Wilde Script - Dialogue Transcript

Voila! Finally, the Wilde script is here for all you quotes spouting fans of the Oscar Wilde movie with Stephen Fry and Jude Law.  This script is a transcript that was painstakingly transcribed using the screenplay and/or viewings of Wilde. I know, I know, I still need to get the cast names in there and I'll be eternally tweaking it, so if you have any corrections, feel free to drop me a line. You won't hurt my feelings. Honest.

Swing on back to Drew's Script-O-Rama afterwards for more free movie scripts!

Wilde Script


  

 

                   

He's coming! He's coming!



 

                   

All right, now.



 

                   

Let's give a good

Colorado welcome here.



 

                   

Sir, you're most welcome.



 

                   

Thank you.



 

                   

Everybody, listen up.



 

                   

I want to introduce you



 

                   

to Oscar Wilde.



 

                   

Welcome to

the Matchless Silver Mine.



  

                   

Today, we opened up a new seam.



  

                   

We're gonna name it after you.



  

                   

How very kind.



  

                   

I look forward to collecting

the royalties.



  

                   

Now, why don't you

follow me over here?



  

                   

Great lecture

you gave last night.



  

                   

We're truly honoured

to have you visit us.



  

                   

If you'd like to step in here.



  

                   

There you go, sir.



  

                   

I thought

I was descending into hell.



  

                   

But with these angel faces

to greet me,



  

                   

it must be paradise.



  

                   

Is this the way

to my personal seam?



  

                   

I should have preferred gold.



  

                   

Purple and gold.



  

                   

But we live

in a silver age, alas.



  

                   

So much that is

exquisitely beautiful



  

                   

is wrought from suffering,

from pain, from toil.



  

                   

Broken bones

and blistered skin.



  

                   

Benvenuto Cellini

understood silver.



  

                   

He took the metal

that you mine so nobly down here



  

                   

and transformed it

into works of art



  

                   

for popes and princes.



  

                   

Cellini, is he a wop?



  

                   

A Renaissance man.

In every sense.



  

                   

The greatest silversmith

the world has ever seen.



  

                   

But a genius in life

as well as art.



  

                   

He experimented

with every vice known to man.



  

                   

He committed murder...



  

                   

He killed a man?



  

                   

More than one.



  

                   

Thank you.



  

                   

I'd like to meet this Cellini.

Why didn't you bring him?



  

                   

I'm afraid he's dead.



  

                   

Who shot him?



  

                   

Is Miss Lloyd connected

to Lloyd's Bank?



  

                   

No. No.



  

                   

Pity.



  

                   

But she's comfortable, Ada.

A thousand a year.



  

                   

Then I congratulate you,

Lady Wilde.



  

                   

Now that Oscar's been to America



  

                   

and sown his Wildean oats,



  

                   

it's time he settled down.



  

                   

But weren't they very rough?



  

                   

No. Charming.

Well, charming to me.



  

                   

With each other,

they were a little brusque.



  

                   

They hanged two men in a theatre



  

                   

just before I gave a lecture.



  

                   

I felt like the sorbet

after a side of beef.



  

                   

I know your friend

is famous, Ada.



  

                   

Notorious, at least.



  

                   

But I don't understand for what.



  

                   

For being himself,

Lady Mount-Temple.



  

                   

Don't Americans talk

the most wonderful slang?



  

                   

I did hear one lady say,



  

                   

"After the heel-lick,

I shifted my day goods. "



  

                   

What on earth did she mean?



  

                   

She'd changed her clothes

after an afternoon dance.



  

                   

Connie, my love,



  

                   

Lady Mount-Temple

is so anxious to meet you.



  

                   

I knew your father, Miss Lloyd.



  

                   

She's delightful.

And not stupid.



  

                   

Really, not stupid at all.



  

                   

Is that quite a reason

to marry her?



  

                   

Well, I must marry someone.



  

                   

My mother has our future

planned out in every detail.



  

                   

I'm to go into Parliament.



  

                   

We're going to have a nice house



  

                   

and live a proper settled life.



  

                   

Literature, lectures,

the House of Commons.



  

                   

Receptions for the world

in general at five o'clock.



  

                   

How dreary.



  

                   

Your attendance will not

be required at those.



  

                   

But your sphinxiness



  

                   

will be essential

for our dinners at eight.



  

                   

'Twill be

a grand life, a charming life.



  

                   

I see Constance will be busy

preparing the dinners.



  

                   

What will she contribute to

the literature and lectures?



  

                   

She'll correct the proofs

of my articles.



  

                   

What a little sunbeam!



  

                   

I do love her, Ada.



  

                   

She's...



  

                   

Silent.



  

                   

I find her very silent.



  

                   

But so sympathetic.



  

                   

And I do need an audience.



  

                   

I don't see how you can

possibly take it all in,



  

                   

reading at that speed.



  

                   

Try me.



  

                   

I know better.



   

                   

Where are we dining tonight?



   

                   

At the Leversons'.



   

                   

Then you must

show your true colours



   

                   

as a propagandist

for Dress Reform.



   

                   

The cinnamon cashmere

trousers, I think.



   

                   

And the cape with the ends

that turn up into sleeves.



   

                   

I... don't think I can wear

those trousers any more.



   

                   

A new Wilde for the world!



   

                   

Another genius for Ireland!



   

                   

We shall have to buy you

a whole new wardrobe.



   

                   

Ernest proposed to me

under that statue.



   

                   

The things that go on

in front of works of art



   

                   

are quite appalling.

The police should interfere.



   

                   

We were made not to marry.



   

                   

Whereas you and Constance

are so happy.



   

                   

Everyone says so.



   

                   

It's perfectly monstrous



   

                   

how people say things

behind one's back



   

                   

that are absolutely true.



   

                   

Your audience has proved

as responsive as you hoped?



   

                   

Receptive, yes.



   

                   

Responsive?



   

                   

I always wonder

what she's thinking.



   

                   

I expect

it's about the baby.



   

                   

Yes.



   

                   

Constance is such

a natural mother,



   

                   

she's invited Robbie

into the nest



   

                   

while his parents are abroad.



   

                   

Robbie is Canadian.



   

                   

You can tell by his youth.



   

                   

Have you been brought

to England to mature, Mr Ross?



