FIFTY SHADES FREED
Director : James Foley
Year : 2018
Genre : Romance
Rating : *
It's over! After 3 years, 3 films and 361 excruciating minutes of screentime, the 'Fifty Shades' saga finally reaches its stunning anticlimax with 'Fifty Shades Freed', the final chapter in what could very well be the worst trilogy in motion picture history. Taking place after the monumentally dull events of 'Fifty Shades Darker', 'Freed' sees Dakota Johnson's mousy Anastacia Steele marrying Jamie Dornan's business magnate and S&M enthusiast Christian Grey. However, trouble soon comes 'a knockin' in the form of Ana's obsessed former boss Jack (Eric Johnson) who vows vengeance against the beefy sadomasochist for reasons which are far too underwhelming to relay here.
As is to be expected from a movie in this godforsaken franchise, 'Fifty Shades Freed' is written with all the taciturn wit of a dead baboon, acted like a primary school production of the Nativity and directed by the usually talented James Foley with the grace and sophistication of a particularly gaudy R&B music video. There is zero chemistry whatsoever between the two wholly unlikeable leads and while Dornan and Johnson have proved to be fine actors in the past in films such as 'Black Mass' and the little-seen 'Anthropoid', they are both hopelessly lost in a plot that seems to care more about flogging luxury dresses, expensive cars (especially Audis!) and spacious apartments than the basic storytelling elements of character development and narrative progress.
Clocking in at 105 minutes, 'Fifty Shades Freed' is the shortest film in the series but that doesn't mean it isn't a bum-numbing slog to sit through. Every second of the movie seems to stretch ad infinitum into an endless void of tedium in which the very concept of entertainment itself is as alien as the scene-stealing fish-monster from Guillermo Del Toro's supremely more romantic sci-fi drama 'The Shape Of Water'. Honestly, it really is quite amazing just how little happens in 'Fifty Shades Freed', despite the fact that huge chunks of EL James' original novel have been omitted from the final cut. By comparison, Andy Warhol's 1964 monochrome skyscraper-fest 'Empire' is a textbook exercise in adrenaline-fuelled thrills and spills. To be fair, there are a few points in 'Fifty Shades Freed' when something tiptoes around the edge of becoming interesting. However, that all ends when the characters open their mouths, at which point the movie comes crashing down again like a game of Jenga in an earthquake.
For the best (or worst) part of 2 hours, 'Fifty Shades Freed' drags its sorry carcass around, nonchalantly dribbling its way through an assortment of corny one-liners, tongue-chewingly boring asides, dreary action sequences and softcore sex scenes that have all the innate eroticism of a decaying wombat. And then, just when everything seems to have come to an end and the audience can gratefully leave the cinema, the filmmakers treat us all to one final montage of key scenes throughout the trilogy - a tremendously thickheaded act of cinematic seppuku which not only clarifies just how inherently toxic the central relationship between Ana and Christian is but also how dreadful and meaningless this accursed series has been overall. Throughout the past few years, we have had to come to terms with the painful deaths of many of our most beloved pop culture icons. However, as the coffin of this most hateful of franchises is lowered back into the maggot-infested cesspool from whence it came, we can all come together to celebrate the long-awaited demise of this most abominable of series. Goodbye Anastacia and Christian, we are so much better off without you!
For the best (or worst) part of 2 hours, 'Fifty Shades Freed' drags its sorry carcass around, nonchalantly dribbling its way through an assortment of corny one-liners, tongue-chewingly boring asides, dreary action sequences and softcore sex scenes that have all the innate eroticism of a decaying wombat. And then, just when everything seems to have come to an end and the audience can gratefully leave the cinema, the filmmakers treat us all to one final montage of key scenes throughout the trilogy - a tremendously thickheaded act of cinematic seppuku which not only clarifies just how inherently toxic the central relationship between Ana and Christian is but also how dreadful and meaningless this accursed series has been overall. Throughout the past few years, we have had to come to terms with the painful deaths of many of our most beloved pop culture icons. However, as the coffin of this most hateful of franchises is lowered back into the maggot-infested cesspool from whence it came, we can all come together to celebrate the long-awaited demise of this most abominable of series. Goodbye Anastacia and Christian, we are so much better off without you!
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