by Anna Roberts
Seriously, is it me or is the writing even worse in this one? Her participles are flapping in the breeze and Ana is apparently undoing her own kisses.
Finally the flashback is over. Ana wakes up on the sun lounger and husband is furious. It turns out she’s rolled over and now she’s lying topless on a European beach, where a bunch of people who don’t care can see her boobs.
Chapter Two - La Serveuse A Fait Pipi Dans Votre Verre
Oh dear. I took a break and came back to this. I thought I’d read two chapters but actually it was just one. The flashback threw me off. Seriously – if all your characters do in chapter one is lie around on a beach then a flashback is a reasonable tactic to create some kind of interest. Just don’t make the flashback even more stultifying than the lying around on the beach part.
Alternatively, make the beginning of your book not-boring. I hear publishers really enjoy this.
Ho hum. Chapter two and Christian Grey has already thrown his first tantrum. Ana has taken her bikini top off on the beach and he’s acting like she’s the whore of Babylon. This means that they are going back to their luxury yacht right now so that she can think about what she’s done.
“L’addition!” Christian snaps at the passing waitress.
Typical that Christian Grey allegedly speaks fluent French but the words ‘s’il vous plait’ and ‘merci’ never cross his lips. Stroppy, rude, grabby and chauvinistic – be still my beating crotch.
He’s bristling with tension and anger. My heart sinks. Every other woman on the beach is topless – it’s not that big a crime.
It’s not even a…oh, you know what. Sod it. I’m exhausted already.
I sigh inwardly, my spirits sinking. I thought Christian would see the funny side…sort of…Maybe if I’d stayed on my front, but his sense of humour has evaporated.
What sense of humour? He’s about as funny as brain cancer.
Christian leads me out into the hotel, through the lobby, and out into the street. He remains silent, brooding and bad-tempered, and it’s all my fault.
Your fault for what? Having breasts? I’m already depressed, not to mention confused. It says on the back that these books are ‘liberating’. By whose standards? The fucking Taliban’s?
Anyway. There’s a jet ski. They go on a jet ski. And he’s sulking. On a jet ski. They do this for about five pages and I’m increasingly reminded of the Barbara Cartland type character Matt Lucas used to play in Little Britain.
“Would you like a drink?” he asks me.
You’d think this would be Ana’s cue to read the cocktail menu for several pages, just to bump up the wordcount. But no. She actually says something worse.
“Do I need one?”
Yeah. I’ll just leave that there. You can probably figure out what’s wrong with that. The honeymoon, ladies and gentlemen.
“You think I’m going to punish you?” Christian’s voice is silky. “Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I’ll think of something. Maybe when you’ve had your drink.” And it’s a sensual threat.
I don’t know about you, but the last line made me read that paragraph in Zapp Brannigan’s voice. Actually, the whole book is better if you read it in Zapp Brannigan’s voice. Or Gilbert Gottfried’s, obviously.
Ana then starts thinking about the real reason she married him. Come on – you were thinking it. I know you were.
I am rich…stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money…just married a rich man.
Truly an empowering lesson for our times. It’s like Richardson’s Pamela all over again. And did you know that Pamela is only about 222,000 words long? It just feels longer. Much longer. I say ‘only’ 222,000 because it’s a mere slip compared to the behemoth of boredom that is the Fifty Shades Trilogy. 607,000 words of complete inanity. That’s only 38,000 words less than Atlas Shrugged.
Then Ana has another flashback, this time to before the wedding when they were talking about prenuptial agreements. Well – Christian’s family talk about it. He throws a massive Tesco cake-aisle sized tantrum and refuses to tolerate any talk about pre-nuptial agreements.
Because God forbid anyone thinks his snugglebunny is a gold-digger. Or rather because he doesn’t want her to have any kind of guaranteed income if it all goes tits up. And it already has. Literally.
Christian gazes at me, his eyes bleak. “Anastasia, if you leave me, you might as well take everything. You left me once before. I know how that feels.”
Holy fuck! “That was different,” I whisper, moved by his intensity. “But…you might want to leave me.” The thought makes me sick.
Oh, I know that feeling. I know it well.
I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me, and I’m unable to finish my sentence. Losing Christian…fuck.
Yay. We have our first inexplicable finger-staring session. And that’s the end of that flashback.
We’re back on the motor yacht. He tells her they’re going to bed.
Oh my, the look he gives me could be solely responsible for global warming.
Fun fact – these books are some of the least environmentally friendly novels in recent publishing history. Not only are they unnecessarily large but the urgency of the print run meant that the publishers had them bound with a cheap-ass glue that represents some kind of logistical nightmare for recycling plants. The phrase ‘Mommy Porn’ takes on a whole new twist when you consider that this mess of a trilogy is doing its bit to fuck Mother Earth.