   

                   

That was the idea.



   

                   

But it doesn't seem

to be working.



   

                   

I've lived here

since I was three



   

                   

and you see

the pitiful result.



   

                   

Robbie comes from a long line

of imperial governors.



   

                   

His grandfather was

Prime Minister of Upper Canada.



   

                   

Or was it Lower Canada?



   

                   

The British take their

class system wherever they go.



   

                   

They apply it

even to continents.



   

                   

Are you planning

to govern a continent?



   

                   

Oh, no.



   

                   

I don't even plan

to govern myself.



   

                   

All look the same to me.



   

                   

Hello! Hello, sir!



   

                   

If I give you these, my love,



   

                   

I'll see if I can find a cab.



   

                   

Coming through!



   

                   

Mind your backs!



   

                   

Looking for someone?



   

                   

Cab!



   

                   

Bed time.



   

                   

Just one more cigarette.



   

                   

Oscar?



   

                   

No. No thanks, Robbie.



   

                   

Don't stay up

too late, Robbie.



   

                   

Goodnight.



   

                   

Goodnight, Oscar.



   

                   

Goodnight, Robbie.



   

                   

Almost as beautiful

as his mother.



   

                   

I don't know

what I'd do without you,



   

                   

my constant Constance.



   

                   

Goodnight, my dear.



   

                   

Goodnight.



   

                   

A university education

is an admirable thing,



   

                   

so long as you remember



   

                   

that nothing that is worth

knowing can ever be taught,



   

                   

least of all at Cambridge.



   

                   

But you told me, in Greece...



   

                   

in ancient Greece, the

older men taught the younger.



   

                   

They drew them out.



   

                   

I look forward to being

drawn out immensely.



   

                   

Yes, well, em...



   

                   

Greek love, Platonic love,



   

                   

is the highest form

of affection known to man,



   

                   

of course.



   

                   

You also told me



   

                   

the Greeks put statues

of Apollo in the bride's chamber



   

                   

so she would have

beautiful sons.



   

                   

I can't help noticing

that here,



   

                   

the statue is in your bedroom.



   

                   

Constance prefers a bath.



   

                   

She was so beautiful

when I married her, Robbie.



   

                   

Slim...



   

                   

White as a lily.

Such dancing eyes.



   

                   

I've never seen such love

in a pair of eyes.



   

                   

She was...



   

                   

Nothing should

reveal the body...



   

                   

but the body.



   

                   

Didn't you say?



   

                   

There has to be a first time

for everything, Oscar.



   

                   

Even for you.



   

                   

There's a good boy.



   

                   

Come on now.



   

                   

There, there.



   

                   

Now come on, Cyril,



   

                   

it's time for your bath.



   

                   

Be a good boy.



   

                   

Don't make such a fuss.



   

                   

Ssh.



   

                   

No, you've got

to get undressed.



   

                   

I know you hate it.



   

                   

Boys, Mrs Wilde,



   

                   

they never do

what they're told.



   

                   

We're going to have

a girl next time.



   

                   

Aren't we, Oscar?



   

                   

I must go.



   

                   

Goodnight, my dear.



   

                   

Behave, Cyril.



   

                   

A gentleman

should take a bath



   

                   

at least once a year.



   

                   

Goodnight!



   

                   

Come on, Cyril.



   

                   

I shan't be back till late.



   

                   

I'm dining

with the Asquiths.



   

                   

Come on, now.



   

                   

Do you love me?



   

                   

I feel...



   

                   

like a city that's been...



   

                   

under siege for    years.



   

                   

Suddenly the gates

are thrown open and...



   

                   

the citizens come pouring out.



   

                   

To breathe the air

and walk the fields



   

                   

and pluck the wild flowers.



   

                   

I feel...



   

                   

relieved.



   

                   

You don't worry

about Constance?



   

                   

Every afternoon,

on their way home from school,



   

                   

the children used to play



   

                   

in the garden

of the Selfish Giant.



   

                   

The garden where we play?



   

                   

No. This one's

much larger and lovelier



   

                   

with soft green grass.



   

                   

There's grass where we go.



   

                   

Yes, but are there

   peach trees



   

                   

that burst into blossoms

of pink and pearl in springtime



   

                   

and bear rich fruit

in the autumn?



   

                   

Are there, Mama?



   

                   

I don't think there are,

Cyril, no.



   

                   

Could you hand me

a matchstick, darling?



   

                   

I'll put this hussar's

head back on. Thank you.



   

                   

The birds sat on the trees

and sang so sweetly



   

                   

that the children used to stop

their games to listen.



   

                   

"How happy we are here,"

they said to each other.



   

                   

How could they be happy

if there was a giant?



   

                   

There wasn't. Not yet.

He was away visiting a friend.



   

                   

You're always away.



   

                   

I only go away

for a night or two



   

                   

and I always come back.



   

                   

Whereas the giant

whose garden it was,



   

                   

had been staying for seven years

with an ogre in Cornwall.



   

                   

After seven years,

when he'd said all he had to say



   

                   

because his conversation

was very limited,



   

                   

he decided to return home

to his own castle.



   

                   

When he arrived and found the

children playing in his garden,



   

                   

he was very angry.



   

                   

"What are you doing here?"

he cried.



   

                   

And all the children ran away.



   

                   

"My own garden is my own

garden!" said the giant.



   

                   

"And I won't allow anyone

to play in it except myself. "



   

                   

So he built a high wall

all around.



   

                   

And put up a large noticeboard



   

                   

on which was written,

in capital letters,



   

                   

"Trespassers

will be prosecuted. "



   

                   

Arthur, you're trespassing.



   

                   

Cyril will now eat you.



   

                   

It's Mr Ross, sir,

with Mr Gray.



   

                   

Heavens. I must fly.



   

                   

The horses of Apollo are pawing

impatiently at the gates.



   

                   

I beg your pardon?



   

                   

Papa must go.



   

                   

You will come back

and finish the story?



   

                   

Of course I will.



   

                   

Come on, Cyril.

It's almost tea-time.



   

                   

I really don't know

why people bother



   

                   

painting portraits any more.



   

                   

You can get a much better

likeness with a photograph.



   

                   

But a photograph's

just one moment in time.



   

                   

One gesture,

one turn of the head.



