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“We cannot keep on living like this, governed by fools who think only of wealth and of war and the size of their estates,” Wilde rages, adding a touch of timelessness to this sorry, sad tale.Neil Percival Young OC OM (born November 12, 1945) is a Canadian-American singer, musician and songwriter. A man imprisoned for gay sex might be a relic of the past in this country, but it makes a pitch for contemporary relevance in other ways, too. It is dark and gloomy (if this were BBC One prime time, there would be issues raised by the viewers who complain about mumbling), its protagonists looking for light in the shadows, and there is a piercing, high-pitched noise every time Wilde repeats his refrain of “If it was not for my ear …”īut Stephens is remarkable, and gives it his all as both the wreck of a man who would live only for another four years, and as the suave, younger Wilde, exhorting his older, ruined counterpart to live. The conditions of a prison in 1895 were grim, and the idea that his cell “lacks a woman’s touch” is laughable no woman could improve on that filthy, freezing cesspit. It is not an easy watch, and I mean that quite literally. If his sexuality is superior, should he expect an honour from the Queen? “Well, certainly a tax rebate, at the very least,” he quips. It would truly be a crime if this famous wit were not allowed a glimmer of comedy in his musings, and among the trauma and the horrors, there are plenty of moments of sly humour. He wonders if his ability to see “all the beauty in the world”, in men and in women, makes him a superior man.
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There is much to say about love, too, from the betrayal of “sweet Bosie” to his adoration of his wife and children, though we know that he would never see them again. He is ashamed of his materialism, yet finds solace in imagining rich fabrics and good French soap. Is art useless? Is he ashamed of the success of The Importance of Being Earnest, a play he wrote in haste for money, that the young Oscar says will be performed for the rest of time? Wilde’s ego and snobbery come and go.
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He talks of morality and art and faith and God. He rails against England and “sound English common sense” and the English education system. Wilde debates grand subjects with himself. Nunn directs with utter sparseness, as if for a stage production, and, clearly, this is about the dialogue and the performance (or should that be performances?). A great and exceptional man,” says the young Oscar to the prison Oscar, who refers to his surroundings as “this tomb for those who are not yet dead”. “I say, remember yourself for who you are. Most of the drama concentrates on this wretched version of Wilde, a man who can only refer to himself by his prisoner number, in conversation with his younger self – a witty, elegant man, dressed in immaculate velvet, with rouged cheeks, who is urging his counterpart to strive for survival. “I can bear anything except losing my mind,” he says, as if the prospect is imminent. He’s cold, hungry, sick, dirty – and bored. Stephens plays him as a wretched, tortured soul brought to the depths of despair by his predicament. He would emerge from his sentence having written De Profundis and with the material for The Ballad of Reading Gaol, but C33 is more concerned with what Wilde had to endure, and the ultimate cost of that. This is 1895, and Wilde is in prison for gross indecency after the details of his affair with Lord Alfred Douglas, his beloved Bosie, became public knowledge. The moan is not coming from Wilde, yet, but from a disturbed man a few cells down, whose mutterings earn him an off-screen beating from a guard. It begins with an animalistic moan, deep in the bowels of the Victorian prison, its candles and iron gates lending this a gothic chill. That hour doesn’t stretch patience or outstay its welcome.