But at least for Fifty Shades Freed, this film is aware of its disposability, and for the first time in three installments, it embraces its ridiculousness and silliness. So in the end, maybe this really is the series’ grace note? Right from the start, the film makes no bones about why we’re all here. Before the opening credits are even over, Christian and Anastasia Steele (Dakota Johnson) have stumbled through their wedding vows and are already off on a romantic honeymoon in Paris and the South of France. They’re also in a bedroom completely devoid of toys—at least until she disobeys him about not covering up at a chic nude beach. Weddings are nice, but it’s in the confines of nickel plated handcuffs that Fifty Shades imagines romance. Eventually the newlyweds make it back home to Seattle, but they never stop cruising. When they return, Ana has discovered she received a promotion while gone, and Christian then whisks her away from work twice throughout the week to show her the perfect mansion he’s bought and then to spend a long weekend in Aspen, complete with bathtubs overlooking the scenery and late night kitchen rendezvous. Sprinkled throughout these steamy travelogues, there is some humorously inept drama about Jack Hyde (Eric Johnson) stalking Christian and Ana, convinced Christian owes him for trapping him inside his daytime soap opera motivations, and then Christian is an outright asshole in how he reacts to Ana revealing she’s pregnant. “I don’t want to share you,” he howls before leaving to go get drunk. Fifty Shades Freed is every bit as devoid of amour and allure as its predecessors. This is a series that considers comparing girlfriends to a photo of your dead mother a form of foreplay, and menacing demands of subservience a game of endearing courtship. Such stilted awkwardness remains present in Foley and Leonard’s final rendering of this lame love story too. At certain points Christian barges into Anastasia’s place of work to command her to change her name from Ms. Steele to Mrs. Grey at the office, and his reaction to discovering she is pregnant should be enough to cause most people to go running for the hills—or at least the Bugatti. However, Fifty Shades knowingly tweaks the absurdity this time, allowing the film to be in on the joke during the waves of derisive laughter. As such, any moment that allows Johnson and Dornan to flash some eye-rolls at the material is relieving, because the duo’s chemistry maintains a lukewarm simmer. There is, however, a familiarity at this point when they attempt to make something approximating “love;” there’s even a sense of camaraderie, if not companionship. It’s almost a silent prayer between them that, God willing, they’ll get through this thing together. The movie is at the end of the day a wish fulfillment fantasy, and as the couple jet around the world, to either Europe or Colorado, they do so with bottles of champagne always open or with a nice Mercedes waiting for them upon their arrival. Even being stalked by a mysterious SUV means they get to speed and then speed up to a post-escape tryst in a parking lot. Foley tries to make the sex scenes less repetitive (not that he succeeds) with some crosscuts between punishment and morning after revelry here, or some ice cream-smeared foreplay there. Yet when this reviewer is left to wonder whether Ben & Jerry’s would want to pay for that kind of product placement, it likely is not having the intended effect. (Seriously though, was there a discussion of should they be lathering each other in “Chunky Monkey” or “The Tonight Dough?”) But I and most of my critical peers are not the intended audience. As the movie unfurled its spoils across our screen, there were echoes of contemptuous laughter throughout the theater—albeit less so than with the previous film. But nothing we write is going to stop its intended audience from seeing or even enjoying this guilty gruesomeness. Out there is an audience ready to sincerely embrace the sight of Jamie Dornan badly crooning mid-2000s pop ballads on a piano as something approaching tender artfulness. And for everyone else there is ice cream sex. At the end of the day, Fifty Shades of Grey is over, and it actually ends in this film on a shockingly genuine sweet note of kink and love. If nothing else, it was here as a major part of our culture, and totally recast its inspiration, Twilight, into the new role of not being the worst thing to come out of popular fiction. So mazel tov, Ana and Christian. And don’t let the door hit you on the way out, unless you’re into that sort of thing.
title: “Fifty Shades Freed Review” ShowToc: true date: “2025-08-08” author: “Richard Bugg”
Yes we’re finally at the finish line and Fifty Shades Freed attempts to cap off a commercially successful but critically mauled series that has given couples and single women something to do for the past three Valentines Days. Let’s face it, discussing whether this film is good or not is a fool’s errand and, for that matter, not really the point. As everyone’s probably aware by now, E L James’ books were based originally on characters and scenarios from the Twilight series. The metaphor is that Bella can change a bad boy (vampire) like Edward, and Ana can change a bad boy (actual sadist) like Christian. In this version, of course, Jacob is a weird murder bro who spends the film trying to kidnap Ana and blackmail Christian for $5 million. That’s the extent of the plot. The couple get married and Jack Hyde continues to pursue them. TV’s Brant Daugherty hangs around as Ana’s personal bodyguard getting more and more frustrated, and Rita Ora gets tied to a chair in a non-fun way. Speaking of cameos, Tyler Hoechlin aka Superman has a scene. We’re also supposed to believe that they didn’t bother to discuss kids before they walked down the aisle. To be fair to Christian (the only time I’ll be doing that), if Ana really wanted children then maybe she shouldn’t have married an emotionally stunted sadist who is constantly being stalked? When they’re not being awful to each other or dodging the personal security they hired, they’re having extremely bland sex. More so even than the first two films, these scenes seem cut in after the film was made – having nothing to do with the plot and really just making the film longer than it ever needed to be. If they were better done, more risque or interesting, Fifty Shades Freed might justify its existence. However, there are two moments that almost make the whole thing worthwhile. The first is the badass female bodyguard repeatedly punching Hyde in the face, and the second is Jamie Dornan’s face when he’s forced to sing a Lonestar song, possibly while mentally calling his agent. Despite nods to feminism never followed through on, the overwhelming message of the Fifty Shades series is that you should be loyal and obedient to your husband, or you might get kidnapped by that boss who once sexually assaulted you. If that happens, of course, it’s absolutely your fault. There were moments in all three of these films where I thought the author and filmmakers at least meant well. There’s always a place in cinema for trashy erotic thrillers, and people like this series, so who was I to criticise it? Freed came very close to changing my mind on that, if for nothing else than how boring and derivative of other properties it is. The series is supremely problematic, as the kids say, and gives pretty much every genre it straddles a bad name. Great soundtrack though.