   

                   

Yes. Portraits

are not likenesses, Mr Gray.



   

                   

Painters show the soul

of the subject.



   

                   

The essence.



   

                   

The essence



   

                   

of the sitter's vanity,

you mean.



   

                   

Well, this is a portrait



   

                   

of Lady Battersby



   

                   

as a young woman.



   

                   

She's over there



   

                   

as a matter of fact.



   

                   

I must go and console her.



   

                   

How nice to see you.



   

                   

Poor thing.



   

                   

I expect in her heart



   

                   

she thinks she still

looks like this.



   

                   

If we could look young

and innocent forever.



   

                   

D'you think we'd want to?



   

                   

If our souls were ugly, yes.



   

                   

Give a man a mask

and he'll tell you the truth.



   

                   

Have we had enough of this?



   

                   

Shall we go and have

dinner somewhere?



   

                   

"Dorian Gray"



   

                   

is the most wonderful book

I've ever read!



   

                   

And the end,

when the servants break in,



   

                   

and they find him

wizened, old and dead



   

                   

and the picture young again.



   

                   

I fainted!



   

                   

My family say

it's dull and wicked.



   

                   

Dull!



   

                   

Oh!



   

                   

It's sublime!



   

                   

It's about the masks

we wear as faces.



   

                   

And the faces we wear as masks.



   

                   

That my son should have

written a work of such...



   

                   

People say it's full

of dangerous paradoxes.



   

                   

Hardly anyone will speak

to us any more.



   

                   

We're ceasing

to be respectable.



   

                   

Artists care nothing

about respectability!



   

                   

Oh, it's only jealousy.



   

                   

It's the spite of the untalented



   

                   

for the man of genius.



   

                   

Where is Oscar?



   

                   

He's in the Lake District.



   

                   

Writing a play.



   

                   

A drama?



   

                   

A comedy.



   

                   

Oh!



   

                   

Robbie Ross has gone

to keep him company.



   

                   

I do like Robbie.



   

                   

And they both love you.



   

                   

It'll be a great success.



   

                   

Oscar's made for the stage.



   

                   

- Author!

- Author!



   

                   

Oscar, please.



   

                   

Magnificent!



   

                   

Well done, everybody.



   

                   

Bravo!



   

                   

Ladies and gentlemen,



   

                   

I have enjoyed

this evening immensely.



   

                   

The actors have given us

a charming rendering



   

                   

of a delightful play



   

                   

and your appreciation

has been most intelligent.



   

                   

I congratulate you



   

                   

on the great success

of your performance,



   

                   

which persuades me



   

                   

that you think

almost as highly of this play



   

                   

as I do myself.



   

                   

Absolutely splendid, Oscar!



   

                   

An absolute triumph!



   

                   

Thank you so much.



   

                   

How sweet of you to say so.



   

                   

It went so well, Oscar.



   

                   

Even better than I'd...



   

                   

They loved it.

They absolutely loved it!



   

                   

And I, dear boy, love you.



   

                   

Congratulations, Oscar!



   

                   

Thank you.



   

                   

It's good to see you.



   

                   

Mr Wilde - wondrous.

Really wonderful.



   

                   

- Oscar!

- Sphinx!



   

                   

You really must be careful.



   

                   

You're in grave danger

of becoming rich!



   

                   

It was wonderful,

as I knew it would be.



   

                   

Thank you, Robbie.



   

                   

Everyone's dying to know

who the real Lady Windermere is.



   

                   

Every woman in this room,

and most of the men.



   

                   

- Oscar!

- Lionel!



   

                   

It's a wonderful play.



   

                   

My cousin,

Lord Alfred Douglas, is here.



   

                   

He would very much like

to congratulate you.



   

                   

Wonderful!



   

                   

Oscar, this is Bosie Douglas.



   

                   

We met last year.



   

                   

Lionel brought me to tea

at Tite Street.



   

                   

How could I possibly forget?



   

                   

I love your play.



   

                   

The audience didn't know whether

you meant your jokes or not.



   

                   

You shocked them -



   

                   

especially with your speech.



   

                   

But the more

frivolous you seem,



   

                   

the more serious

you are, aren't you?



   

                   

I love that.



   

                   

Thank you. I always say,



   

                   

the young are the only critics



   

                   

with enough experience

to judge my work.



   

                   

We need shocking.

People are so banal.



   

                   

And you use your wit

like a foil -



   

                   

you cut through all those

starched shirt-fronts.



   

                   

You draw blood.

It's magnificent.



   

                   

I wish you'd draw some blood

down in Oxford.



   

                   

Though you'd need a miracle.



   

                   

All the dons at my college

have dust in their veins!



   

                   

At which college

do you educate the fellows?



   

                   

Magdalen.



   

                   

My own college.



   

                   

Well, I shall claim

the privilege of a graduate



   

                   

and come and take

tutorials with you.



   

                   

Come soon, then.



   

                   

They're threatening

to send me down.



   

                   

How could they be so cruel



   

                   

to one so beautiful?



   

                   

Dons.



   

                   

They're so middle-class.



   

                   

My dear Oscar,



   

                   

you've shocked London,

smoking on stage like that.



   

                   

Excellent!

We shall run for a year.



   

                   

You must say something

to Marion Terry.



   

                   

She was good, wasn't she?



   

                   

So good, she wrote

most of the lines herself.



   

                   

Excuse me, Lord Alfred.



   

                   

Bosie, please.



   

                   

Bosie.



   

                   

You must

be so thrilled, Oscar.



   

                   

I know!

Isn't that humiliating?



   

                   

"'My own garden is

my own garden, said the giant.



   

                   

"So he built a high wall

all round it



   

                   

"and put up a noticeboard.



   

                   

"'Trespassers

will be prosecuted. '



   

                   

"He was a very selfish giant.



   

                   

"The poor children

had now nowhere to play.



   

                   

"They tried to play

on the road



   

                   

"but the road was very dusty

and full of hard stones



   

                   

"and they did not like it.



   

                   

"They used to wander

round the high wall



   

                   

"when their lessons were over



   

                   

"and talk about

the beautiful garden inside.



   

                   

"'How happy we were there! '



   

                   

"they said to each other. "



   

                   

I hope he was a very

beautiful boy.



