No matter what else people said about Fifty Shades of Grey, the widely reviled (and Razzie-award winning) erotic potboiler, and plenty was said, at least it gave most people a glimpse into another aspect of sexuality, one that seldom shows up onscreen in mainstream projects, and the idea of grafting that alternative lifestyle onto the hoary mainstay of romances, the Cinderella story, was clever. But while Fifty Shades botched the execution of its premise, the new sequel, Fifty Shades Darker, seems to have ditched the premise and most of the real kinkiness in favor of a completely botched version of a more mainstream film.
Fifty Shades Darker begins where the first movie left off, with Anastasia “Ana” Steele (Dakota Johnson) deciding that the BDSM lifestyle isn’t for her and walking out on her filthy rich, extremely handsome, and highly kinky boyfriend, Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan). She manages to land on her feet from a job perspective, finding employment as an assistant to Jack Hyde (Eric Johnson), an editor at a small Seattle independent publisher. But Ana still finds herself drawn to Christian, whom she sees again at an art gallery opening, and she agrees to give him another chance.
This time around, Christian is determined to do whatever it takes not to lose Ana, so he swears off the kinky stuff and instead engages in some heated but rather vanilla romps in the hay. Ana also learns more about Christian’s background, that he was introduced to the BDSM lifestyle by Elena Lincoln (Kim Basinger), a Mrs. Robinson-style dominatrix and friend of his adoptive family. Naturally, learning these details about Christian makes Ana fall even more deeply in love with him, so much so that she agrees to engage in some moderately kinky bedroom escapades.
Of course, Ana and Christian can’t find true love right away, so the last half of the movie is filled with mini-crises that are seemingly either life- or career-threatening. Ana learns that her boss is an actual Mr. Hyde who makes a rather crude pass at her (hard to believe anyone trying this with the girlfriend of a potentially jealous billionaire) and later runs into Elaine (Bella Heathcote), a former submissive of Christian’s who is still in love with him and starts stalking Ana. And finally, there’s the tried-and-true natural disaster, as Christian’s helicopter goes missing in the mountains while he’s on a business trip, leaving his family and friends to worry whether he’s still around.
Normally, I wouldn’t spoil a movie, even one as dreadful as Fifty Shades Darker, but the mere fact that the highly publicized third installment in the trilogy is already filming should alert audiences to the fact that none of these predicaments will end in a permanently unfortunate manner for the loving couple. However, that wouldn’t prevent any or all of them from becoming the type of juicy, over-the-top soap operatic plot machinations that make for enjoyable tawdry melodrama. Instead, director James Foley and screenwriter Niall Leonard rush through them so quickly, most viewers won’t even realize the danger’s over. The helicopter “mishap” is the worst offender in this regard. Following a single shot of the helicopter flying through the mountains with large clouds of black smoke billowing out, the next scene is the required gathering of friends and relatives anxiously awaiting news, followed by Christian walking in nonchalantly as if he’d merely been caught in heavy traffic.
If the plot crises in Fifty Shades Darker are disappointingly easy to resolve, the sex scenes have been tamed to the extent that, if they aren’t exactly totally vanilla, then they are no spicier than, say, cherry vanilla. True, Dakota Johnson still manages to wiggle out of her clothes (often, various varieties of slinky underwear) on numerous occasions, and viewers get to see Jamie Dornan’s rather ripped abs and glutes on more than one occasion, but what they actually do is quite tame in comparison to what occurs in the first movie. Primarily, the sequel’s kinkiness consists of playing with a variety of sex toys that might have been shocking in a 1967 film, but not one that’s supposed to be cutting edge erotica for 2017.
Tame also describes the performance of Jamie Dornan, who still appears ill at ease when he’s actually required to do anything other than model fancy clothes and show off his body. He has little chemistry with Johnson, who is the only thing remotely resembling a saving grace in Fifty Shades Darker. Johnson manages to recall her mother’s cute innocence, which carries through to this movie’s sex scenes as well. We never quite lose sight of the fact that Ana is still a bit of an Alice who has gone through the Looking Glass into a kinky Wonderland.
Ironically, what’s more on display in Fifty Shades Darker isn’t conspicuously bizarre erotica but conspicuously gaudy affluence. The movie could be an updated fictionalization of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous as it lavishes far more attention on the Grey family wealth and what it buys than on any of the sexual aspects. This is luxury porn, something that has little effect on Ana but which the filmmakers hope will have an effect on the filmgoing audience.
Other than some decent moments from Dakota Johnson, who deserves a better vehicle (she was much better in a more legitimately sexy movie last year, A Bigger Splash), there’s no reason to see Fifty Shades Darker. The movie has a grand total of one good dialogue exchange, between Ana and her own assistant in regard to getting coffee, but that exchange just happens to be a nearly exact quote from Dakota’s mother’s best film, Working Girl. That movie, in contrast to Fifty Shades Darker, actually had a plot, interesting characters, and offered better insight into its admittedly more vanilla subject matter. Using the quote from Working Girl is an in-joke in a film utterly bereft of humor that’s designed to appeal to people who won’t possible understand the joke. And that’s pretty much sums up what’s wrong with Fifty Shades Darker.
