For better or worse, E.L. James stumbled upon a winning formula. With her pop-fiction, she took S&M and turned it into a multi-million best selling series that tapped into the taboo fantasies of older conservative women. The appeal of a book being dirty and not for public discourse is exciting and one that likely drew many to the book, finding this perverse curiosity of just what the big deal was. For those who have made it to the other side and seen past the titillation, it will be difficult to really appreciate what this story is doing. Even for those who might find the sexuality of the book thrilling, it's difficult to not notice the redundancy that keeps James from making either protagonist a fascinating subject to latch onto. There's little evolution over the course of 500 pages and by the cliffhanger ending, the only one who feels screwed over is the reader's time.
A big issue with "Fifty Shades of Grey" is that its protagonist doesn't make sense. She's somehow from a major school and yet doesn't have great critical thinking skills. Every move in the story, she speaks with the optimism of a woman who dropped out of a two year college to work at Jo-Ann's. Her aspirations are high, but she never seems to take enough initiative to move forward with her life. Sure, it makes it easier for her to be a submissive partner, but her observations aren't insightful and obvious, making the journey into a wealthy, sexual fantasy all the more disappointing. There's no abundance of great detail to make this feel like the great desire that everyone should have. While Christian Grey is someone who has his own psychological issues, the bigger conflict is Anastasia Steele's inability to feel like she evolves as a person or learn from her mistakes. The story in itself feels like it cycles through the same on again-off again technique of Anastasia rejecting Christian that goes from being empowering to just watching a moth fly into a flame over and over.
Which is a shame because James could've latched onto a pretty great fantasy if done right. Given that this was written in the wake of The Great Recession, the idea of financial wealth and security seem like practical goals. It makes sense to be allured by Christian's planes and mansions. The luxury is amazing escapism. What ends up happening is that because Anastasia is so poorly intellectualized, the subsequent erotic touch takes on a less desirable meaning. It comes to mean that the capitalist 1% is screwing over the 99% who believe it will buy them happiness. It may feel thrilling in the moment, but it comes to reveal itself as cold and disconnected, finding the fantasy to be a facade that leaves everyone unfulfilled. Capitalism doesn't solve anyone's bitterness or familial issues. Everyone is still angry and it makes the whole thing ring hollow. Only those dumb enough to go back probably deserve it.
Had this been a 300 page novel, there's a good reason to argue that this would be a delightful and pulpy little novel. Everything about the fast pace could've allowed the rush of Anastasia's impulsive thinking to make more sense and the draw to the moment could be something greater. Instead there is so much fat that one can't help but feel exhausted. There is no pacing that keeps the hormonal pulse hard. It's flaccid as Anastasia continually returns to the same confounding strains that go nowhere. This should've been the soap opera of the millennium. It should make the seedy subplots of betrayal feel like more than people walking through an art gallery. There should be something more substantial to say that by the time the sex scenes emerge they have life. Instead, knowing how boring Anastasia is makes you wonder why you care about her boringly getting railed. Christian may have fantasies, but at a certain point, the steaminess is reduced to the nuance of a tween laughing at words like titmouse.
"Fifty Shades of Grey" is in theory a book that could never fully deliver on the promise of its taboo reputation. On the one hand, it gives everything that one would want. The issue is that it's buried underneath three or four drafts shy of that masterpiece. What's here is so drawn out and lacking real depth or emotional connection that nothing ceases to matter. There's mostly characters without real agency or purpose simply going about a pointless journey. Without that, the thrilling parts of the book feel more like smut on a page. Even then, smut is a texture that one can feel rubbing onto their finger and have an experience with. It may bring you shame, but you'll still have a stronger reaction than anyone in this book does having sex. For a book that's sold as penetrating those walls, I don't think it bangs nearly hard enough.
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