   

                   

Well, pretty.



   

                   

You know - in a street Arab

sort of way.



   

                   

There's no point being

blackmailed by an ugly one.



   

                   

What's tiresome is,



   

                   

he's threatening to show

my letters to my father.



   

                   

Who will show them

to all his friends,



   

                   

for the excellence

of their style.



   

                   

No.



   

                   

No, you don't know him.

He's a brute.



   

                   

Really.



   

                   

He carries a whip

wherever he goes.



   

                   

He used to beat my mother.



   

                   

He beat my brothers.



   

                   

He thrashed me from the age...



   

                   

My dear boy!



   

                   

Of course,

he's practically illiterate.



   

                   

He probably won't understand

the letters, anyway.



   

                   

By an unforgivable oversight,



   

                   

I've never been

blackmailed myself,



   

                   

but all my friends assure me



   

                   

that a hundred pounds

will usually suffice.



   

                   

Really? God, I...

You promise?



   

                   

Mm. Leave it to Lewis.



   

                   

George Lewis, my solicitor.



   

                   

He knows what he's doing.



   

                   

He acts for

the Prince of Wales.



   

                   

# Ah, leave me not to pine



   

                   

# Alone and desolate



   

                   

# No fate seemed fair as mine



   

                   

# No happiness so great



   

                   

Isn't he killing, Mr Wilde?



   

                   

He's perfect.



   

                   

He's perfect in every way.



   

                   

#... And sung in accents clear



   

                   

# This joyous roundelay



   

                   

# He loves me



   

                   

# He is here



   

                   

# Fa-la-la-la



   

                   

# Fa-la-la-la



   

                   

# He loves me



   

                   

# He is here



   

                   

# Fa-la-la-la, fa-la #



   

                   

That was lovely.

Well done, Bosie.



   

                   

Yes, absolutely enchanting.



   

                   

More tea, anyone?



   

                   

I think so, yes.



   

                   

I don't want to sit here.



   

                   

I want to sit there.



   

                   

You heard what Lord Alfred said.



   

                   

I want everyone

to look at us.



   

                   

I want everyone to say,



   

                   

"Look - there's Oscar Wilde

with his boy. "



   

                   

So, what shall we let people

see us eating?



   

                   

Foie gras and lobster.



   

                   

And champagne.



   

                   

For two.



   

                   

We do everything together.



   

                   

Very good, Mr Wilde.



   

                   

I think he enjoyed

thrashing me.



   

                   

All my family are mad.



   

                   

My uncle slit his throat

last year.



   

                   

In a railway hotel.



   

                   

Which station?



   

                   

Euston.



   

                   

Ah.



   

                   

All life's really

serious journeys



   

                   

involve a railway terminus.



   

                   

And now I must go

to the station myself.



   

                   

Sarah Bernhardt thinks

she knows better than I do



   

                   

how to play Salome.



   

                   

Stay.



   

                   

Please stay.



   

                   

At least... at least

till this evening.



   

                   

Sarah is divine, as you are.



   

                   

She will be wonderful

at the play's climax



   

                   

when Salome kisses the lips



   

                   

of the severed head

of John the Baptist.



   

                   

"Ah, thou wouldst not suffer me



   

                   

"to kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. "



   

                   

Jokanaan is an old

Hebrew name for John.



   

                   

"Well, I will kiss it now.



   

                   

"I will bite it with my teeth



   

                   

"as one bites a ripe fruit.



   

                   

"Yes... I will kiss

thy mouth, Jokanaan.



   

                   

"Thy body is white



   

                   

"like the snows that lie

on the mountains.



   

                   

"Like the snows that lie

on the mountains of Judaea



   

                   

"and come down into the valleys.



   

                   

"The roses in the garden

of the Queen of Arabia



   

                   

"are not so white as thy body. "



   

                   

I'm not

good enough for him any more.



   

                   

I'm just the son

of a carpenter, while Bosie...



   

                   

Oscar's only ever

been smitten before.



   

                   

He was smitten with me.



   

                   

He was smitten with you.



   

                   

I wasn't smitten!



   

                   

I loved him.



   

                   

Well...



   

                   

now he's fallen in love.



   

                   

I'm halfway to hellfire.

I'm not joking.



   

                   

Someone else

was a carpenter's son.



   

                   

I've given in

and become a Catholic.



   

                   

I find confession...



   

                   

wonderfully consoling.



   

                   

I can't go to confession...



   

                   

when I want to kill Bosie.



   

                   

Or myself.



   

                   

Oscar's furious.



   

                   

He knew the Lord Chamberlain



   

                   

would never allow a play

with Biblical characters.



   

                   

Oscar doesn't think

there should be



   

                   

censorship of plays.



   

                   

Of course there

must be censorship.



   

                   

Or people would say

what they meant,



   

                   

and then

where should we be?



   

                   

- When's he coming to join us?

- He's not.



   

                   

He must stay

and look after Lord Alfred.



   

                   

Those Douglases are always ill.



   

                   

When they're not demented.



   

                   

One of them roasted

a kitchen boy on a spit.



   

                   

Bosie's father,

Lord Queensberry,



   

                   

he's a dreadful man,

Constance.



   

                   

Doesn't believe in God,

or marriage.



   

                   

A marquis should set

a proper example,



   

                   

or what are

the upper classes for?



   

                   

I tell you,



   

                   

I wouldn't want

a daughter of mine



   

                   

to marry a Douglas.



   

                   

I haven't got a daughter.



   

                   

Plenty of time still, my dear.



   

                   

Oh.



   

                   

Oh, I see.



   

                   

It's my fault.



   

                   

After Vyvyan was born,



   

                   

all I could think of

was the children.



   

                   

Ah.



   

                   

So that's why Oscar

spends so much time



   

                   

with his men friends.



   

                   

Oscar needs disciples.



   

                   

Lord Alfred's a poet.



   

                   

A very fine poet,

Oscar says.



   

                   

He's studying classics.



   

                   

Oscar and he talk

about Plato and so on.



   

                   

There's nothing wrong.



   

                   

Really, there isn't.



   

                   

It's not whether

there is anything wrong.



   

                   

It's whether or not

there appears to be.



   

                   

That's all people care about.



   

                   

The empire

was not built by men



   

                   

like Bosie Douglas.



