experienced some weird moments of extreme empathy with Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson) during Fifty Shades Freed—and no, I don’t mean that in any kinky dom-sub way. I was simply as overwhelmed by the strangeness of her tale as she was.
The first scene in director James Foley’s conclusion (climax?) to the E. L. James, saga is of Anastasia’s wedding, so clearly, she said “yes” to Christian Grey’s (Jamie Dornan) proposal at the end of the last one. It’s a nice looking affair, so figure that even with Grey Money—the kind where you snap your fingers and the world immediately contorts to your wishes—there had to be time to book the hall, find a caterer, hire the right calligrapher for the invitations. The point I’m making is that even though the Grey-Steele romance has been a whirlwind since Ana literally stumbled into Christian’s office (then later his red dungeon, and, finally, his heart), it’s just inconceivable that she never found out before that he has his own jet.
By signing up you agree to our User Agreement and Privacy Policy & Cookie Statement. This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.
“This is yours?” she asks as he carries her over the threshold in Fifty Shades Freed. “No—ours,” he answers. Smooth talker.
Later, after their honeymoon in Paris and the Riviera—where Ana fights for her right to go topless at the beach!—the pair is enjoying a quiet dinner at home when they first broach the topic of having children. We’re to believe that a relationship that began with a contract of dos and don’ts specific enough for a line item on anal fisting never got around to “hey, whatcha think about kids?”
The disorientation the characters feel is mirrored by the audience, at least the ones that never read the books. There’s some guy chasing Ana? Oh, yeah, I kinda remember that. Wait, what’s this talk about a helicopter crash? Who are all these blonde women again? Doesn’t Kim Basinger figure in somehow? Fifty Shades Freed, more so than the other two entries in this absurd yet undeniably enjoyable trilogy, has almost no narrative drive until the last 30 minutes. The film is more of a victory lap for those dedicated viewers who really wanted to see Ana and Christian in marriage. They wear nice clothing; they screw; they buy stuff; they take another trip; and they deal with something that confronts every newlywed couple: kidnapping attempts. The ephemeral nature of these movies, whose flimsy plots barely reach the legal definition of feature films, recede until we’re left with what’s essential: titter-worthy sex scenes and luxury goods.
I can’t for the life of me explain why the only architect in Seattle looks like a Victoria’s Secret model (Arielle Kebbel) and also shows up in Aspen when the rest of the film’s characters do, nor could I ever clarify why a catty consultation with her sends Ana into a 007-esque car chase. But I do know that the Audi R8 look both elegant and sporty, especially as Dakota Johnson bites her lower lip and takes it on sharp turns.
Jack Hyde (these names!) was Ana’s old boss, and now the Princeton-educated book editor has turned into a psychotic master criminal. Though Christian Grey is rich enough to buy the publishing house where Ana has been given another unearned promotion, he can’t figure out how to hire capable security. Hyde (Eric Johnson) outwits Grey’s goons multiple times, causing much consternation.
How Bridgerton Season 3 Brought That Climactic Carriage Scene to Life
How Bridgerton Season 3 Brought That Climactic Carriage Scene to Life
This leads to plenty of running around and even some gunplay, but that’s not really what Fifty Shades is all about. The real question is, can Christian and Ana’s romance grow into something mature while they still remain them? Is there room for both responsibility and butt-plugs in this crazy world?
As with most things, the answer is, “with enough money, sure.” And that’s why this franchise remains a much-needed escapism release valve. It’s still cathartic and therapeutic to sit in the dark and dream a pure, selfish, and pleasantly photographed dream, where the endless material pampering (Christian is a sentient slab of abdominal muscles with a limitless black card) is the real perversion.
It’s hard to find compliments for Jamie Dornan beyond “very athletic”—but from start to finish, one can’t give Johnson enough credit for making these asinine movies work as well as they do. Her performance is about more than just
