Fifty Shades of Grey, the film adaptation of the book that nobody asked for, is now officially happening. Your mum will be able to happily trot off to the cinemas on August 1, 2014, while the rest of us vomit a tiny bit in our mouths.
The recent announcement of Sam Taylor Johnson (of Nowhere Boy fame) as the director of the upcoming trilogy presents a win, celebrated reluctantly, for the far too rare female directors in Hollywood; how Johnson will tackle the beast that is Fifty Shades of Grey will be interesting, to say the least. As yet, no cast members have been announced, but you can go ahead and forget that Emma Watson rumour; it definitely isn’t happening.
E.L James, accountable for the Fifty Shades books that depressingly surpassed Harry Potter as the fastest selling paperback of all time—already makes $1 million a week; the addition of a film franchise will inevitably bring her affluence to new, stinking heights. Fingers crossed the franchise doesn’t follow the Harry Potter route and make an amusement park (and by “amusement” they would mean “pleasure”). It worries me deeply how successful it may be.
The Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy, which originated as Twilight fan fiction and was initially penned under the name, Snowqueens Icedragon (no comment), is often crowned as the worst book ever written, and regularly chastised for its rapey undertones. The story maximizes on the appeal of erotic, thinly veiled soft pornography, attracting some 70 million readers worldwide.
If you’re unfamiliar with what Fifty Shades really is, let the soothing tones of David Sedaris help you out, as he reads an excerpt from the book: