Fifty Shades of Beige

I’m probably one of only a handful of pop culture fans who hasn’t read Fifty Shades of Grey. The hype was just too much, and by the time the phenomenon had infested suburban book clubs the globe over, I’d figured the plot was probably not for me.

I was eager, however, to catch the film version of the book, to see what all the fuss was about – albeit through a tainted Hollywood lens – and for media review purposes, you understand. On both a personal and professional note, my assumption had been confirmed: the gist of this film just isn’t for me, and – as a champion of the postfeminist movement – I’d feel utterly irresponsible if I was to give it any kind of positive promotion.

That’s right, E. L. James, this critic is majorly pissed off that you have turned the clock of female empowerment back by, oh, about five hundred years…

The premise of James’ first novel in a series of (sadly) many is that a young, rich, powerful male seduces a younger, poorer, naïve female, introducing her to a BDSM sex life where he is always master and she servant to his every desire and command. It’s as close to a modern incarnation as the Marquis de Sade’s lifestyle as can get – except at least the Marquis, who lent his own name to the word sadism, would occasionally let his ladies take charge in the bedroom.

James’ male protagonist, Christian Grey, in his insistence on having a flaccid concubine in Anastasia Steele (not a suitable name, then) cater to his every sexual whim does nothing to support the gender equality movement. Even if she does ultimately reject his contract to remain subservient (in this instalment at least), the problem is that she dares to even entertain the idea (scrapping out a few contractual clauses like metal handcuffs and vaginal fisting does nothing for her dignity either).

But let’s throw aside gender politics for a moment and look at the pathetic plot of this movie, even if the roles were to be reversed. Whomever is in control of all the bondage and discipline, these supposedly radical acts of sexual deviance are, quite frankly, pitiful if not passé. Didn’t Madonna break just about every sexual taboo there was more than 20 years ago with the release of her Sex book – and virtually get crucified for it? Like the Marquis before her, at least Madonna had the decency to let both sexes take turns in yielding the riding crop.

The kinky tools E. L. James ‘introduces’ her readers too (gosh, haven’t they got Google?) such as leather wrist cuffs and – god forbid – peacock feathers, are so banal in the paradigm of modern sexual props that a great percentage of viewers are probably left wondering where all the dildos, strap-ons and cock rings are hiding. The proverbial fifty shades in title, then, are less than grey – in the sense of middle-of-the-road, mainstream, not-black-or-white – and actually closer to beige on the Pantone scale.

I once heard the buzzword ‘mom porn’ used to refer to this supposedly erotic brand of prose – stuff that housewives get turned on by, that the rest of us might consider boring, common, trite. That we’re lead to believe that even the average housewife would find the flutter of a peacock feather enough stimulus for an orgasm proves just how patronising the producers of this movie and its annoyingly irresponsible author really are.

On the subject of sexual aids, any adult only need surf the internet for five minutes to realise there’s an endless abyss of dirty, dark, deviant, sometimes even dangerous sexual options out there to be shocked by. I once witnessed a guy slide a roadside witch’s hat up an orifice it wasn’t originally intended for, so I’ve seen fifty shades of orange, dammit.

Here are three safe words for Grey fans and followers: Get. A. Life.  Antonino Tati

‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ is in cinemas.