Universal
If you’ve caught any episodes of house-flipping programs, you’ve likely noticed the renovations follow a predictable blueprint: open floor plans, shiplap walls, standard subway tile backsplashes, and maybe a cheesy quote inscribed above the fireplace. The hosts didn’t achieve success through bold originality—that might alienate viewers, especially those who didn’t seek them out. Instead, they excel at crafting a uniform, beige version of elegance, a home that diverse tastes can universally label “nice.” They market a carefully polished but utterly dull vision of suburban perfection. Watching Fifty Shades Freed, it becomes clear the franchise does the same for erotica—imagine if shiplap and backsplash could have sex.
The characters are literally named “Steele” and “Grey,” so devoid of color they’re named after neutral shades. If you’re ever feeling unoriginal, this film will quickly remind you otherwise. Compared to its protagonists, I felt like a seasoned polyamorous commune dweller. Twilight (from which Fifty Shades famously originated as fan fiction) at least carried emotional weight. This series lacks the courage to be truly trashy. You might cringe at Stephenie Meyer’s saucier Twilight passages, but a sex fantasy should feel slightly awkward—private, a bit mischievous. Fifty Shades never feels intimate enough to be naughty. It’s a one-size-fits-all showroom fantasy, pure cynical marketing: desire stripped of personality.
I anticipate thinkpieces today questioning why we always criticize entertainment for women, but that’s not my angle. I don’t begrudge wine moms their socially acceptable thrills, even if this particular brand doesn’t appeal to me. Truly. That’s not what makes Fifty Shades so nauseating. The real issue is that the film’s notion of sex is inextricably tied to spending. The sex isn’t really sex; it’s just another component of an aspirational Crate and Barrel lifestyle, alongside matching china and silk duvet covers.
Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan) and Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson)—Christian with his piercing stare and notably small teeth, Ana with her wide eyes and continuity-friendly glossy hair—tie the knot in the opening montage. After a lingering shot of Christian’s private jet (filmed with more eroticism than anything involving Christian, perhaps standing in for his never-revealed manhood), there’s another mini-montage of the couple kissing in exotic French locales. It resembles a cruise line commercial, complete with a royalty-free R&B soundtrack. The first real scene places them on a postcard-perfect European beach. Ana wants to go topless like the other women, but Christian objects. Is it jealousy over sharing her naked body with other men (creepy and unhealthy, but at least sexual)? No—as Christian later hisses from his jetski, he’s worried about “some sicko paparazzo.”
He’s rich, get it? Obscenely, effortlessly wealthy. That’s essentially his sole defining trait, aside from his intense, often comical earnestness. Nearly every scene boils down to “Christian is very rich, and he and Ana have a very nice life.”
(The best part of Fifty Shades Freed occurs when the wealth porn awkwardly clashes with the erotica, creating unintentional comedy—like intense Christian getting angry at Ana’s bare breasts and hissing “Let’s go back to the boat” before storming off on a jetski.)
Ana likes a house on “the Sound”? Christian buys it as a surprise. Ana misses her friends? Christian whisks them all away on a surprise vacation to his Aspen home via private jet. He even lets her drive one of his ten grey Audis—the fast one—which the camera ogles more than any human subject. In the previous film, Ana had a creepy boss, so Christian bought the company and fired him.
