Review: Finally, the Audience Is ‘Fifty Shades Freed’

Photo

Previously on “One Bruise at a Time” (a.k.a. the first two “Fifty Shades” outings): Ana and Christian (Dakota Johnson and Jamie Dornan), our slap-and-tickle surrogates, bonded through bondage and a shared affection for flattering lighting. Now, with “Fifty Shades Freed,” we’ve reached what the publicity notes are pleased to call “the climactic chapter” of this titillation trilogy based on the heavy-breathing novels of E.L. James. If another sequel shows up, though, I’m going to have to use my safe word.

Layering a damp-squib thriller subplot beneath what appears to be an ad campaign for the one-percent lifestyle, the returning director and screenwriter (James Foley and Niall Leonard) test the newly married couple with an inconvenient pregnancy and an unconvincing car chase. There’s an out-of-left-field abduction and a marital tiff over email addresses; but these narrative fragments, lazily tossed together alongside a neglected supporting cast, are no more than a flimsy causeway connecting bonking sessions.

Invariably accompanied by wailing makeout music and sometimes a dairy product, these function simultaneously as the movie’s raison d’être and its creamy topping. Yet with the couple’s power dynamic seemingly settled — he’s a controlling chauvinist, she’s mostly fine with that — the rods and restraints are no longer necessary negotiating tools. Now, it’s just married sex, albeit more rippling and racy than most.

As popular as this window-fogging franchise has become, its flaccid finale is likely critic proof. But if I can persuade just one of you to bypass its milquetoast masochism and watch the stratospherically superior “9 1/2 Weeks” instead, then I will have done my job.