be far more transgressive than anything kept in Christian’s pain room. Nudity is biased toward the female participant as usual. Even this movie would not countenance the cliché of sex on a shagpile carpet before a roaring fire, but it mints its own clichés. Christian always plays the piano after sex – it’s his equivalent of the post-coital cigarette. (Fans of the film may start to feel exhausted now whenever they hear a Steinway.) And though Anastasia’s choice description of enjoying her “very own Christian Grey-flavoured popsicle” is gone, she is shown nibbling the end of one of his company pencils. I only wish I’d read more Freud so that I could work out what was going on here. The question of whether Johnson and Dornan are any good is impossible to answer. Theirs are not tactically blank performances of the sort given by, say, Keanu Reeves in The Matrix or Nina Hoss in Yella. They simply have no material to work with. His single character trait is that he has a dark secret. Hers is that she wants to know what it is. (She’ll have to wait for the sequels like everyone else.) We can’t disparage these actors any more than we can blame a man in a hammerless world for failing to bang a nail into the wall. The movie isn’t exactly bad – merely empty. If you want unembarrassed frankness about sadomasochism, watch Barbet Schroeder’s splendidly nonplussed 1975 film Maitresse starring a loutish young Gerard Depardieu. If you want humour on the same subject, give Adam & the Ants’ “A Whip in My Valise” a spin for its daft rhymes (“I paid a packet/ For a new straitjacket”) and cheerful refrain (“Who taught you to torture?/ Who taught ’cha?”). And if you want a psychologically complex portrait of the hazards of falling in love with a damaged man, try this scene from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure: Pee Wee: “There’s a lotta things about me you don’t know anything about, Dottie. Things you wouldn’t understand. Things you couldn’t understand. Things you shouldn’t understand.” Dottie: “I don’t understand.” Now read Laurie Penny's defense of the Fifty Shades of Grey books in 2012 › Mehdi Hasan: Five questions that trouble Ed Miliband’s many disillusioned supporters Ryan Gilbey is the New Statesman's film critic. He is also the author of It Don't Worry Me (Faber), about 1970s US cinema, and a study of Groundhog Day in the "Modern Classics" series (BFI Publishing). He was named reviewer of the year in the 2007 Press Gazette awards and is Film Critic in Residence at Falmouth University. Subscribe For the latest TV, art, films and book reviews subscribe for just £1 per month!