Fifty Shades of not much to write home about

IT WAS during my work experience at the Wanganui Chronicle that I was first asked to explore the erotic fiction of E.L. James and write a small article about it.

I set about my task, ringing round various bookshops, asking about sales. I visited the library to see how popular her books had been and if they still had copies on the shelves. Most agreed her books, while not penned by Shakespeare, were certainly popular and, despite the subject matter, pretty harmless.

That was roughly three years ago and if ever you needed proof that sex sells, this is a classic example. So it was only a matter of time before the book about Greys was adapted for the silver screen.

I have to hand it to the Embassy Theatre. Their decision to have a masquerade-themed opening night for the premiere of Fifty Shades of Grey was inspired. The use of a mask allowed me to hide my shame and avoid being detected at such a public event.

Reading, or rather attempting to read, the book was humiliating enough but paying good money to watch the screen adaptation was more painful than any of the S&M scenes contained within the movie. Talk about adding insult to injury.

Reviews are subjective, I know, and I have no doubt many will think the book and the film are nothing short of creative genius, but I beg to differ.

The book was such a disappointing experience, painful almost and not in the erotic way author E.L. James was referring to. I can't speak with much knowledge about the S&M scene other than to say that James' was adept at torturing the English language. She had it on a rack, stretching it uncomfortably in all directions. Slapping and beating at it, whipping it into unnatural submission by all manner of unspeakable acts.

I haven't been so embarrassed for an author (I use the term loosely) since Dan Brown and The Da Vinci Code, another literary travesty.

Nothing could be as bad as the book, could it? The movie just had to be better ... well, that was my hope.

I came to the premiere prepared for every eventuality. Tissues in case of too much laughing or crying and/or a combo of both. A sick bag (self-explanatory), earplugs, a fan, in case things got a little too steamy, and match sticks to avoid nodding off.

I wanted to pull the usher to one side and slip them a piece of paper with instructions to deliver it to the projectionist (or push play button operator).

On that piece of paper was my "safe word'', cauliflower. The plan was, if my eyes and ears could no longer tolerate the audio-visual punishment I would scream out this word and the film would stop rolling, allowing me time to make a safe and dignified, masked exit.

With an R18 rating I omitted to wear any blusher, on the assumption that the film's content would be enough to make me blush, naturally. I was expecting something hot and spicy. Instead I got vanilla and not even the French kind. There were long lustful looks, pouty lips and doe eyes and let's not forget the token ice cube melting on warm skin.

The use of relative newcomers in the lead roles was a smart choice. I'm picking, too, that any Hollywood A-lister who truly valued their career would not wish to be associated with this production. Both roles are such they will likely define you.

For this movie to work, the on-screen chemistry had to be amazing and while Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan certainly made for an attractive couple, the flame on the bunson burner wasn't up high enough for me. They simmered when really they should have sizzled.

I managed to keep my eyes open, but only just. The two hours and five minutes were a little too long for my liking. Much of what I brought with me was redundant. The fan, the sick bag and my safe word can go back into storage, alongside the memories of an evening and some money that could have been better spent.

Fifty Shades of Grey had no grey areas for me, whatsoever. Light blue is as good as it gets.

Feedback to investik8@gmail.com