Fifty Shades of Grey movie review

On the way home from seeing Fifty Shades for GNO, or more specifically, mom's night out, we started asking ourselves, why?
Why do we like this story? And not just us, why do so many women feel drawn to Ana and Christian's love story? Why, like Twilight before it, are forty-ish women flocking to this story like a siren call? Could it be that we are sex-starved and desperate? Nope. Not our group. Sex-crazed perverts? Closer, but no. That doesn't feel right either. Uninformed about violence against women and unwittingly glorifying abusive relationships, as Twitter will undoubtedly claim?
No. That's not it. I follow Femen and support Pussy Riot's cause. I am notorious for posting what my friend's husband calls "bra burning" messages on Facebook. While I am not raising a  daughter, the rest of my friends are. And they do so conscientiously.
So what made us leave our families to trek to the theater en masse to see a bondage flick?
That's the million dollar question.
The answer is, I'm not sure there is an answer. Not just one, anyway. Maybe there are fifty reasons why.
One reason is curiosity. Some women, and some men, might be curious about the lifestyle, or nontraditional sexual relationships in general. Maybe, like Ana, we are curious as to why someone would choose to be a Dominant, or a Submissive.
Maybe. Or maybe it's not so much about the unfamiliar. Maybe it's about how rampant violence against women is. And that women aged between twenty and twenty-four years old are at the greatest risk of becoming victims. Maybe it has to do with our knowledge that romantic relationships are a dangerous place for women. That domestic violence is the most common cause of injury to women between the ages of eighteen and forty-four.
The CDC reports that twenty percent of women will be victims of sexual violence by a lover, and thirty-six percent report being a victims of sexual assault, rape, or stalking. This means all of us know someone who has been victimized.
Recently, there has been an influx of female leads in dystopic fiction. It is becoming commonplace to see a woman running for her life through the woods onscreen,  not as the victim of a killer, but as a victim of society. This seems relevant here. While on one hand we are taking our children to see women take on the world, we are taking ourselves to see a young woman be willingly brutalized. For love, no less. Talk about your mixed messages. We would have to be blind to not see the issues many groups are taking with this film.
That said, I don't think this film is speaking to the domestic violence that is undeniable, but more the gray areas. The sixty-four percent of women, not the victims of attack, but subject to horror stories and media images, leaving them wondering just how safe they are.
Our fascination with Mr. Grey is that he gives us things life doesn't. Like safe words. We have no such thing in real life.  Ana intentionally ires Christian. This is not the behavior of a woman in fear. She stands her ground and says how she feels.  She has no fear that he will hurt her out of anger.
How many of us can say the same, unequivocally? Without reservation? Knowing the statistics?
We watch Ana get tied up and struck, yet she is in no real danger. She can leave anytime.
This is not to say they have a healthy relationship; he follows her on vacation.  While our current selves are thinking, red flag, our younger selves are remembering the times we sacrificed pieces of our privacy, our dreams, our independence, for love. Our age has made us wiser, more cautious, but we remember too clearly the overwhelming need to please our lover, to do whatever he asks, to be whatever he wants, and that feeling is fifty shades of f***ed up, as Christian says.
In How to Read Literature like a Professor, Foster claims that anything in literature can be about sex except sex; sex is always about power. Mr. Grey is asking permission to have power in their relationship, but he is at her mercy. Too many women feel powerless in their relationships. While many abused women stay in their relationship at their peril to help their love through his or her illness, Ana leaves when she feels her happiness is compromised. Despite her love and compassion for Grey, she feels no obligation to him.
This movie is pure fantasy. We wish we could surrender control and still feel perfectly safe.