   

                   

Then the Spring came.



   

                   

Only in the garden

of the Selfish Giant,



   

                   

it was still winter.



   

                   

The birds did not care

to sing in it



   

                   

as there were no children.



   

                   

And the trees forgot to blossom.



   

                   

The Snow covered up the grass



   

                   

with her great white cloak



   

                   

and the Frost painted

all the trees silver.



   

                   

Let's go out.



   

                   

If you like.



   

                   

The thing about renters is,



   

                   

you don't have to consider

their feelings.



   

                   

If someone is willing

to give one pleasure,



   

                   

one should show gratitude.



   

                   

No. Money -

that's all they want.



   

                   

What's wonderful

about going to Taylor's



   

                   

is no-one pretends.



   

                   

You just do it

and be done with it.



   

                   

I do love you, Oscar.



   

                   

But variety

is the spice of life.



   

                   

You can watch me if you like.



   

                   

You must attempt



   

                   

to keep a grasp

upon your sobriety.



   

                   

Don't be sick on your suit!



   

                   

That is disgusting.

Less of that.



   

                   

- Good evening.

- Lord Alfred.



   

                   

Evening, Lord Alfred.



   

                   

Alfred Taylor,

this is Oscar.



   

                   

Delighted to make

your acquaintance, Oscar.



   

                   

Charles Parker.

I remember you.



   

                   

'Allo, Oscar.



   

                   

Charming to see you again.



   

                   

And you.



   

                   

- Do you smoke?

- Oh, I do everything.



   

                   

- Everything that pays!

- Expertly, I might add.



   

                   

Mr Wilde, some wine.



   

                   

Thank you.



   

                   

That's a nice case.



   

                   

I want you to keep it.



   

                   

Thank you.



   

                   

So, this is a den of vice.



   

                   

I should call it

more of a garden.



   

                   

Such pretty flowers,

Mr Taylor.



   

                   

Wise of you to keep

the curtains closed.



   

                   

They'd never grow

in the common light of day.



   

                   

Who are you calling common?



   

                   

Certainly not you,

dear boy.



   

                   

You seem to be a flower

of the rarest hue.



   

                   

Bosie never told me that

you were a botanist, Mr Taylor.



   

                   

That you roam the earth



   

                   

climbing the highest peaks

of the Himalayas



   

                   

and plunging into the darkest

forests of Borneo



   

                   

to return triumphant

to this delightful conservatory



   

                   

in the shadow

of Westminster Abbey



   

                   

to exhibit your... specimens.



   

                   

The boys are all Londoners,

actually.



   

                   

Impossible.



   

                   

I see Londoners every day,



   

                   

but never such...

exotic blooms as these.



   

                   

Does he always talk like this?



   

                   

Not when he's in bed.



   

                   

I am discreet.

Bosie, of course,



   

                   

is far too grand

and well-born for that.



   

                   

He wants everyone to know.



   

                   

Oscar, you must understand...



   

                   

I must be with

young people, Robbie.



   

                   

They're so frank and free.



   

                   

They make me

feel young myself.



   

                   

That's all very well.

But what would you say



   

                   

if someone wanted

to go to bed with your son?



   

                   

Cyril's eight!



   

                   

What will you say

when he's   ?



   

                   

Nothing.



   

                   

He must do as

his nature dictates.



   

                   

As I only wish I had done.



   

                   

"I do believe the Spring

has come at last,"



   

                   

said the giant.



   

                   

And he jumped out of bed



   

                   

- and looked out of the window.

- And what did he see?



   

                   

You tell me.



   

                   

You tell it.



   

                   

All right.



   

                   

He saw the most

wonderful sight.



   

                   

Through a little hole

in the wall,



   

                   

the children had crept

back into the garden



   

                   

and were sitting

on the branches of the trees.



   

                   

In every tree

that he could see,



   

                   

there was a little child.



   

                   

And the trees

were so glad...



   

                   

They covered themselves

with blossoms!



   

                   

And were waving their arms



   

                   

above the children's heads.



   

                   

And the birds were twittering



   

                   

and singing above them

with delight.



   

                   

Oscar!



   

                   

The flowers



   

                   

were looking up

through the grass



   

                   

- and laughing.

- It's time the boys changed



   

                   

or we'll miss the train.



   

                   

Ah.



   

                   

Come on, boys.



   

                   

Oh, Papa, can't we stay?



   

                   

Oh, Papa's got to work.



   

                   

He's got to finish his play.



   

                   

Yes. Poor dear Papa.



   

                   

Poor Papa!



   

                   

Poor, poor, poor,

poor, poor Papa.



   

                   

Where is Oscar?



   

                   

We haven't seen him at all.



   

                   

Where d'you think he is?



   

                   

He's working.

He is a writer, after all.



   

                   

I hear your father's threatening

to shoot Lord Rosebery.



   

                   

Really? He usually

prefers the horsewhip.



   

                   

Says he's been

buggering your brother.



   

                   

Well, Rosebery is Secretary

of State for Foreign Affairs



   

                   

and Francis

is his private secretary.



   

                   

Actually, Francis

is about to get engaged.



   

                   

What's your father

talking about then?



   

                   

Oh...



   

                   

He's obsessed with sex.



   

                   

He thinks Oscar's buggering me,



   

                   

as though I'd allow

anyone to do that.



   

                   

I'm sick of the country.



   

                   

Let's go back to London.



   

                   

What's the point

of us living together



   

                   

if you're always working?



   

                   

I have responsibilities.

A wife...



   

                   

God, not that again!



   

                   

I ask my friends over

from Oxford



   

                   

and you just disappear.



   

                   

I'd be better off

staying at my mother's.



   

                   

At least she's there.



   

                   

You asked me

to take this house...



   

                   

Now I'm bored with it.



   

                   

And with you.



   

                   

I can't give it up.

It's paid for in advance.



   

                   

And until I finish my new...



   

                   

Bosie, dear,



   

                   

you have beauty,

you have breeding



   

                   

and most glorious of all,

you have youth.



   

                   

But you are very fantastical



   

                   

if you don't think

that pleasures



   

                   

have to be earned and paid for.



   

                   

Whenever I want to do anything,



   

                   

you say you can't afford it.



   

                   

But you give renters

cigarette cases.



