The first film based on EL James’s potpourri-porn novels was surprisingly sly, pruning and embellishing the author’s lilac prose with something like irony. ![]() Still, the delight I take in Fifty Shades Darker (Universal, 18) pushes this attitude to its limit. I don’t believe in the term “guilty pleasure”: if a film, however ropey, gives me pleasure, I’m not ashamed to concede that something about it is working.
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