It’s not every day that you get invited to the UK premiere of one of the biggest movie franchises of all time, is it? Well *smug face* that’s what happened to me earlier this week. Not only did I get invited to the 50 shades darker premiere, but the mother in law was also in town and happy to look after the wee one. This cinderella went to the ball!
Sooooo, what does one wear to a premiere, dahling? Real #firstworldproblem time here … The invitation said ‘smart’. But does that mean ball dress smart, fancy club smart or posh wedding smart? This was further complicated by the fact it was like -5 outside. I went for ‘funky wedding’ smart in a green zara 60s style mini dress, mainly because I could wear it with thick tights, long boots and a vest underneath (the glamour). Thankfully I seemed to make the right call. Most of the audience were in outfits slightly smarter than you’re normal work clothes. Which then begs the other burning question. Who were most of the audience? Surely not other freeloaders like me?!??
There were of course a few famous faces. The stars of the show Dakota Johnson, a bearded and slightly awkward looking Jamie Dornan and a stunning, teeny weeny Rita Ora were working the red carpet. Dakota in particular was A-MAZING. It was freaking freezing and she did an hour long autograph signing session dressed in a thin, skimpy dress. Poor lamb must have been an ice block.
In addition to the stars there was Katie Price, that Lucy from TOWIE and Louise from Made In Chelsea (sat 2 rows in front of me) and accompanied by a scruffy beau. There were a couple of others I think I recognised but can’t remember the names of, that Pratt girl maybe, and the one I want to call Jorgie Porgie but know isn’t right, maybe Porter?
Sooo, you’ve read this far. But what about the film? The million dollar question. Well put it this way… there’s a reason I’ve been whittling on about dresses and ‘C’ list-ers. I was taught if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. There’s barely a plot, the dialogue is predicable and, without wanting sound like some kind of perv, the few and far between sexy scenes were all pretty vanilla. James Foley, the director, could have got a lot darker and an awful lot sexier without even beginning to push the bounds of decency. There were some (I hope intentionally) funny moments, which had the film been edgier would have made for light relief, but as it lacked any grit or real raunchyness the humour made it more of lighthearted rom(p)-com.
If your a fan, you’ll enjoy it. If you’re having a Friday night in then sure, watch it – it’s bland and watchable. But put it this way, it’s not worth paying a babysitter for.