“I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” he whispers in my ear.
I gasp. Don’t pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her book – The Complete Works of Charles Dickens, volume 1 – with alarm.
I have no idea what this is and I refuse to respond to it.
Anyway, it’s sex o’clock, which means its time to describe the furnishings in detail.
He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully appointed main salon…
The writing in this book may actually be worse than the previous two – and that takes some doing, let me tell you. ‘Plush’. ‘Beautifully appointed’. These words tell me nothing. They are useless as descriptions. But wait – the sentence isn’t over.
…along a narrow corridor, through the dining room and down the stairs to the master cabin.
The cabin has been cleaned since this morning and the bed made. It’s a lovely room.
With two portholes on both the starboard and port sides, it’s elegantly decorated in dark walnut furniture with cream walls and soft furnishings in gold and red.
You know, even if this book fails both as literature and as entertainment, I won’t hear a word said against it as a crash course in prepositional phrases and the ways in which they can come back to bite you.
Anyway, they get freaky with handcuffs and it’s…boring.
She chooses ‘popsicle’ as a safe-word. If you know anything about Twilight fandom this word should send you scurrying for the exits. If you don’t, nothing good can be gained from knowing. Really. Carry on with your beautiful, unsullied existence; you lucky, lucky bastards.
Anyway, it’s really dull bondage – as usual. I’m still not sure why she needed a full bladder for this, but since he’s essentially hog-tied her with two pairs of handcuffs, it would serve him right if she treated him to an impromptu golden shower. Seriously – if she hasn’t already got a bladder infection from the previous 400,000 words of grinding, repetitive sex then she’s definitely got one now.
This is too intense. I can’t stop him. I don’t want to stop him…I want…I want…oh no, oh no…this is too…
Well. I’m glad we’re clear on that.
…screaming loudly as my orgasm rips me apart, scorching through me like wildfire, consuming everything. I am wrung ragged, tears streaming down my face – my body left pulsing and shaking.
And I’m aware that Christian kneels, still inside me, pull
ing me upright onto his lap. He clutches my head with one hand and my back with the other, and he comes violently inside me while my insides continue to tremble with aftershocks. It’s draining, it’s exhausting, it’s hell…it’s heaven. It’s hedonism gone wild.
More like participles, ellipses and metaphors gone wild, but yeah. Whatever gets you through the night, baby. At this point I think even La James has lost interest in their hyperactive-yet-pedestrian sex life and is simply throwing words at the page.
Ana goes to sleep and wakes up; because it’s the only section break the author knows how to do. Then she gets up to pee (bladder infection) and sees something shocking in the mirror.
Holy fuck! What has he done to me?
What? You want a list?
Chapter Three - In Which Ana Shaves Her Crotch
These chapters go on forever. I am so bored. If hell is real there is a level that even Dante couldn’t imagine – a level that is just one huge library. And every single one of the books in it is Fifty Shades Freed. There is nothing else to read – not even the fire drill instructions (if they have such a thing in Hell) or the EXIT sign (they probably have those in Hell – just to screw with you) and you have to read Fifty Shades Freed forever and ever and ever, until your brain is made of the same bland, moronic porridgy substance as the book itself. And you drool and smile vacantly and nod. Because you love him. At last. You love Christian Grey.
Right. Yes. Sorry.
Chapter Three. So. Ana goes to the mirror and finds that her husband has covered her neck and titties in hickeys, so that she can no longer display her breasts in public. Because her breasts belong to him, apparently.
Where the fuck did she find this man? Some kind of Victorian Sexism museum? A Viz strip from 1992?
How did I not feel him doing this to me? I flush. The fact is I know exactly why – Mr. Orgasmic was using his fine-motor sexing skills on me.
The mere fact that you call them fine-motor sexing skills tells me you’re not ready.
My subconscious peers over her half-moon specs and tuts disapprovingly, while my inner goddess slumbers on her chaise longue, out for the count.
That and you are unable to express emotions without involving your imaginary friends.
My wrists have red welts around them from the handcuffs. No doubt they’ll bruise. I examine my ankles – more welts. Holy hell, I look like I’ve been in some sort of accident.
You weren’t. You just married one.
Since she’s in front of the mirror, Ana decides to helpfully describe herself, just like she did on the first page of book one. So that we know she’s changed, you understand. She’s had a manicure and has her split ends snicked off. She’s not a static character or anything.
