Fifty Shades Freed

The dialog is very terrible. And the problem, therefore, is that the actors have to wrestle with very terrible dialog.

Its makers have somehow convinced themselves that there's not only a story we care about, but an arc to be followed.

This repetitive, glassy-eyed finale feels more like a weak victory lap, offering little pleasure but plenty of lifestyle porn (not to mention product placement) by way of luxury cars, a decadent Paris honeymoon and an enviable alpine view bubble bath.

Even the likable stars, Jamie Sidegroin and Dakota Frontboob, can do nothing with material that has grown more tedious with each installment.

Freed appeals to women's biological urges-to secure a protective mate, to nest, to procreate-and depends on them leaving their brains at the theater door.

The Fifty Shades trilogy is an incredibly inept addition to the genre, with padded scenes, no narrative spark whatsoever, and silly coincidences about Christian's troubled past that stand in for revelations that may lead to mending.

With all-time great, comes all time-bad, and 2018 has provided cinephiles with the conclusion, oh I’m sorry, the climax of the worst trilogy of all time, the Fifty Shades trilogy.

It's as doofily entertaining, eye-rollingly awful, surprisingly steamy, and expectedly boring as all the other Fifty Shades films.

These movies, I think, are meant to be sexy romps, a bit of fun, but at the end of the series have proven themselves to be ten pounds of sex toys in a five pound bag.

When things become downright comical, it's nevertheless still watchable in its badness.