Film Journal March 2018

Screenplay: Niall Leonard, based on the novel by E.L. James.
Produced by Dana Brunetti, Michael De Luca, Marcus
Viscidi.
Director of photography: John Schwartzman.
Production designer: Nelson Coates.
Editors: David S. Clark, Richard Francis-Bruce.
Music: Danny Elfman.
Costume designer: Shay Cunliffe.
A Universal Pictures presentation of a Michael De
Luca production, in association with Perfect World
Pictures.
A saga of sadomasochistic romance reaches
its end, in a well-produced, poorly acted
and thoroughly unnecessary installment.
Dakota Johnson posing and pouting as Anastasia
Steele, like some naughty sorority sister.
Eric Johnson sneering as the nefarious Jack
Hyde, his eyes as red as a rat’s. Jamie Dornan
as a puppyish Christian Grey, sitting down at
a grand piano and launching into “Maybe I’m
Amazed.”
Quick, quick, what’s my safe word again?
Unfortunately, there’s no escaping the
pain of Fifty Shades Freed, the definitely anticlimactic
finish to an S&M saga that began by
bringing out the whips and chains, and now
ends only by pulling out some pretty photography
and clichés. What once began with
promises to get nasty now ends by threatening
to bore us to death.
The porny publishing phenomenon began
as amateur “Twilight” fan-fiction—what if
Edward and Bella really let their hair down?—
but eventually morphed from an online hobby
into an actual, best-selling novel. The film adaptation
debuted in 2015 and two years later
the movie version of the sequel, Fifty Shades
Darker, followed it to the screen.
The first picture, at least, kept things
simple, concentrating on the sex between
naïve Anastasia and domineering Christian.
The second, though, started amping up the
melodrama, like an abusive woman from Christian’s
past and Anastasia’s nefarious ex-boss,
the evil Hyde. (As you can see, corny character
names are one of this saga’s specialties.)
By this go-round, though, all that’s left
is the soap opera. In fact, the whole thing
feels a little bit like a very special episode of
“The Young and the Restless,” dragged out to
feature-movie length and with the detergent
commercials replaced by soft-focus sex.
Plush production values help distract
from some of the padding. After a brief
wedding sequence, the young marrieds fly
off for a travelogue-worthy honeymoon in
Paris; midway through the film, there’s a trip
to a luxe sky lodge (where Dornan unveils
his Paul McCartney tribute). Private planes,
snazzy cars and designer dresses all make
their appearance, too. There’s also plenty of
not particularly involving plotting, including a
woman from Christian’s past and an adulterous
architect, while Hyde returns for more
improbable villainy.
That this film, like the last sequel, arrives
courtesy of James Foley—the auteur who
once gave us the prickly After Dark, My Sweet,
the teen-noir Fear and the classic, corrosive
Glengarry Glen Ross—remains a little surprising,
but if this is a job for hire, the producers
certainly got their money’s worth. The film
is prettily photographed by John Schwartzman
and the pop that covers the soundtrack,
wall to wall, is sure to provide a few hits. The
whole thing will probably please the franchise’s
hard-core soft-core fans, right down to
the favorite-moment flashbacks that unspool
before the final credits.
But none of the actors makes any impression.
Johnson, whose gaucherie was once
refreshing, has lapsed into sullen immaturity;
Dornan never rises above male-model posing.
(Although that both of them can be so constantly
naked and consistently boring is a sort
of achievement in itself.) Eric Johnson chews
a lot of indigestible scenery as the loathsome
villain and the rest of the large supporting cast
is completely wasted—including Oscar-winner
Marcia Gay Harden, reduced to two quick
scenes as Christian’s mom.
And so, torturously, it all goes on and on,
beating a dead horse. Really, what was that
safe word again?
How about: Enough.
