Fifty Shades Darker

Starring Dakota Johnson, Jamie Dornan, Marcia Gay Harden, Kim Basinger and Bella Heathcote. Directed by James Foley. Opens Friday at major theatres. 118 minutes. 18A

“I’m gonna need a road map,” Dakota Johnson’s Anastasia Steele says near the start of Fifty Shades Darker, as she reacquaints herself with kinky billionaire Christian Grey (Jamie Dornan).

Sorry, Ana, but something more jolting is required, like maybe an electric cattle prod — anything, really, to get a current flowing between these two so-called lovers. They generate less wattage than a small appliance bulb, a huge problem for a franchise built on sparks and shocks.

The curiosity factor of bringing E.L. James’ mommy porn spillage Fifty Shades of Grey to the screen is entirely lost with this dismal sequel, which new director James Foley helms with all the flair of a convenience store security video.

Limply picking up from Sam Taylor-Johnson’s 2015 franchise debut, the screenplay by Niall Leonard (author James’ husband) robs Dornan’s S&M-obsessed Grey of whatever mild sense of menace he possessed.

He wants to “renegotiate terms” (how’s that for romance?) to win back Ana, who wisely fled from Grey and his Red Room of Pain when she realized that he cares more about his medieval Meccano set than he does her.

“No rules, no punishments and no more secrets,” is the new arrangement, which essentially turns Grey into Richie Rich with sex toys. He’s so caught up with regrets, also feeling sad about his unhappy childhood, he barely has time to crack the whip.

He’s also dealing with pesky reminders of his sadistic past: former girlfriend/submissive Leila Williams (Bella Heathcote) stalks him like spooky Samara from Rings, that other disastrous sequel; and his pain prof Elena Lincoln (Kim Basinger), the “Mrs. Robinson” who taught Grey the ropes, so to speak, thinks Ana is too vanilla to go the distance.

Ana, meanwhile, is busy with another bully: her new boss Jack Hyde (Eric Johnson of TV’s The Knick), who runs the publishing house where she’s now employed as a manuscript reader, is more interested in her form than her fonts.

And so it goes for two tedious hours, which don’t even come close to fulfilling the “darker” come-on of the title. (Moviegoers should consider a class-action lawsuit for false advertising.)

The first film, now seeming so much better in hindsight, had more kinks and even a few laughs. What few yuks there are in Fifty Shades Darker are due mainly to the risible dialogue.

And you could make a drinking game out of how Grey’s beard stubble changes from scene to scene: fashion victim one minute, beach drifter the next. The sharp implement this guy really needs is a safety razor.

Fifty Shades Darker is so dull, even a helicopter crash induces yawns — and I’m convinced they edited it in with the vain hope of finding a pulse in this picture.

No wonder Ana finds herself homesick for Grey’s naughty Red Room. Anything’s better than listening to this guy whine.

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