44

    The exit was dark, but so had been the last fifty miles of highway. She could wait no longer. She had considered peeing in a cup, but her coffee was still pretty full. She followed the signs to the gas station and pulled in near the pumps facing the road in anticipation of making a clean getaway.
    She pulled open the grimy door and took in what she could of the small store. The daughter of a Marine, she was accustomed to taking in her surroundings quickly. She did so now: one bored clerk sitting on a stool behind the glass who didn't even look up at her,three rows of sundries and auto trader magazines, yellowed from neglect,and one coffee station free of discarded wrappers or empty sweetener packets.
     Against all instincts, she walked past the coffee station, around the greeting card carousel, to the counter. "Your restroom, please?", she asked the balding attendant. greasy comb over clinging for dear life atop his glistening globe. He inhaled deeply before passing a brass key, blackened with age,  attached to a peeling blue enamel stick under the glass and pointing straight ahead,to the west side of the building. With a huff, she ran outside and to the right, past her car and around to the side of the building. She peered into the woods, seriously debating just squatting inside the treeline, stop being a wuss, it's just a bathroom at a remote exit.I bet thousands of people have stopped here over the years and survived.
     She opened the door and headed down what could only be described as a hallway,  lit only by one dim blue flashing security light. Everything in her told her to turn and run, but she followed the path ahead of her instead. How symbolic of life, she thought. How many times did she just follow the crowd, date who her friends liked, take the job a friend or family member recommended? Her thoughts trailed of right as the hallway ended.
     "What the hell?" She yelled. The concrete box that closed around her silenced her cries.
###
"Did you hear that? I think 44's here!" said one.
 "Hooray!" The others called.
###
     She blinked in the utter darkness, suddenly regretful that she didn't better appreciate the blinking blue light. Suddenly regretful that she didn't appreciate a lot of things. Like open air. And not being held captive by some sadistic fuck.
     She opened her mouth to scream but she'd seen enough TVto know she's better off saving her breath. She grew up on Oprah. The first few minutes are most critical. Assess your surroundings and your resources. No light. Limited oxygen. Concrete walls. Her purse. No, not her purse, just her wristlet. And a bathroom key. Attached to a stick. A rather large stick, she said to herself, allowing one slow smile to creep up her cheeks. It was the first smile in what could have been years.
###
     "We've got to work faster than last time,"said One. She could've been the one that spoke earlier, but she couldn't remember. None of them could. They didn't know how long they'd been here or how to be themselves. They would get memories, sometimes, strong, powerful, urgent, but belonging to someone else. The details, for them, had gotten hazy. All but one. What they would do when 44 arrived.
###
     Of course, she doesn't think of herself as 44, she's Laura, with a miscarriage, or three, an ex-husband, and a degree from Smith, and closer to 44, than she'd like. So close, she would've slapped them if she knew that's what they called her. Luckily, she didn't. They might not have spoken to her if she had.

