Our verdict: two stars

When it comes to matching subject and substance, director Sam Taylor-Johnson has to be congratulated.

How clever of her to make a film about masochism that is about as erotic an experience as being lashed with a pair of old Y-fronts.

Yes, the adaptation of EL James's gazillion-selling bonkbuster is here, just in time for Valentine's Day. Nothing says I love you, after all, quite like domestic violence and handcuffs, a pair of which you might need to slip in your handbag if taking a reluctant partner along to this blend of highfalutin' soft porn and outright tosh that is less Nine and a Half Weeks than 125 minutes of Mills and Bore.

Here is the (no) touching tale of an impressionable young student, Anastasia Steele, and her love for millionaire businessman Christian Grey, a colourless man who boasts a scarlet secret.

Mr Grey is into domination, and Ana is to be first his puzzled, then his compliant accomplice. From Christian's infamous red room of pain, Ana will emerge a better, stronger woman for having her botty smacked.

If that sounds risible, wait until you hear the dialogue, which makes the creaking cliches of early porn movies sound Ibsenesque.

Clearly reasoning that an audience who suffered through an execrable book won't mind this too much, Taylor-Johnson instead concentrates on giving the paying punter what she thinks they really want.

This turns out not to be lashings of sex - it takes a good half hour before there is a hint of unbuttoning going on - but instead the fantasy of a rich, troubled, abusive but fundamentally caring man showing a little woman what she needs.

A cross between a lingerie ad and a B&Q commercial, Fifty Shades is simply wall to wall tedium, neither sexy nor funny.

As part of their bedroom games, Ana and Christian have safe words, the uttering of which brings the agony to an end. They opt for red.

You might prefer "mince".