Ah, the 50 Shades series. Never has a novel been more vilified by the population (though it’s probably a close call between that and the original books that inspired the series.) The story of sordid, steamy, sensual sex is what draws people to this curious phenomenon, yet very few people will actually admit to watching the films or reading the book. While one may ask why no one confesses to appeasing their more base instincts, it is impossible to understand why without observing these secretive creatures in their natural habitat. The job fell to me to expose what it was that allowed such risqué filth to stain our cinemas (and cinema seats) and, more importantly, how to combat it. Thus, when the time came to review 50 Shades Darker, I expressed interest. For purely scientific reasons, of course.
However, I could not walk in there as myself, lest I get spotted by someone who might recognise me. Instead, I opted to go in disguise. I dusted off my fanciest leather gimp suit, affixed my ball gag firmly to my lips and proceeded to delve into what is being called the steamy underbelly of cinema.
Unfortunately, I failed to take into account the distinct lack of visibility whilst wearing the mask, and my hearing with it on is somewhat akin to trying to listen to a whisper whilst being subjected to an underwater rock concert next to an industrial steel factory undergoing heavy construction work. As such, I found my viewing pleasure rather muted, not to mention the amount of time it took for me to walk to my local cinema without aid.
Still, I shall endeavour to relay my review of the film and its people to you, dear reader as best I can.
The film opens with (what I must assume) is a title sequence which summarises the previous chapter in this saga and sets the scene for what will be happening in the upcoming plot (steamy bathroom scenes one hopes! It’s always a joy to see a properly hot shower used instead of a tepid trickle.)
Following that was some muffled dialogue, followed by a very loud gushing noise as the audience saw something interesting. It was at this point I was required to make an educated guess and say that something raunchy had occurred, possibly with whips and chains, but I cannot verify my claims at present.
These gasps of joy continued fairly regularly throughout the film, but there were one or two members who had obviously paid money to come and heckle the screen. As the story progressed, there were jeers, taunts and boos thrown about as the disrespectful manner in which the male protagonist treated his female love interest (or morally grey area sexual partner, if I may be allowed to clean up some of the more colourful language used) became more and more heinous. It was around this time that I became aware that some of the initial barrage of popcorn, soft drinks and vitriol were not solely aimed at the screen (apparently my attire was not considered “respectable cinema-going wear”) and I proceeded to make haste towards the nearest exit. Unfortunately, in my eagerness to escape I lost my footing and ended up placing my hand on an empty seat which retained an unhealthy degree of moisture from a previous screening.
It was here my fortitude left me, and I ran screaming from the cinema. I cannot comment on the content of this film, but I must assume that it would be enjoyed by those whose lives are unfulfilled and they wish for an illicit thrill. I will, however, say that those people who wish to see it are likely insane, and should be herded into strait-jackets and padded cells the second they leave the screening. I can say this with confidence as it is what happened to me. According to the police report, I had disturbed the other patrons and needed to be restrained for my own safety. I have no worries though, the orderlies are lovely, the pink pills stop the screaming, and what is a strait-jacket if not a slightly less constricting BDSM outfit?