—Stephen Whitty
THE 15:17 TO PARIS
WARNER BROS./Color/2.35/Dolby Digital/94 Mins./
Rated PG-13
Cast: Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos, Anthony Sadler, Judy
Greer, Jenna Fischer, William Jennings, Bryce Gheisar,
Paul-Mikél Williams, Thomas Lennon, P.J. Byrne, Tony
Hale, Ray Corasani.
Directed by Clint Eastwood.
Screenplay: Dorothy Blyskal, based on the book by
Anthony Sadler, Alek Skarlatos, Spencer Stone and
Jeffrey E. Stern.
Produced by Clint Eastwood, Tim Moore, Kristina Rivera,
Jessica Meier.
Executive producer: David Berman.
Director of photography: Tom Stern.
Production designer: Kevin Ishioka.
Editor: Blu Murray.
Music: Christian Jacob.
Sound designers: Bryan O. Watkins, Kevin R.W. Murray.
A Warner Bros. Pictures presentation, in association with
Village Roadshow Pictures, of a Malpaso production,
in association with Access Entertainment and Dune
Entertainment.
Three friends help prevent a terrorist
attack on a train. No-frills account from
director Clint Eastwood with the real-life
heroes as stars.
When they stopped
a terrorist attack
onboard a high-speed
train to Paris, Spencer
Stone, Alek Skarlatos
and Anthony Sadler
won acclaim around Spencer Stone
the world. A bestselling
book followed. When Clint Eastwood
decided to turn the incident into a movie, he
took the unusual step of casting the three
friends as themselves.
Like the book, Dorothy Blyskal’s screenplay
opens up the story, going back to the
trio’s childhood in Sacramento, Calif. All three
are troublemakers at school. Spencer underachieves
in college before failing at several Air
Force positions. Alek goes from community
college to the Oregon National Guard, ending
up in Afghanistan.
Working with his longtime cinematographer
Tom Stern, Eastwood shoots these
scenes with customary efficiency, refusing for
the most part to pump up emotions. As a result,
The 15:17 to Paris can seem dry at times,
with long stretches devoted to military training
or to scenes that have no obvious payoff.
Eastwood begins the movie with glimpses
of Ayoub (Ray Corasani), the terrorist
who brought guns and hundreds of rounds
of ammunition aboard the Paris-bound train.
Later the story will occasionally flash forward
from a school scene to an incident on
the train. Sometimes the connections are
obvious, like the history teacher who asks
his students if they would know what to do
in an emergency.
At other times the shifts feel contrived,
an expedient way to remind viewers that the
scenes they are watching will eventually get
somewhere, mean something. Throw in Spencer’s
obsession with guns and strong religious
beliefs, and The 15:17 could easily be passed
off as red meat for right-wingers.
But look again. Who are these heroes?
They are kids who were bullied, who came
from broken homes, poorly educated, not
too smart to begin with. They are the ugly
Americans touring Europe, the ones with
selfie sticks and sweatpants, the ones who
don’t understand the language or the history
of the places they are visiting. They’re loud,
they drink too much, and they pray.
What the movie points out is that if we
want to call them heroes, this is who they are.
If you think what they do and say isn’t exciting
enough, this is still the story they lived, the
story they wanted to tell. Eastwood asks us to
see beyond our prejudices and embrace lives
that seem so different from ours.
The attack itself, shot aboard a moving
train, is a model of taut, focused filmmaking.
Eastwood and editor Blu Murray cut out all
the flab, fashioning a sequence of textbook
intensity.
The 15:17 ends with the heroes receiving
the Legion of Honor from French President
François Hollande (a combination of real and
recreated footage), then enjoying a parade in
Sacramento, Eastwood choosing not to examine
the complications the three subsequently
experienced.
As actors, Stone, Skarlatos and Sadler
look comfortable and believable, although
without the obvious star power to suggest
future film roles. (Their performances aren’t
unprecedented—Congressional Medal of
Honor winner Audie Murphy played himself in
1955’s To Hell and Back.) What Eastwood has
done, with his customary skill, is show us why
we should care about them. —Daniel Eagan
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