Actually, in these two chapters Ana demonstrates more character development than she has in the previous two books. Unfortunately, she hasn’t changed for the better.
She’s furious with Christian. She hurls a hairbrush at him and stomps off in a snit. He follows her, accurately divulges that she’s angry (he’s as smart as he is charming) and she tells him she’s close to committing violence.
Of course, he’ll probably stick his nob up her or buy her something expensive and she’ll get over it, just like she always does, but hey – let’s wring the situation for its worth.
He shrugs minutely. “Well, you won’t take your top off again,” he murmurs petulantly.
Call his bluff. Seriously. Do it. Next time you’re at the beach, whack some factor fifty on your nipples and take it off. Hickeys and all.
He apologises, although he would probably still flip his prissy shit if she did go topless again. She decides it’s actually all okay because his therapist says he was going through some kind of arrested adolescence thing. And she loves that. If he wasn’t a sexually arrested, spoilt, humourless, charm-free manchild what on earth would they argue about? And if they didn’t spend every second of the day arguing then something terrible would happen; they’d have to talk to one another.
And nobody wants that.
Anyway, all’s forgiven until the next pointless spat.
Time for dinner. Ana complains she’s not dressed.
I’m sure my sweatpants and camisole would be frowned upon in the dining room.
“You look good to me Anastasia. Besides, it’s our boat for the week. We can dress how we like…”
Just don’t show your norks to anyone but me. There’s a good girl.
At this point she should put on her high heels and a string of pearls and walk into dinner wearing nothing else, just to fuck with him.
Of course, she doesn’t, because she has the personality of a wet lettuce. It’s at this point that she introduces me to a whole new experience – actually wanting to be married to Christian Grey.
I mean, it’s such a wasted opportunity. No pre-nup, constant unreasonable behaviour and he’s probably still got that handy box of kinky blackmail photos of his ex-girlfriends stashed in the back of the bedroom closet. By the time I’d finished with him the bastard would be eating catfood for dinner.
Back with the plot (such as it is) they’re eating crème brulee and he’s muttering about the ‘crack-whore’ and his painful childhood, just like he always does when she calls him in on his shit. Following dessert he expounds on his theory that orgasms are more intense on a full bladder.
He grins, looking far too knowing. Will I always be on the back foot with Mr. Sexpertise?
In a word, yes. For an ‘intelligent’ woman, Ana has all the intellectual curiosity of a bedsock. Honestly – you can find this out for yourself. Just read a book. A sexy book. Unlike this one.
Then they dance. For several pages. I’m so bored. Then they go to bed, because again it’s time for a section break.
She wakes up. Goes into the bathroom. He’s shaving. For about three pages. And now it’s time for another flashback – an exciting new technique that Ms. James only just discovered in this book. Only guess what the flashback is about this time?
Shaving Ana’s twat. There we go. Book three of the bestselling porn trilogy and she’s only just got around to shaving her mimsy. I feel like the Trading Standards Office should be involved, I really do. Everyone from Jeremy Paxman downwards made these books sound like they were the filthiest thing since the One Hundred and Twenty Days of Sodom. And they’re just so not.
So yeah – about five pages of crotch shaving. This takes place in London, by the way. You know – London. That city Ana is permanently frothing about because she probably thinks Tess of the D’Urbervilles lives there. Christian apparently went off to a business meeting and she couldn’t think of anything else to do but sit around in the hotel room and shave her tuppence. In London. It’s not like there’s any art or culture or anything for an Anglophile American tourist to do in London.
Anyway, end of flashback. And then she shaves him.
No, not his bush. His face. God, she’s not going to shave his balls for him. That would be pervy. And we couldn’t have that.
This is the worst dirty book ever.
Then they decide they’re going out to some village.
“…there are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”
I lean back and gaze at him. Art…he wants to buy art. How can I buy art?
Find an art. Point at art. Ask ‘Is that art for sale?’ If yes, buy art.
Nobody is this stupid. Nobody.
So they go to buy some art, because we don’t want anything to happen in the first three chapters of a book. That will just startle the readers. Then he has one of his Mommy-issue spasms, surprisingly not following a fight this time. This is because they’re getting smooshy – awww.
He’ll always be Fifty Shades…my Fifty Shades. Do I want him to change? No, not really – only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty…and he’s mine. And it’s not just the allure of his
fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound. It’s what’s behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me…his fragile, damaged soul.
Yep. There it is. It’s all in the open now. She’s admitted that if he was in any way homely or well-adjusted she’d be out the door before you could say Angel Clare. These books would be even more depressing than they actually are if either of the main characters were even slightly nice. But they’re not. They’re assholes. And they deserve each other.