The '50 Shades of Grey' Musical is Rated R for Reductive

All photos via Clifford Roles.
Porn for moms has become a pretty big thing (not to be confused with mommy porn, which is probably an even bigger thing that I’m afraid to Google). Whether you’re a fan or a hater, it’s hard to deny that E.L. James’s Fifty Shades of Grey is pretty much singularly responsible for the boom in BDSM-friendly parties occupying the living rooms where Avon and Tupperware parties once did.

The erotic novel has successfully shocked and embarrassed an immeasurable number of people (e.g. spouses, subway passengers, elderly librarians, adult children of elderly librarians) since its steamy Summer 2011 release. With over 100 million paperback copies sold worldwide, the excitement over the “titillating” novel has, in recent months, seemingly died down—making this the perfect time to debut a musical parody of the book, right? Right.

50 Shades! The Musical—The Original Parody, is the lovechild of producers Marshall Cordell, Emily Dorezas, and Al Samuels—who also directed and co-wrote the piece with a number of people whose resume is probably more impressive when this production is omitted. Not to be confused with Cuff Me: The Fifty Shades of Grey Musical Parody (I’m assuming the two are at Biggie and Tupac level of rivalry) 50 Shades! is a loose retelling of the novel through 11 original songs and a lot of sweaty dancing. And I was lucky enough to experience the whole thing.

Like most people in their early 20s with internet access and the ability to use Google Chrome’s Incognito function, I openly rolled my eyes and scoffed at any mention of Fifty Shades in the past. An erotic book series based on a fan fiction based on a teen vampire series based on Mormon ideals? No thanks.

My journey into this weird and dismal abyss began two days before opening night, when I put down my copy of the Long Island Medium’s There’s More To Life Than This to delve into the erotic novel in question. After the first few chapters, I felt nothing but boredom and sadness—for myself, and for the millions of people who bought the book because they don’t know how to use Google PDFs. As things started to “heat up,” I became irrationally afraid that the content of this glorified rape fantasy might actually turn me on. The first sex scene, however, where we discover that Ana is a virgin and Grey wants to be her first and only, or some shit, was so fucked up and poorly written that if my sexual organs weren’t already innies they would have crawled up into my body never to be heard from again.

After reading the novel and spending way too much time thinking about whether Ana was actually a strong woman in control who didn’t need no man, or if this was just a messed up tale of abusive relationships (the latter, I think), I felt ready to see what the touring version of NYC’s off-Broadway production had in store for me. The show’s website cautions that it’s, “not for those under the age of 18, but does not cross boundaries that would make general audiences squirm.” Given my predisposition to secondhand embarrassment, I was sure that promise wouldn’t be kept. Surely the live show wouldn’t venture into the dark and cum-covered territory the book does, but I still had a lot of questions. Would there be whips and collars? Would there be even a little IRL semen? Would Anastasia, have her tampon removed by Christian on-stage as in the book? (Yes, no, no.)

With images of Mr. Grey dancing in my head (and by dancing, I mean aggressively slapping women and being your standard weirdo control freak rich guy), I set out on an evening of what was sure to be very high art with my friend Kevin.

Nearing the St. Lawrence Centre for the Arts, I suddenly felt anxious and unprepared for what I was about to potentially see. When I was five I cried at my brother’s wedding when he removed his wife’s garter belt in front of everyone at the reception, but I’ve since been to strip clubs and burlesque shows. Was I entirely the wrong person to be attending this musical? Maybe it was the corporate crowds outside Union Station, or maybe it was the Twilight-esque forest installation of Brookfield Place on Front St., but like the book’s protagonist Ana, my inner goddess began speaking to me. Hey bitch, it said. Chill the fuck out. I followed the voice.

A Sears portrait of the author's pre-show innocence and serenity. Photo via the author.
Entering the theatre lobby, we were met by a bevy of drunk moms and grandmothers out for ladies night, dressed to the nines (let’s be real, they were more like sixes) and a few touchy feely, lets-whisper-into-each-others-mouths-in-public couples who seemed to be more into the 50 Shades! part than the parody aspect.

Taking our seats, the familiar melody of Katy Perry’s Roar could be heard. If there was any doubting it before, it now became very clear that this would be a very edgy, very sexy, not at all ridiculous show. The lights faded and the onstage band fired up.

The musical opens in the living room of a ladies’ book club, where three women are about to have their worlds rocked by E.L. James’ atrocious grammar and overused thesaurus. The Trio of Moms act as an intro the novel and appear throughout the musical as the chorus, sort of like if the Dixie Chicks were tour guides at the musuem of tacky literature.

In a twist of fate rivaled perhaps only by the moment in Bring It On where Torrence finds out her cheer squad has been copying routines from the East Compton Clovers, lead female character Anastasia Steele stepped into the spotlight to reveal that she looked exactly like an ex-girlfriend of mine. As I reeled from this shocker, the rest of the audience somehow moved on to discover what would be the show’s running gag—that the novel’s star stalker/master of sex, Christian Grey, was played by a very hairy, heavyset redhead. A young guy sitting in front of me (who looked exactly like Kurt from Glee, making this experience the perfect recipe for my sexual nightmare) whispered to his companion—a MILF, Kevin would later note—that the actor resembled Toronto’s own Rob Ford.

Throughout the show, I was confused as to whether 50 Shades! The Musical is really making fun of E.L. James’ novel or paying tribute. The show makes a lot of questionable choices, including the portrayal of the Spanish character, José Rodriguez, played by a white guy in a cheesy stick-on mustache. The choice went over terrifically with the show’s (almost completely white) audience, and he was one of the funnier characters. But given that José is written as a creep and a stereotype in the novel, were audience members laughing at the parody, or merely at the lazy stereotype onstage?

The first musical number that really stirred something inside me was, “I Don’t Make Love (I Fuck),” in which a sweaty Grey—in a sparkly red leotard, penis outline fully visible—very eloquently describes how he will penetrate every woman in the audience. My eyes immediately wanted to roll off of my face, out the doors of the theatre, and into incoming traffic. Then things took a weird turn. I actually started enjoying myself. I don’t know if the change of heart was due to the actor’s own charm and personality, the fact that he was delivering lines like “I’m gonna eat your pussy like a poutine” to unsuspecting grandmothers, or if it was merely a case of mob mentality (probably), but I was won over. Sort of.

I came to appreciate that the show just wants to give people a good time on a night out away from their fucking kids. My friend Kevin and I agreed that it was probably a good time for anyone who’s ever had a Skinny Girl wine or bottled cocktail touch their lips, and that’s exactly who it was written for. Whether you’ve read the books or not is pretty irrelevant—if anything, it’s probably best to go into this without any expectations, given that audiences don’t get much action beyond two shirtless male backup dancers (with some pretty hefty bulges, I’ll give you that) and one female dancer in lingerie (whose presence is never really addressed, but OK). To my slight disappointment the only penetration happening in the theatre was the man behind me going in hard on his Häagen-Dazs ice cream bar and the only wieners I saw were the dozen basketball fans eating hot dogs after the game on my subway ride home. That’s probably for the best. @fatti_smith