English Literature's most prolix subject, others' writings about 'what Oscar did' dwarfing Wilde's humble literary output. Lord Alfred Douglas alone picked over the corpse through no less than six volumes -the last in 1940.
This Brian Gilbert regurgitation, from bad 'great-idea' western opening to lisping children's inane responses to being told the greatest fairy tales in the English language, supposedly portrays artistic libertinism through a mere angst-riven, self-conscious depiction of homosexuality. It is a movie spawned by most odious objectives.
Given the subject's previous bibliography and filmography this abysmal treatment of the Wilde debacle is as unforgivable as forgettable. What's wrong with this portrayal of male homosexuality is what was perceived wrong with the Victorian original: It is aberrant, devoid of human love.It smugly contents itself that mere depiction of 20th century depravity furthers understanding of the 19th century human condition. It does the opposite; it repels. It is no more than a nudge-nudge, wink-wink, indulgent gay peep show with en-famile and other relationships relegated supports for its loveless carnality.
This Wilde is an imposter. Are we really expected to believe that this Wilde wrote anything, let alone THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST in three weeks? Such crucial miscasting renders WILDE a dead-in-the-water turkey. Stephen Fry's, unwitty enunciation of Wildean witticisms lacks charm and sparkle. Fry's a prop, propping up Victorian sets; having a physical- as opposed to emotional- relationship with a pouting, 'aren't I immature?' Bosie [Jude Law]. Stephen Fry is poseur in a TV sketch directed by TV director Brian Gilbert in a well below par TV sketch of the Peter Finch original. We never hear Wilde's
'.golden voice, nor mark[ing] him trace Under the common thing the hidden grace And conjure wonder out of emptiness.'
because the cadaver in Wilde's weeds is inherently incapable of reproducing it.
Robbie Ross, Wilde's lifelong friend and literary executor is a mere gay foil to the rarely smiling Lord Alfred Douglas whilst Vanessa Richardson's clever Speranza, Tom Wilkinson's Queensberry and other distinguished British cast members are contextually devalued to sad caricatures.
This movie- let alone failing to conjure anything - is full of emptiness; it is filing clerk's veracity; fact bereft of truth; perverted actuality. To paraphrase Queensberry's crudity -WILDE 'poses as a somdomite' -somehow for once sounding poetically apt
This Brian Gilbert regurgitation, from bad 'great-idea' western opening to lisping children's inane responses to being told the greatest fairy tales in the English language, supposedly portrays artistic libertinism through a mere angst-riven, self-conscious depiction of homosexuality. It is a movie spawned by most odious objectives.
Given the subject's previous bibliography and filmography this abysmal treatment of the Wilde debacle is as unforgivable as forgettable. What's wrong with this portrayal of male homosexuality is what was perceived wrong with the Victorian original: It is aberrant, devoid of human love.It smugly contents itself that mere depiction of 20th century depravity furthers understanding of the 19th century human condition. It does the opposite; it repels. It is no more than a nudge-nudge, wink-wink, indulgent gay peep show with en-famile and other relationships relegated supports for its loveless carnality.
This Wilde is an imposter. Are we really expected to believe that this Wilde wrote anything, let alone THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST in three weeks? Such crucial miscasting renders WILDE a dead-in-the-water turkey. Stephen Fry's, unwitty enunciation of Wildean witticisms lacks charm and sparkle. Fry's a prop, propping up Victorian sets; having a physical- as opposed to emotional- relationship with a pouting, 'aren't I immature?' Bosie [Jude Law]. Stephen Fry is poseur in a TV sketch directed by TV director Brian Gilbert in a well below par TV sketch of the Peter Finch original. We never hear Wilde's
'.golden voice, nor mark[ing] him trace Under the common thing the hidden grace And conjure wonder out of emptiness.'
because the cadaver in Wilde's weeds is inherently incapable of reproducing it.
Robbie Ross, Wilde's lifelong friend and literary executor is a mere gay foil to the rarely smiling Lord Alfred Douglas whilst Vanessa Richardson's clever Speranza, Tom Wilkinson's Queensberry and other distinguished British cast members are contextually devalued to sad caricatures.
This movie- let alone failing to conjure anything - is full of emptiness; it is filing clerk's veracity; fact bereft of truth; perverted actuality. To paraphrase Queensberry's crudity -WILDE 'poses as a somdomite' -somehow for once sounding poetically apt