In all the press
generated by the Fifty Shades of Grey
trilogy, three statements consistently recur: 1) the books are making a
crapload of money; 2) the books are filled with crappy writing; and 3) these
crappy books can only be making craploads of money because they’re about sex. The
problem, though, is that the “sex sells” formula really doesn’t really explain
the trilogy’s extraordinary, almost unbelievable, popularity. As others have
observed, there is a surplus of similar erotica, much of it better written (at
least if you believe the assessments of online romance fiction fans) and almost
all of it cheaper (in fact, most of it completely free and anonymously
available online). So what is it about this particular novel? Why Fifty Shades of Grey? And perhaps even more
to the point, why now?
There is clearly something else going on. Students and scholars of popular culture know that popularity is always a measure of multiple layers of appeal—some conscious, others subconscious. Any phenomenon with the massive appeal of Fifty Shades has to be registering with readers on several counts. It may be libidinally and psychologically appealing, but it must also speak to widespread cultural and political concerns that affect us now, even (or especially) if we don't consciously recognize that it is doing so. So what anxieties and experiences of our time might be reflected in the story of an innocent recent college graduate with a liberal arts degree in English, who becomes entangled with a global business executive whose assets include an apartment that resembles an art museum, a private jet and helicopter, even an on-demand gynecologist? What draws this young woman, with simple hopes of finding an entry-level job and a decent apartment in Seattle, into a deeply ambivalent relationship with an obscenely powerful man who really, really wants to spank her--hard (but who will also give her an Audi, upscale lingerie, and free health care)?
Fifty Shades of Grey may be almost completely about sex, but the reason the book is such an unexpected smash success is because its central story reflects the ordinary citizen’s awkwardly submissive relationship with the brutal (and yet strangely attractive) dominance of finance capital. The book is making so much money, in other words, because at some fundamental cultural level it’s really about money, and more particularly about the strange sado-masochism that seems to characterize our relationship with a finance industry that has been spanking our bottoms for some time now. BDSM is a carefully managed relationship of power in which the submissive actively consents to be dominated and humiliated by another in an exchange aimed at mutual pleasure. But Anastasia Steele, the heroine (if you can call her that) of Fifty Shades, is no submissive. Not only does she have no experience with the position, she has no real interest in or attraction to its dynamics; however, she finds herself unable to pull away from the appeal of a dashingly handsome and filthy rich man whose primary terms of engagement turn out to involve some leather whips, potential butt plugs, and a Red Room of Pain.
It’s hard to think of a better corollary to this than the average American’s dependence on a super-powerful banking industry that we are allowing to abuse us. You’ve earned gigantic bonuses while mismanaging your assets? (“Ouch. You hurt me.”) Let’s pay more taxes to bail you out, so that you can continue to earn gigantic bonuses while gambling with our money. (“Please! Hurt me again!”) You’ve been secretly and illegally fixing interest rates in order to make more money, even at the risk of causing much economic pain later? (“Hmm, this doesn’t feel right . . .) We either don't care or will pretend we don’t understand what that means. ( . . . but you’re so freaking hot.”)
Consider the strange performance that was the recent Congressional hearing with JP Morgan CEO Jamie Dimond, in which finance committee members—rather than taking the handsome and well-liked banker to task for losing vast sums of investor money, instead appeared to wither submissively at his feet. The scenario—which was spoofed in several cartoons, including one titled "Senators Swoon over JP Morgan Chief Jamie" and another showing congress members as desperate and needy cats lovingly rubbing their heads against Dimond's body—amounted to an acknowledgement that even though rich bankers were hurting us, we were going to consent to more, as if the nation were taking some weird kind of pleasure in the financial ass-whooping inflicted by the big bank. This is the classic “Beat me! Whip me! Make me write bad checks!” joke, with the 21st-century updates of “Make me take out a bad mortgage!” or “Give me a student loan I’ll never be able to repay!” or “Make me buy stock whose share prices are rigged so that I’ll never profit but you will!” It’s as if the financial stimulus were literally stimulating.
Is E.L. James some kind of genius who craftily integrated the economic conditions of global finance capitalism within the form of BDSM fan fiction? No. But our current submission to the bondage of global finance does help explain readers’ almost obsessive attraction to this bizarre romance story, one told from the point of view of a character who finds herself caught in the magnetic force field of a powerful and wealthy business executive whose administration of pleasure is always delivered with a measure of real pain. It's easy to see how the banks and corporations get off on this relationship, but like Anastasia at the end of the first novel, we might be wondering how to find a way out.
