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É desconcertante observar como essa severidade “ideológica” se aplica a determinados filmes, enquanto As Cinquenta Sombras de Grey passa, entre os pingos da chuva, como se a única questão pertinente fosse a avaliação métrica das zonas de nudez com que podemos ser gratificados. É mesmo chocante que, num contexto em que tudo se “problematiza”, desde a justiça dos resultados do futebol até aos colarinhos sem gravata de Yanis Varoufakis, pouco ou nada se diga sobre o modo de encenação da personagem de Christian Grey. Porquê? Porque com ele, e através dele, triunfa a ideologia da pura performance técnica. Christian Grey ficará mesmo como a corporização de um conceito meramente instrumental das actividades humanas, incluindo o sexo, colocado, aliás, exactamente no mesmo plano simbólico da acumulação de riqueza. Ora, não parece que os valores mediáticos dominantes queiram discutir o triunfo desta ideologia anti-humanista. Perante o alarido circundante, podemos até supor que estão empenhados e...

My face is finished, my body's gone. And I can't help but think standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful. With their questioning eyes. That I must above all things love myself. I saw a girl in the crowd, I ran over I shouted out, I asked if I could take her out, But she said that she didn't want to. I changed the sheets on my bed, I combed the hairs across my head, I sucked in my gut and still she said That she just didn't want to. I read her Eliot, read her Yeats, I tried my best to stay up late, I fixed the hinges on her gate, But still she just never wanted to. I bought her a dozen snow-white doves, I did her dishes in rubber gloves, I called her Honeybee, I called her Love, But she just still didn't want to. She just never wants to. I sent her every type of flower, I played her guitar by the hour, I patted her revolting little chihuahua, But still she just didn't want to. I wrote a song with a hund...

I'm gettin tired of your shit You don't never buy me nothin' See everytime you come around You got to bring Jim, James, Paul, and Tyrone See why can't we be by ourselves, sometimes See I've been having this on my mind For a long time I just want it to be You and me Like it used to be, baby But ya don't know how to act So matter of fact I think ya better call tyrone (call him) And tell him come on, help you get your shit (come on, come on) You need to call tyrone (call him) And tell him I said come on Now everytime I ask you for a little cash You say no and turn right around and ask me for some ass Oh, well hold up Listen partna I ain't no cheap thrill Cause miss Badu is always comin for real And you know the deal Everytime we go somewhere I gotta reach down in my purse To pay your way and your homeboys way And sometimes your cousins way They don't never have to pay Don't have no cars Hang around in bars Tr...

(…) percebia agora por que motivo a odiava. Odiava-a por ser jovem e bonita e assexuada, porque queria ir para a cama com ela e nunca o faria, porque à volta da cintura graciosa e flexível, que parecia convidar um homem a enlaçá-la, havia apenas a odiosa faixa encarnada, símbolo agressivo da castidade.