Fifty Shades of...

So, Fifty Shades of It’s Not Porn Darling, I Swear hit the market recently.  And, I have to admit, a lot of the pictures and statuses and shares and shit around it have me a little hot under the collar, but not for the conventional reason associated with this movie.  Let me illustrate why I’m irritated with a little story:

In 1999, I was still a hopeful, doe-eyed medical student who hadn’t yet realized that his true calling wasn’t elbow-deep in human guts.  During this period I was also a resident at Knockando Men’s Residence, a place which encouraged an active social life, to say the least.  (In retrospect, this may be the reason why I am a former medical student instead of a current doctor…)  At some point during this year, French director Catherine Breillat released a movie entitled Romance X.  (Please note, I am going by what IMDB says here.  I can’t remember the actual chronology, and I am also a person who willingly gives himself over to selective recall if it is more entertaining than the actual story)  Breillat is a provocative director who is well known for her frank treatment of sometimes awkward sexual themes, and RoX, as it shall now be abbreviated, is no different:  The film’s female protagonist is actively searching for some kind of self-actualization and redemption after an asexual relationship with a neglectful partner leaves her mired in self-doubt.

Now, don’t be fooled by that awesomely insightful synopsis:  I did not go see RoX because of my fervent desire to see one woman be redeemed at all costs.  I was 20 years old, for God’s sake, and the only redemption I was concerned with was redemption from my own virginity.  No, myself and a handful of res buddies ponied up the ticket money solely because we were precocious young men, and because a porn actor of legendary reputation (And girth) by the name of Rocco Siffredi was the main love interest – Or rather, “love” interest.  This also meant that there were likely scenes too racy for any normal actor, which was fine by us.  I guess you could say we got our RoX on to get our rocks off.  (Thank you and good night!!)  I remember sitting in the cinema, looking across the row of young meatheads in a room quasi-full of art house flick enthusiasts and thinking:  “We are honestly here because of our admiration for another man’s penis.  I can’t decide if we’re super-open-minded, if we’re repressed homosexuals or if we just have too much time on our hands…” 

RoX turned out to be far more explicit than any of us had bargained for, but treated most of the subject matter in such a casual European way that it was kind of like watching Sleepless In Seattle, but with less uncomfortable lingering on Tom Hanks’ face.  One such scene had Rocco’s character asking if the protagonist would like to indulge in a sex act that most women only agree to once an engagement ring has made an appearance.  Her response to this unorthodox request was not a shocked and disgusted “No!  I have pepper spray in my purse!!”, but a casual, musically-intoned “Not yet”.  This lilting “Not yet” became the punchline for a million in-jokes at res over the subsequent two years…  I suppose one could say we left the movie theatre as more culturally well-rounded gentlemen, but if one said that one would be lying through one’s teeth.

The point I’m driving at here:  None of us were under any illusion that the movie we went to watch that day was not, in essence, pornography.  You didn’t catch us running around our respective campuses bragging about having seen it, because we would have been shunned so hard that our sclerae would have haemorrhaged (See, Mom and Dad, that medical school money wasn’t a total waste!!)  So, we killed a spare afternoon, learned a little, adopted a new catchphrase and moved on.

Now, flash-forward sixteen years:

Fifty Shades of I’m A Sexually Repressed Housewife is doing the rounds, and I see women of similar age and station as myself lining up around the block to see it.  Dressed up, taking selfies in the cinema, smiling and bragging that they’re about to watch a Goddamn porno.  Although, before I go further, I need to interrupt myself here to make a few solvent points:

-          Despite the source material, the film adaptation of Fifty Shades of The Author Cashing In is actually quite timid, or so I hear.  But we’re talking principle here, people.

-          Yes, I realize that the world has come a long way since the 90’s, when women dressed like men and men dressed like toddlers, but still.

-          No, I don’t think female sexual expression is bad.  Quite the opposite, in fact.

-          Social media complicates everything more than slightly here.  I have no doubt that if Facegram or Instabook had existed in 1999 myself and my friends would have been taking stupid photos and posting stupid statuses and being stupid about how stupid we were being, but let’s be clear, friends and neighbours:  “Stupid” is the default setting for 20-year-old males the world over.  Not an excuse, mind you, but just context.

I guess the reason I’m fuming is the double standard.  If I had posted a bunch of selfies with friends just before watching 2 hours of torture porn, it would have taken 3.3 seconds before my timeline would have collapsed under the weight of people calling me a pig.  Yet, because of societal attitudes being what they are, it’s cool for book clubs and spinning class friends to go watch Fifty Shades of Anastasia’s Tireless Devotion To Depersonalizing Herself To Please A Callous And Deeply Flawed Man.  Men watching a woman liberate herself is bad because of things like the “Not yet” scene, but women watching a woman be sexually subjugated is fine.

Although, now that I think about it, I guess societal attitudes towards gender roles is actually the problem. 

Sorry, ladies, forget I said anything…