July 04, 2012
Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger
The storyline develops slowly across the trilogy and none of the real action happens until the second book, if you can get that far. Beyond the sophisticated backdrop, Fifty Shades is crappy chick lit, yet it still speaks volumes about the modern erotic void. Apparently there’s an enormous gap between women and their sublimated desires. The book also makes some interesting points on childhood, adolescence, sexual deviance, and power. The author implies that a perv can enjoy “vanilla” sex, but I have a feeling this is more about James’s fantasy life, because none of the pervs I know ever orders vanilla down at the ice-cream shop.
Another beef: The prose is unsophisticated. I was highly annoyed by all the British words and expressions that Americans rarely if ever use. Why did a British author set the book in Seattle and then fail to use the right dialect? When was the last time you heard an American say they were “keen” to do anything? Along with this sloppy oversight were a number of typos. Where were the publishers on this? James’s narrator uses certain words over and over again. The book is flush with the word “flush.” Anastasia is always flushing.
Eventually you get past these pesky details and wonder why this book has been so successful and why women everywhere are unable to put it down. The sad truth is that modern men are pathetic little jellyfish who have no idea what to do once you turn out the lights. Without a hot, bare-chested Zorro type to ride in on a wild steed and make them swoon, women will be stuck seeking vicarious sexual domination from movies and books. Nothing else explains the immense popularity of E. L. James’s erotic novels.