   

                   

But I've lavished

presents on you!



   

                   

Every penny I've earned

from my play,



   

                   

- I've spent on you!

- I'm sure you've been counting.



   

                   

You're so mean.



   

                   

And penny-pinching

and middle-class.



   

                   

All you can think about

is your bank balance!



   

                   

For God's sake,

this is intolerable!



   

                   

No gentleman ever has

the slightest idea



   

                   

what his bank balance is!



   

                   

You're absurd!



   

                   

Telling everyone

how they ought to live.



   

                   

You're so vulgar!



   

                   

I never want to

see you again. Ever.



   

                   

If that's what

you want, then go!



   

                   

Go on, go! Get out!



   

                   

Get out!



   

                   

But in the

farthest corner of the garden,



   

                   

it was still winter,



   

                   

and in it was standing

a little boy.



   

                   

He was so small



   

                   

he could not reach up

to the branches of the tree.



   

                   

"Climb up, little boy,"

said the tree.



   

                   

But the little boy was too tiny.



   

                   

Egypt is lovely

this time of year.



   

                   

But you mustn't

idle your time away.



   

                   

Oh, Mother.



   

                   

And... I want you

to promise me something.



   

                   

Not to write to Oscar Wilde.



   

                   

I can't do that.



   

                   

- Bosie...

- I love Oscar.



   

                   

I love him as a disciple

loves his teacher.



   

                   

But he's not fit

to teach anything.



   

                   

He's evil.



   

                   

Do you really think

your own son



   

                   

could love someone evil?



   

                   

I just wish

I could love Oscar



   

                   

as loyally, devotedly,

unselfishly and purely



   

                   

as he loves me.



   

                   

But I'm not as good

as he is.



   

                   

I probably never will be.



   

                   

Goodbye, then.



   

                   

I adore simple pleasures.



   

                   

They are the last refuge

of the complex.



   

                   

But, if you wish,

let us stay here.



   

                   

Yes, let us stay here.



   

                   

The Book of Life begins



   

                   

with a man and a woman

in a garden.



   

                   

It ends with Revelations.



   

                   

Yes. Mr Tree, may I?



   

                   

I'm delighted that you find

my lines funny.



   

                   

But please don't try and make

the audience laugh with them.



   

                   

They should sound completely

spontaneous and natural,



   

                   

as though people spoke

like that all the time.



   

                   

Yes, of course.



   

                   

Let's try again.



   

                   

You should break

with Bosie more often, Oscar.



   

                   

Then we'd have more



   

                   

of your spontaneous

and natural plays.



   

                   

Bosie was envious.



   

                   

That's why

he stopped Oscar working.



   

                   

- That's not true.

- 'Course it is.



   

                   

His poems aren't nearly

as good as you pretend.



   

                   

And he knows it.



   

                   

He's just a shallow little...



   

                   

Rivulet.



   

                   

Bosie's a child.

A vulnerable child.



   

                   

He needs love.



   

                   

We all need love.



   

                   

But which of us can give it?



   

                   

# We wish you a merry Christmas



   

                   

# And a happy New Year



   

                   

# Good tidings we bring



   

                   

# To you and your kin



   

                   

# We wish you a merry Christmas



   

                   

# And a happy New Year! #



   

                   

Cracker time!



   

                   

It is cracker time.



   

                   

Oh, I won this time!



   

                   

And the giant's heart melted



   

                   

as he looked out.



   

                   

"How selfish I have been,"

he said.



   

                   

"Now I know why the Spring

would not come here.



   

                   

"I will put that little boy

on top of the tree



   

                   

"and I will

knock down the wall



   

                   

"and my garden shall be

the children's playground



   

                   

"for ever and ever. "



   

                   

He was really very sorry



   

                   

for what he had done.



   

                   

This is really nice.



   

                   

So he crept downstairs



   

                   

and opened the front door

quite softly



   

                   

and went out into the garden.



   

                   

The little boy

did not run away



   

                   

for his eyes

were so full of tears



   

                   

that he did not see

the giant coming.



   

                   

And the giant stole up

behind him



   

                   

and took him gently

by the hand



   

                   

and put him up into the tree.



   

                   

And the tree broke at once

into blossom



   

                   

and the birds came

and sang on it



   

                   

and the little boy

stretched out his two arms



   

                   

and flung them round

the giant's neck



   

                   

and kissed him.



   

                   

Oscar?



   

                   

Oh, I don't care

what people think!



   

                   

I love you!



   

                   

It's all that

matters to me.



   

                   

It was agony

being away from you.



   

                   

Just...

Well, here I am.



   

                   

Bosie, you're my catastrophe!

My doom!



   

                   

Everyone says so - even me!



   

                   

Oh, I missed you!



   

                   

I, uh, thought

you might like something



   

                   

to celebrate your return.



   

                   

Oscar!



   

                   

When I saw them in the window,



   

                   

they begged me on their knees



   

                   

to make them yours.



   

                   

I'll put them on now.



   

                   

They're superb!



   

                   

No, no, no, no.



   

                   

I want a proper table.



   

                   

Something wrong, my lord?



   

                   

Young fool wants me to sit



   

                   

by the service door.



   

                   

Oh, God! My father.



   

                   

He's new. He didn't know

who you were.



   

                   

This way.



   

                   

Bosie, you're not going to flee?



   

                   

Give me the menu.



   

                   

I'll have the pea soup

and then the salmon.



   

                   

- Will you have it with us?

- Bosie.



   

                   

I'm lunching with Oscar Wilde.



   

                   

Will you join us?



   

                   

I told you never to see

that vile cur again.



   

                   

He's not vile, or a cur.



   

                   

He's utterly delightful.

Come and see.



   

                   

How do you know

what he's like



   

                   

when you've

never met him?



   

                   

Come on, Papa. You're

not a man to be influenced



   

                   

by other people's opinions.



   

                   

Oscar, you've, uh...



   

                   

you've never met

my father, have you?



   

                   

Lord Queensberry.



   

                   

Bosie has told me so much



   

                   

about your exploits

on the race track.



   

                   

I've never heard

such bad luck as yours



   

                   

with the Grand National.



   

                   

Bosie tells me

that you would've won



   

                   

but your cousin wouldn't let you

ride the horse?



