Yet, there is a strange, hypnotic quality to its earnestness. You find yourself laughing at moments meant to be tense, and cringing at moments meant to be tender. It is the cinematic equivalent of a guilty pleasure: you know it’s bad for you, but you can’t quite look away. Fifty Shades Darker fails as an erotic thriller because it isn’t thrilling or particularly erotic. It fails as a romance because Christian Grey’s controlling behavior is never truly deconstructed—it’s merely explained away by childhood trauma. And it fails as a sequel because it resolves the original’s central conflict (the contract, the rules) in the first 20 minutes, leaving 100 minutes of filler.

In 2015, Fifty Shades of Grey became a cultural punching bag. Critics hated it, audiences were divided, but the box office roared. Three years later, the inevitable sequel, Fifty Shades Darker , arrived with a new director (James Foley, replacing Sam Taylor-Johnson) and a promise to fix the original’s biggest flaw: the lack of a real relationship.

Their intimate scenes are also strangely sterile. Despite being marketed as “darker” and “sexier,” the film is notably less explicit than its predecessor. The BDSM elements are almost entirely sidelined in favor of conventional romantic montages: cooking breakfast, dancing in the rain, and a strangely chaste bathtub scene. For a franchise built on the promise of boundary-pushing erotica, Darker is surprisingly tame. Let’s be honest: Fifty Shades Darker is not a good movie. The dialogue is laughable. The product placement (a very long close-up of a Bose speaker, a Porsche that gets more screen time than some actors) is shameless. And the dramatic climax—involving a helicopter crash, a villain with a gun, and a last-minute rescue—is so absurdly over-the-top that it feels like a rejected Days of Our Lives script.

Fifty Shades Freed would arrive a year later, promising a wedding and a final dose of melodrama. But after Darker , it was clear: this franchise had already lost its luster.