There is clearly something else going on. Students and scholars of popular culture know that popularity is always a measure of multiple layers of appeal—some conscious, others subconscious. Any phenomenon with the massive appeal of Fifty Shades has to be registering with readers on several counts. It may be libidinally and psychologically appealing, but it must also speak to widespread cultural and political concerns that affect us now, even (or especially) if we don't consciously recognize that it is doing so. So what anxieties and experiences of our time might be reflected in the story of an innocent recent college graduate with a liberal arts degree in English, who becomes entangled with a global business executive whose assets include an apartment that resembles an art museum, a private jet and helicopter, even an on-demand gynecologist? What draws this young woman, with simple hopes of finding an entry-level job and a decent apartment in Seattle, into a deeply ambivalent relationship with an obscenely powerful man who really, really wants to spank her--hard (but who will also give her an Audi, upscale lingerie, and free health care)?
Fifty Shades of Grey may be almost completely about sex, but the reason the book is such an unexpected smash success is because its central story reflects the ordinary citizen’s awkwardly submissive relationship with the brutal (and yet strangely attractive) dominance of finance capital. The book is making so much money, in other words, because at some fundamental cultural level it’s really about money, and more particularly about the strange sado-masochism that seems to characterize our relationship with a finance industry that has been spanking our bottoms for some time now. BDSM is a carefully managed relationship of power in which the submissive actively consents to be dominated and humiliated by another in an exchange aimed at mutual pleasure. But Anastasia Steele, the heroine (if you can call her that) of Fifty Shades, is no submissive. Not only does she have no experience with the position, she has no real interest in or attraction to its dynamics; however, she finds herself unable to pull away from the appeal of a dashingly handsome and filthy rich man whose primary terms of engagement turn out to involve some leather whips, potential butt plugs, and a Red Room of Pain.
It’s hard to think of a better corollary to this than the average American’s dependence on a super-powerful banking industry that we are allowing to abuse us. You’ve earned gigantic bonuses while mismanaging your assets? (“Ouch. You hurt me.”) Let’s pay more taxes to bail you out, so that you can continue to earn gigantic bonuses while gambling with our money. (“Please! Hurt me again!”) You’ve been secretly and illegally fixing interest rates in order to make more money, even at the risk of causing much economic pain later? (“Hmm, this doesn’t feel right . . .) We either don't care or will pretend we don’t understand what that means. ( . . . but you’re so freaking hot.”)
Consider the strange performance that was the recent Congressional hearing with JP Morgan CEO Jamie Dimond, in which finance committee members—rather than taking the handsome and well-liked banker to task for losing vast sums of investor money, instead appeared to wither submissively at his feet. The scenario—which was spoofed in several cartoons, including one titled "Senators Swoon over JP Morgan Chief Jamie" and another showing congress members as desperate and needy cats lovingly rubbing their heads against Dimond's body—amounted to an acknowledgement that even though rich bankers were hurting us, we were going to consent to more, as if the nation were taking some weird kind of pleasure in the financial ass-whooping inflicted by the big bank. This is the classic “Beat me! Whip me! Make me write bad checks!” joke, with the 21st-century updates of “Make me take out a bad mortgage!” or “Give me a student loan I’ll never be able to repay!” or “Make me buy stock whose share prices are rigged so that I’ll never profit but you will!” It’s as if the financial stimulus were literally stimulating.
Is E.L. James some kind of genius who craftily integrated the economic conditions of global finance capitalism within the form of BDSM fan fiction? No. But our current submission to the bondage of global finance does help explain readers’ almost obsessive attraction to this bizarre romance story, one told from the point of view of a character who finds herself caught in the magnetic force field of a powerful and wealthy business executive whose administration of pleasure is always delivered with a measure of real pain. It's easy to see how the banks and corporations get off on this relationship, but like Anastasia at the end of the first novel, we might be wondering how to find a way out.
Power - whether it be sexual or financial - is an enchanting vortex that sucks in and blinds us to everything else around it. That is why politicians swoon to the financial elite, and accept all of the abuse on our behalf, gratefully receiving the supine penetration in the hope of a minimal amount of nobless oblige later on. And when the elite climb off and clean themselves up on the way out the door, the rest of us are the ones presented with the bill.
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