For a man with a canon of work as scant and heavily reliant on epigrams as Oscar Wilde, there has been no shortage of examinations of his life, particularly when it came to ruin after being sentenced to two years of imprisonment and hard labor upon being outed by his affluent lover’s father, John Douglas, the Marquess of Queensberry–a moniker of which would tend to make one think he was gayer than Wilde.
In the latest filmic rendering of the beloved author, playwright, aestheticist and all around bad mama jama, Rupert Everett takes up where Stephen Fry left off in 1997’s Wilde–save for the fact that Everett has given it the triple threat effect of directing and writing the film in addition to starring in it. He even lovingly pays homage to the past by once again including Tom Wilkinson–this time, somewhat poetically, in the role of Catholic priest Father Dunne as opposed to John Douglas. While he might not have the same cachet as Fry with, to quote Lana Del Rey, “all that face, all that body,” Everett does his best physical rendering with the addition of a fat suit and a detached lilt, favoring the nonplussed reactions to tragedy that Wilde was eventually known for in the wake of all he suffered. For Colin Morgan’s part as Lord Alfred “Bosie” Douglas, he, too, can never hold a candle to the last predecessor to play him, Jude Law. But not just any Jude Law–physical prime Jude Law. What’s more, with Jude as Bosie, there is a far greater tenderness imbued into the love story, whereas with Everett and Morgan, it’s all about the toxicity–how well Bosie could go for Wilde’s jugular and cut him as only someone you’re in love with can. Still, Everett felt the need for a fresh biopic that would focus solely on his time in exile, a stark contrast to the affluent man about town lifestyle he lived in London, now instead scraping by on whatever charity he can get from anyone who will still acknowledge him, or rather, who he used to be. And though his four pound a week allowance from his wife is contingent solely upon never seeing Bosie again, as Wilde puts it, “I must love and be loved whatever price I pay for it.” And oh how Wilde paid, despite knowing full well that the only narcissist more narcissistic than he (which, of course, was all a self-hating ruse) was Bosie–forever committed to running right back to his family when the purse strings were pulled too tightly.
As for Everett’s desire to bring the script to life after ten years of chasing down adequate funding, he commented, “Time has moved on slightly since the other Wilde films because the first one was made in, I think 1957, which was a very risky time to make a film about Wilde. The second one in the 1970s, which was still not a safe time, so everyone was slightly more reverential toward him, and then the latest one…was still a little bit too sanitized for me. I feel the great thing about Wilde is the humanity of him, the human frailty, if you like. He was a huge star who really thought the whole world was revolving around him.” Perhaps this is why, in the 1997 version, which Everett falsely attributes to being made in 1992, it is not the tale of “The Happy Prince” wielded, but that of “The Selfish Giant.” An allegory for Wilde in more ways than just the title. For in his pursuit of beauty, the wordsmith broke many hearts, not least of which included his own wife, Constance (Emily Watson), who still assures forgiveness so long as he ceases to ever see Bosie again. Yet this is where what Everett would label as Wilde’s “Christ-like” quality would come into play. For as seemingly selfish as it was to give in to his love and affection for the quintessential bitch boy, Wilde would have ended up suffering far less in life if he hadn’t sacrificed himself to the cause of forbidden love. Then again, there’s always that fifty-fifty chance that he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that a scandalous life would be the only thing that could lead to immortality via continued interest in his sparse work, most of which we might not have been acquainted with if not for his literary executor/love triangle member Robbie Ross (Edwin Thomas–again, Michael Sheen is a better look in 1997’s Wilde). Indeed, it was Ross who was responsible for buying back the rights to the works of Wilde that had to be sold off when he was declared bankrupt. And yet, as Bosie screams it at him at Wilde’s funeral, history will only favor talking about Wilde’s relationship with Bosie. Here, however, it does seem that Ross is given more due. Or, at least, a little more attention equitably divided between his role in Wilde’s life and Bosie’s. Despite, Ross’ steadfastness in even the most rock bottom of instances of Wilde’s post-personnage célèbre era, it is as Wilde says, “Why does one always run towards ruin? Why does it hold such a fascination?” This as he departs on a boat for his short-lived Naples getaway with Bosie, where they would live in ephemeral debauched contentment at Villa Giudice (the translation of giudice appropriately being judge–since that’s what everyone was doing to their lifestyle).
In this regard, it is as Everett says–he is Christ-like, almost like The Happy Prince himself–willing to give and give of himself until there’s nothing left except his heart, always open and ready, yet discarded for the dust heap in the collective deeming of its valuelessness. But it was Wilde’s heart that kept him going when none of the other trappings of what made him enthusiastic about life remained. As Everett remarks of his character, however, “He always had the choice to get out of his fate, to avoid his doom, and he never did. He always drove straight in there.” The Happy Prince was most content to be at least somewhat miserable. It’s the very epitome of suffering for art, knowing full well what you’re doing to yourself as you draw ever closer to financial ruin and syphilitic death–though Bosie might have dubbed it Wilde’s guise about being an artist as a means to roam about the streets drunk and deranged with a viable excuse. Then again, what better excuse is there than the awareness that “Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.” And clearly, this too, is how Everett felt about pursuing the finances to make this film.