     She heard a whisper that sounded like a greeting. If that piece of shit thinks that I'll give him the gratification of hearing me beg for my life, he's got another thing coming. He clearly gets off on torturing people, he ain't using me to help jack his sick ass off. Then she heard it louder, this time, hollow. Hollow. Then two thoughts. Am I hearing things or thinking them, and what the fuck does hollow mean? Hollow hope, hollow faith?
###
    "No. Hollow wall." All forty three voices collapsed as one and sat again in nothingness for a long time. None had the energy to voice what they all lacked the stamina to think, I hope she got the message now.
     They spend a lot of the time in solitude, which is weird considering their seemingly immutable unified state. This is what makes the memories so foggy. Maria wants to see her baby again, but who's Maria? Sonya wants to visit her childhood home, but doesn't remember the address. The one pervasive thought they all share is saving 44, who will release them all.
     By the time 44 had arrived, they had learned that they could affect their environment. They had tried to save 43, called out to her, tried to help her make her escape, not as good Samaritans, but as comrades. Their fate was entwined with hers. Save her, and their souls would be free. Perhaps still bound, but at least able to leave their place of death.
     The gas station restroom had become cold. A dead spot no one can be released from. Too much death had occurred there. The dead remained stuck, as if by inertia. Cold places are not entirely unknown to the living, and some places remain cold long after the dead have been released. Aubrey, number 17, developed the theory of cold places while she was awaiting death in her stall. She had visited Dacchau in high school, and remained stricken by the cold in that place for the rest of her 23 years, and ever since. As each victim's concrete cell dropped, this place has gotten decidedly colder.
    It was Aubrey, too, who had suggested that they were connected, bound by their common death, and would remain so until someone escaped their fate. John, number 30, for not all men use the treeline, and some who had met their own end, but alas that is another tale, John, inspired by the movie Ghost, suggested they train collectively, linking up their energies to persuade the concrete world. Persuade is the word they used, for they couldn't affect the world any longer, not really, at least.
  Thus, sending the message "Hollow wall" was the culmination of two decades of conjoined focus.
###
     Hollow wall got Laura thinking. She reassessed her resources. She had paid little attention when her house was being built. That was Jeff's realm, but she had paid rapt attention in physics class. Prof. Lawler commanded the attention of most of his female students. She tried to recall words like joists and rebar from the conserved corners of her vocabulary while digging through her small bag. Key fob, useless except to hit the alarm, to what end? Announce her captivity to her captor? No thanks. Phone, probably no service. Could she Candy Crush her way out? Doubtful. Did she ever download that flashlight? Yes. Light. Check. Okay, let's see, four walls and a ceiling. Hollow though. Any cracks? No. Corners are probably reinforced. Too bad she doesn't have a magnet. Wait. Is there? Yes! That useless compact with the broken powder. Magnetized on the bottom. That's why it was so expensive. Okay, concrete coffin, let's find your weak spot.
###
    It was torture for him to wait out the first hour and forty-five minutes. Laura was wrong, he didn't do it for that initial panic, but for those last few minutes of clinging to that final breath. They hit the walls, but no one comes close to breaking through. About 4 years ago, he hit a lull, even toyed with the idea of suicide. He'd created a game that didn't seem to have a finish line. Like when you change the monopoly rules to so the game will last an entire snowstorm. That was why he added the chisel inside the bathroom stick, to breathe life into his game. He knew it could hardly be called that. It was a game in the sense monopoly is a game when you are playing the cousins you are babysitting, and you're the banker. He had to make rules for himself, he couldn't trust the Squatters to make it interesting, now could he?
    Years ago, he'd mastered the art of lowering the Squatters' defenses. Avoiding eye contact is a great way of disarming their survivalist instincts. They presumed him bored. Tonight he risked a deep breath, but she'd interpreted it as bored disgust, rather than delight. Killing 43 (44!) people in the same way, without laying so much as a finger on them could be regarded as boring or weak to some, lucky for him he had little regard for the opinions of others, even those who share his proclivities.
     Tonight, he set his timer and resisted pleasuring himself for 45 minutes, after which, he made himself a drink, walking the length of "the room" from inside the store. Not counting tonight's grab, he figures he has room for 16 more. He wonders what he'll do when he finishes his game, start a new one, blow himself up with the evidence? He tries to relax, enjoy the moment, now is not the time for this existential bullshit.
     There is a woman breathing her last breaths on the other side of this wall and he is the only one to witness it. That is an incredibly intimate event. One that screams for the proper attire. He has had the idea more than once to keep a tuxedo in the storage room, but didn't like the potential messiness of questions. He plays "What's the Worst that Could Happen?" Almost continuously. The tuxedo scene works like this: a cop comes in for a soda while he's putting money in the safe. Copper sees the suit and asks if he's got big plans. Well the only cops come out here are highway patrol cause there ain't a town to speak of, this exit. Any line he gives, though, the cop's gonna see through. At one point he came up with monthly stories, April funeral, May graduation, June wedding, July reunion, but things got a little hazy after that. Doesn't seem worth the trouble. So, no monkey suit. This makes every little detail of his ritual, every step, crucial. This is his Midnight Mass. This is his prom.
###
     "Let's get it together, people," said one.
     "Ball, right?" Said another.
     "Yes, Ball," Said a third.
     "Just like we practiced," Said a handful.
     "Well, we practiced other stuff too,"said that one.
     "For when we get out. For after Ball," Said several.
     "Okay, sheesh, I just wanted to double check," She said.
     "Ready?" Asked most.
     "Ye-esss," replied the rest.
     "On my count," said Aubrey, who'd been watching as Laura found the spot she was ready to strike.
     "Why you?" Someone asked.
     "Shut up," said everybody else.
     "One." They gathered close together, so tight someone chuckled, remembering the question, how many angels can fit on the head of a needle, turning it into how many ghosts can curl up like a baseball to break out of their early graves and exact revenge on the serial killer who took away their matter. The one next to her, Sage (at least she thinks that's her own name), thought you don't have to have matter to make a difference.
###
    Laura raised the stick like a bat and shifted her weight to her hind leg, one, two, Three! Rang a chorus in her head. The stick bounced hard, banging into her arm, snapping back her wrist. Hard.  It hurt, bad. And it was loud. She almost gave up. She almost didn't turn her phone to the wall again to see the result of her little batting session. She almost didn't waste her time.
    Almost. Incredibly, there was a long crack on the wall. Well, a lot more than her strike would have done alone. Two inches, maybe. Big enough to notice, big enough to motivate her. She wound up again. The other 43 were with her all the way. She was so  excited, she imagined she was in Yankee Stadium. "Here's the wind up. Here's the pitch. She swung again, and the crowd went wild, after the Ball, of course.
     Progress yes, but not enough. After a dozen more swings, Laura was losing steam, and air. She slid down the wall and curled into a ball and had a good, long, cry.
    Chisel, came the whisper, unmistakable. Clear as a bell, this time. A chorus of whispers, in fact.
     "Seriously, what is going on? Who are you?"
     Later. Chisel stick.
     "Chisel stick?" She asked, but despite her confusion she felt around the stick until she found what felt like a the toothpick slot in a Swiss army knife, but on a larger scale. She pulled and smelled the unmistakably iron odor of a chisel.
     "Now this changes things," she said, a bit shocked. They all agreed.She hit the wall again and again, using the chisel to stab at it, worked through one side of a cinder block, only to get discouraged by the other. Inside of an hour, with a little help from her friends, she scurried through rubble and stood up on the other side. Took a deep breath of freedom, laced with cheap whiskey.
    Shit.
    She didn't need light to see the face of her assailant. She saw him clear as day in her mind's eye. Saw his face and where it was. She felt time stop, and knew her swing would be true. She gouged his eye with the chisel, somehow pushing through and past him as she took off for her car. Everything was shaking. Her toes, her vision, even the ground.
    She realized she left the chisel in that creep' s face as she fumbled with her key fob. She started to panic that he'd followed her out, but the sound of screams behind her helped to calm her down enough to get in and start the car. She was back on the highway before she realized she'd never peed.
  ###
    The 43, as they prefer to be called, shot through the hole, creating a bright blue ball of energy. Laura didn't notice it behind her, so focused was she on jamming the chisel into the creep' s face and getting the hell out of there. Not to worry, they'd been waiting a long time to have her back. They wasted no time, raining down flashes of heat in the form of fists of fury. It was they that knocked him down and beat him mercilessly as Laura made her escape. She and everyone else would attribute his bloody condition to adrenaline. Her therapist spent a lot of those first hours in convincing her that she'd repressed the memories of beating the creep to death.  Eventually, she would chalk the voices in her head up to auditory hallucinations brought on by stress. That's the way she'd have to process it. Escaping a serial killer is a big enough deal; no need to throw paranormal activity into the mix.
###
     At least that's how Paula Winston explained it to the other 43 who were hurt that Laura forgot about them.
    It was easier for all of them to remember themselves after their escape. Full names, addresses, and even places of work came flooding in, with few mix ups. Aubrey Jameson became the pilot as they unfurled the Ball and flattened into Blanket, flying across the night sky like a giant stingray. John was copiloting, due to the fact that Ball was his idea. Despite now having a leadership hierarchy, their newfound sense of selves divided the ranks. They were far less effective without a common goal.
###
    A half-hour later, Laura was giving a statement at a police station. Apparently, the man was dead by the time authorities arrived. Laura didn't really know what to say, there were so many things that didn't make sense. She stayed in town while they excavated the death trap, and a little longer than that. Laura was eventually hired by the state department and bought the land previously owned by one Miles D. Jacobs, aka Heartland' s Horror. It became a hub for locating and identifying missing persons in a coalition among 12 states. Where the concrete cages were located became a Memorial garden for the 43. The land and Jacob's house went to his nephew, Leo, who sold both and gave the profit to the foundation that created the memorial, along with a heartfelt letter of apology and a generous delivery of flowers, shrubs, and trees for the garden.
    All of this, of course, was after 43 sets of phone calls, body identification, funerals, all of which were attended by 43 ghosts, who frequently traveled in the form of blanket, and who, after kissing sleeping children and dying parents, remained bound together, helping Laura whenever they could, whether she thought she needed it or not.

