I would be the first to say that there are only a few genre that I read for pleasure, and love stories are not one of them. I would never have picked up E.L. James’s 50 Shades of Grey for myself, even if everybody says it’s a great read because I’m just not into it. However, I was not given a choice in the matter because I had to do an analysis of it. Not just the one book, mind you; the whole trilogy. Check it out here.
I was philosophical about it. At least it was popular fiction so at least it should be easy to read. I also have to admit that I was intrigued about it because my friends said it had BDSM. I’m no prude, and I’m not above a little experimenting myself to keep things fresh in the bedroom.
Halfway through the first book I knew I wasn’t going to be able to finish it, let along slog through the other two waiting for me like sharks in the water. Despite the generous and detailed descriptions of scenes in what is frankly a porn book, it was so boring I began to feel desperate. I finally cheated and read a couple of reviews about it and put together an analysis before consoling myself with some sugar free frozen yogurt. If there’s anything I know it’s how to fake it (pun intended).
The biggest problem I had was there was no depth to the characters. I didn’t like them, hate them, or empathize with them. They were like paper cutouts that talked of extensive emotional damage as if it was a grocery list. The relationship between the main characters had no progress beyond the shallowest degree. The prose was tilted, the dialogue trite. It was a disaster. It would have just taken too much time of my life to finish it that I’m never getting back.
Now that the movie is coming out, I regard it with a jaundiced eye. I have no intention of watching it, but I sincerely hope that it is better than the books.