   

                   

Bloody fool said I was too old.



   

                   

You're never too old.



   

                   

Besides, I'd ridden

Old Joe on the gallops.



   

                   

Came in at    to  .



   

                   

No horse could've carried me

over the jumps, I fear.



   

                   

What are you having?



   

                   

Pea soup and salmon.



   

                   

Then I shall join you.



   

                   

Spring is the time

to lunch on salmon.



   

                   

Though it tastes so much nicer



   

                   

if you've caught it yourself.



   

                   

You fish?



   

                   

I used to, when

I lived in Ireland.



   

                   

My father had the most

charming hunting lodge



   

                   

on an island in a lake.



   

                   

D'you know the west of Ireland?



   

                   

Not really.



   

                   

Whereabouts, exactly?



   

                   

The Christians go around

pretending they know



   

                   

who God is and how he works.



   

                   

I've no time

for that tomfoolery.



   

                   

If you don't know something,



   

                   

you should stand up and say so,



   

                   

not pretend you believe

in some mumbo-jumbo.



   

                   

I can believe in anything,

provided it's incredible.



   

                   

That's why I intend

to die a Catholic,



   

                   

though I couldn't

possibly live as one.



   

                   

Catholicism is such

a romantic religion.



   

                   

It has saints and sinners.



   

                   

The Church of England

only has respectable people



   

                   

who believe in respectability.



   

                   

You get to be a bishop

not by what you believe,



   

                   

but by what you don't.



   

                   

That's true enough!



   

                   

It's the only church



   

                   

where the sceptic

stands at the altar



   

                   

and St Thomas the Doubter



   

                   

is prince of the apostles.



   

                   

No, I couldn't possibly die

in the Church of England.



   

                   

Where do you stand

on cremation?



   

                   

I'm not sure I have a position.



   

                   

I'm for it.



   

                   

I wrote a poem.



   

                   

"When I am dead, cremate me. "



   

                   

That's how it begins.



   

                   

"When I am dead, cremate me. "



   

                   

What do you think of that

for an opening line?



   

                   

It's... challenging.



   

                   

I'm a challenging sort of man.



   

                   

That's why people don't like me.



   

                   

I don't go along with the

ordinary ways of thinking.



   

                   

Then we are exactly alike.



   

                   

Another glass of brandy?



   

                   

I find that alcohol,

taken in sufficient quantities,



   

                   

can produce all the effects

of drunkenness.



   

                   

You were there for ages.



   

                   

You stayed talking

till after four.



   

                   

I knew you'd like him

once you'd met him.



   

                   

He's got charm, I admit that.



   

                   

But that's bad.



   

                   

Men shouldn't be charming.



   

                   

It's disgusting.



   

                   

Don't think much of his action.



   

                   

Let's have a look at the bay.



   

                   

Mind you,

Wilde's no fool.



   

                   

Talks wonderfully.

Really wonderfully.



   

                   

But that means nothing



   

                   

when what he says

is such rot.



   

                   

Worse than rot - evil.



   

                   

Which is why I insist



   

                   

you stop seeing him

forthwith.



   

                   

What's that supposed to mean?



   

                   

I will cut off

your allowance



   

                   

if you don't do

as I say.



   

                   

Trot him up and down

a bit!



   

                   

Look, Father...



   

                   

You wasted your time at Oxford,



   

                   

pretending you were going

into the Foreign Office,



   

                   

where that Jew queer Rosebery

is Foreign Secretary



   

                   

and buggers the juniors,

including your brother.



   

                   

That's all lies.



   

                   

Spent your time

writing obscene poetry.



   

                   

My poems aren't obscene.



   

                   

They're in the manner

of Wilde,



   

                   

that's filthy enough

for me.



   

                   

Have you read any

of Oscar's poems?



   

                   

I wouldn't sully my mind



   

                   

with perverted trash

like that.



   

                   

Tell him to

pick his feet up!



   

                   

He's not straight!



   

                   

Are you calling Oscar a pervert?



   

                   

Because that's libellous!



   

                   

I'm not saying

he IS one,



   

                   

I'm saying

he's POSING as one.



   

                   

Which is worse.



   

                   

His wife's divorcing him,

did you know that?



   

                   

For sodomy!



   

                   

That's COMPLETELY untrue.



   

                   

I hope it is.



   

                   

Because if it were true,



   

                   

I'd shoot him on sight.



   

                   

You will cease

to see Wilde



   

                   

or I will cut you off

without a penny.



   

                   

As though I wanted your money!



   

                   

What little you have left

from your tarts!



   

                   

How dare you speak

to your father like that!



   

                   

What a funny little man

you are.



   

                   

Bosie!



   

                   

Come back here,



   

                   

you filthy-minded cissy!



   

                   

You're absurd!



   

                   

And you're nothing

but a bum-boy!



   

                   

You're pathetic!



   

                   

Bosie!



   

                   

I'm a bloody good shot.



   

                   

I'll shoot him

through the heart



   

                   

if he threatens me.



   

                   

Better use a silver bullet.



   

                   

Here's one for the Black

Douglas!



   

                   

Bosie, for God's sake!



   

                   

One for his liver...



   

                   

One for his lights...



   

                   

And one for his stinking,

rotten soul!



   

                   

Bosie!



   

                   

I'll save one

for myself.



    

                   

My own father!



    

                   

He wants

to kill me!



    

                   

My life is everything

I ever wanted.



    

                   

I have fame.



    

                   

I have recognition.



    

                   

With two plays about

to open in London,



    

                   

I may even have money.



    

                   

The world is at my command.



    

                   

Yet I can't command myself.



    

                   

I can't command

my feelings for you.



    

                   

Constance! My dear...



    

                   

How nice.



    

                   

Constance!



    

                   

Bosie.



    

                   

I-I brought you your letters.



    

                   

You haven't been home

for so long.



    

                   

Thank you.



    

                   

So much more convenient

for Oscar



    

                   

living in the West End



    

                   

when he has a play

coming on.



    

                   

I'm like one of those

northern businessmen



    

                   

who has to keep an eye

on his factory.



    

                   

The boys ask for you

all the time.



    

                   

They're longing to see you.



    

                   

Oscar has to make sure

the play's a success.



    

                   

I'll come round

this afternoon.