Illustration:woman in rainbows holding an umbrella, with a sparkly blue blanket winking behind her.

Synopsis:A man traps 43 women in his cellar at an old gas station. They discover how to coalesce into one being for the purpose of revenge. They help 44 escape, but what becomes of the other 43? After they visit children and past lovers they lose focus and are tired of fighting for power. They don't want to go beyond. They don't want to die. They look up 44. She's a local hero and detective. They decide to let her lead them. They help her solve mysteries.

A Whole New World...

I love to escape into strange worlds, rich with language, culture, music, and tales both strange and familiar.  My feeble attempt to create such a world continues.  I am following the advice of writers I most admire and writing what I wish to read.  This is easier said than done.  I've always been more reader than writer, more critic than artist.  Alas, I have found myself in quite a drought, thirsty for no story save the untold one festering inside me.

So I put the sudoku puzzles aside and set, once again, to work.  All posts today on all three of my blogs, DailyProsetry, FaerieWolf, and Sunsets and Sandspurs relate directly to my Fantasy series, FaerieWolf.  I will continue in this vein for as long as I can, here relating my fears, successes, and setbacks, on Prosetry, sharing some of my world's folksongs and prayers, and, of course, on FaerieWolf, sparing my children the arduous task of completing my life's work posthumously, one paragraph at a time.

Cheers, and Happy Reading!

Dana LaLonde