"Le bonheur" goes XXI century. what a fucking beautiful film. the two leads have both of them an almost brechtian acting-awareness that put 50 Shades of Freed directly miles away of 50 Shades Darker and a whole 10 kilometer ride away from 50 Shades of Grey. please pay attention on the middle of the road, in a complet amalgamation with the asphalt lies a smacked masterpiece: "this is how we fuck on these times. the prince's castle is made of an ugly white plastic brutalized stylished piece of trash found on the supermarket floor".

"you can take him for free but, please, make sure he's really made of fake cheap Polyester".

there's an aesthetical-fruition system directly caused by watching this trilogy in a row. you can see the three movies as an 6 hour Swiftian epic satire: fakest you are; realest you be. this is the fake stickiest truth. the two leads oily covered bodies liying on the beach. the two leads, two bodies; two mere objects. two empty bags full of diamond carved bones. I almost can put in words how I am surprised by this movie. it seems a perfect commentary for the sickest puritanism of north american society. "live full and just buy both of them", this is the ideal potentia gaudendis (as papa Preciado said). this two fulled leads, leaded by their genitals, the hard wetness of gender binarism... what a delicious taste! two tannoiled perfect bodies. the most hypocrytical and caretaker comment of the world: the man lead, ruled by the driest pussy, as the female lead is looking for the flattest cock on existence, because they're so dry and flat they cannot exist, not in fiction, not in this world.

as Anastasia and Gray really believed that desire don't reside on suggestion, things take a vibe twist. what a joyful ride, what a nightmare. the leads are having fun, they're really seem to believe that this world of joke is possible. my friend Luiz Fernando Coutinho, my favorite brazilian movie critic, wrote a text for Limite Magazine that its title is the perfect definition to describe my feeling of watching the mislead-beggining of the trilogy: "Could an actress save fiction?". maybe Dakota Johnson is the only one who knows the real deal, but to answers my friend's question: on this styrofoam-built reality, she couldn't.

but the fun of interpretation resists. Dakota seems to contamine all cast with the rawest fake material of acting on the second entry, 50 Shades Darker. this reality is so dark that it can turn the whitest white color on the main color-pallete-scheme on this wacky museum of fuckery-life. this is the truth, ruth.

unfortunately, they seem to be so plausible on this reality that, on 50 Shades Darker, I almost cannot separate the actors from the characters; the characters from the enviromnent. I can't remember when I was so moved by a contemporary movie.

"how much cost the prettiest model for Dakota's mini-skirts? and the extrasis? why so dirty? how the north-american market pays for this fucking expensive dollar?" maybe desire could make it possible.

50 Shades Freed is the concretation of the most ridiculously serious so-good-it-can-hurt-you movie of the year's end celebration. 50 Shades Freed is a world-waxed child's play. the reality in a nutshell, the most misused folley-sound of a slapped butt can be really important and they really know whe're to put it: on the movies moves of exhaustation is where the cruel reality of the cotidian is guarded.

it seems almost impossible to me to fuck again.

after watching almost 6h of The 50 Shades Trilogy all reality instantly became made from the shittiest cloth piece I could found on my wet-dream, where I wrote half of this text. there's a nothing. there's a tiny cloth. there's a tiny Polyester cloth. full of dirt Polyester full of white dots. it stinks the sweetest night's Lady scent, almost made me throw up all my lunch. what a waste.

I would like to put this tiny Polyester cloth near my nose and smelled it. just to feel the smell.

it stinks. now it is in my pocket. a little tiny piece of this crazy E.L. James world built from vanity over real desire. its world seems to finish the possibility of his own remembrance. the cloth is a part of the love of Shelley's Creature by its Bride. let them be what they want be.

this movie made me feel like a three year old going to movies for the first time. I can't really believe in my senses, so I can't live in fiction. what a tragic way of end a text. maybe the gaze on the emptiness of fake beauty is only a gaze: maybe is all reality possible in the world. what a film. damn you all with those cold-rational thoughts, damn your minds full of letterboxd film reviews. fiction is a passionate, relentless impetus movement. this movie understands it. why you guys are so sad?