Australian morning show personality Lisa Wilkinson saw Fifty Shades of Grey the other night. She did not enjoy it.

"I've got something I wanna get off my chest," Wilkinson begins ominously as her fellow Today anchors coo with delight. She then launches into an Ethering that will set the standard for Fifty Shades panning for generations to come.

Jamie Dornan as Christian Grey is a thirtysomething jerk of a billionaire who never seems to work. An emotionally crippled narcissist no one could love. Meanwhile, Dakota Johnson is the one-dimensional lip biting—COULD SOMEONE GET THAT GIRL A CHAPSTICK?—pathetic Anastasia Steele who, for no discernible reason, falls in love with the aforementioned jerk and singlehandedly sells women across the world short. Yes, Fifty Shades of Grey is more appalling than appealing. It's domestic violence dressed up as erotica. And if there's one thing this movie is not, it's erotic. One star out of five, Dicky. And that's only because of the excellent Choc-top I consoled myself with later. And I know you're wondering, as to Pete. No, he didn't get lucky last night, because, after two hours of complete drivel, I need more than a Choc-top to pop my corn.

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It's no Ebert on North, but nothing will ever be Ebert on North.

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Wilkinson, unlike some who will review the film, admitted that she'd never read the books, so all of the franchise's idiocy hit her at once. Watching the film with no exposure to the culture around it must feel like jumping naked into a pool of ice cold dildos. Poor Lisa Wilkinson.

Meanwhile, in a house made of gold bricks, E. L. James polishes her diamond bust of Edward Cullen with the fur of a rare albino baby panda.

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