ST. ALBANS, Feb 6 – Yet all Christian Grey lacks at the end of the 50 Shades trilogy is a labradoodle puppy to go with his wife and kids. Maybe he has one. I didn’t get beyond book one, though I quite enjoyed it – rather like a voyeuristic gate-crasher ghosting through a noisy neighbour’s party.
Something deep within me quietly approves the taming of Christian and his seeming reversion to a recognisable mean as the head of a well-heeled family.
Perhaps the real dom in the dungeon is not Elena Lincoln – Christian’s abusive seducer – but western Momdom in general. And let’s face it, Christian was annoyingly able, an impossible corporate James Bond winner godhead dreamboat hunk bad boy, a sort of north-face-of-the-Eiger romantic challenge, all rocky frowns, with n’er a finger hold in sight for a girl pull herself up by.
Perhaps The 50 Trilogy is just a reworking of Mills & Boon plot number one, with a few butt plugs, nipple clamps and helicopters thrown in. All good fun. All very liberated and liberating. Many would disagree with that of course. Real abuse and real darkness lurk behind the façade. But let’s brush that under the sumptuous carpet of money being made.
Not that I’m envious, mind. No, this indie author is now well beyond envying E L James. It’s worse, far worse. In idle moments, I find myself dreaming up novel ways to replicate her formula with a few fan fiction embellishments to Mister Christian. Of which, more anon – perhaps.
by R J Askew