    

                   

For tea.



    

                   

It's the dress rehearsal

this afternoon.



    

                   

Tomorrow, then.

I'll... come tomorrow.



    

                   

Well...



    

                   

tomorrow then.



    

                   

Goodbye, my dear.



    

                   

Goodbye.



    

                   

Goodbye, Constance.



    

                   

What am I trying

to get?



    

                   

Oops.



    

                   

- Perhaps...

- Cod?



    

                   

I've a strong

feeling



    

                   

codfish prefer

it deeper.



    

                   

- D'you think there'll be skate?

- Possibly.



    

                   

A-choo!



    

                   

I don't think

there'll be anything



    

                   

for our table tonight.



    

                   

A-choo!



    

                   

I'd better stay.

You're getting a cold.



    

                   

No, no.

I'm all right.



    

                   

Let's get the boys

some ices.



    

                   

Boys, stay and

look after Nanny.



    

                   

Oh, all right.



    

                   

We'll look

after you, Nanny.





 

                   

I could take the boys

to the dentist on Thursday



 

                   

on their way back to school.



 

                   

The whole point

of dentistry now



 

                   

is so they can stuff

themselves with sweets



 

                   

for a week

before we lose them.



 

                   

A-choo!



 

                   

Are you quite sure?



 

                   

Bosie'll look after me.



 

                   

Oscar!



  

                   

Get your coat on, quick!



  

                   

I've got a present for you!



  

                   

Oh, God. You're not

still seedy, are you?



  

                   

Bosie, where have you been?



  

                   

I've had no-one to talk to.



  

                   

No-one to look after me.



  

                   

Don't be so pathetic.



  

                   

I've found you

the divinest boy.



  

                   

Bosie, you promised

Constance...



  

                   

Bugger Constance!

I'm not your nanny.



  

                   

Come on, we're going out.



  

                   

Bosie, please.



  

                   

You look such an idiot

lying there.



  

                   

Revolting.



  

                   

Have you forgotten

how to wash?



  

                   

As a matter of fact,

I'm dying for a glass of water.



  

                   

Well, help yourself.



  

                   

You know where the jug is.



  

                   

Bosie, darling...



  

                   

It stinks in here.



  

                   

You'll be wanting me to empty

your chamber-pot next.



  

                   

I emptied YOUR chamber-pot.



  

                   

I looked after YOU.



  

                   

Well, I'm not

looking after YOU.



  

                   

You don't interest me,

not when you're ill.



  

                   

You're just a boring,

middle-aged man



  

                   

with a blocked-up nose.



  

                   

Bosie, dearest boy!



  

                   

Shut up!



  

                   

Dearest boy,

darling Bosie.



  

                   

It doesn't mean anything.



  

                   

You don't love me.



  

                   

The only person

you've ever loved is yourself.



  

                   

You like me,

you lust after me,



  

                   

you go about with me



  

                   

because I've got a title,

that's all.



  

                   

You like to write

about dukes and duchesses



  

                   

but you know nothing

about them.



  

                   

You're the biggest snob

I've ever met



  

                   

and you think you're so daring



  

                   

because you fuck

the occasional boy.



  

                   

Bosie, please,

you're killing me.



  

                   

You'll just about do

when you're at your best.



  

                   

You're amusing.



  

                   

But when you're not

at your best, you're no-one.



  

                   

All I asked for

was a glass of water.



  

                   

For Christ's sake!



  

                   

There you are, then!



  

                   

Now will you shut up



  

                   

about the fucking water?



  

                   

There are two boys

waiting out there.



  

                   

If you're not coming,

I'll fuck them both myself.



  

                   

I'll take them to the Grand



  

                   

and fuck them in front

of the whole fucking hotel.



  

                   

And I'll send you the bill.



  

                   

Drink this.



  

                   

It will help

your fever.



  

                   

He's ashamed of loving men.



  

                   

His father bullies him,



  

                   

his mother spoils him



  

                   

and then berates him

for being spoiled.



  

                   

Neither of them gives him

any real love.



  

                   

They're torturing him.



  

                   

What's truly dreadful...



  

                   

is that when it...

When he can't bear it



  

                   

and he has one of his...



  

                   

he becomes exactly

like his father.



  

                   

He hates himself for that.



  

                   

You're too kind

about him, Oscar.



  

                   

You can't be too kind



  

                   

about someone

who's been so hurt.



  

                   

Yet if I go on



  

                   

trying to come between Bosie

and his father...



  

                   

they'll destroy me.



  

                   

Bosie's quite capable



  

                   

of destroying you

on his own.



  

                   

Look how much you wrote

while he was away.



  

                   

Two wonderful plays

which will run for years.



  

                   

Back comes Bosie,



  

                   

what have you

written since?



  

                   

Oscar...



  

                   

You know how much I...



  

                   

love and admire you.



  

                   

But you're throwing

your genius away.



  

                   

For what?



  

                   

It's highly ironic.



  

                   

Queensberry thinks Bosie and I



  

                   

are locked in nightly embrace.

In reality,



  

                   

we've been the purest model

of Greek love since...



  

                   

Bosie doesn't like

doing it with me.



   

                   

I've loved him.



   

                   

- I've educated him.

- But he's never grown up.



   

                   

And he never will.



   

                   

I'm not taking him

back, Robbie.



   

                   

Not again.



   

                   

I can't.



   

                   

I've been very foolish,

very fond.



   

                   

And, uh... now I must

grow up myself.



   

                   

Oh, please

don't do that.



   

                   

You're an artist.



   

                   

Artists are always

children at heart.



   

                   

Oh, Robbie.



   

                   

I sometimes

wonder if...



   

                   

My God.



   

                   

Francis Douglas.



   

                   

- What?

- Bosie's brother.



   

                   

He's been found shot.



   

                   

He's dead.



   

                   

He's just got engaged.



   

                   

Bosie.



   

                   

Poor, poor Bosie.



   

                   

He'll be utterly distraught.



   

                   

He killed himself.



   

                   

It was my father.



   

                   

He drove him to it.



   

                   

I'm sure your father's

just as upset as everyone else.



   

                   

No, he's not.



   

                   

He says it's a judgement

on Rosebery and my mother.



   

                   

And me and you.



   

                   

We've got to stop him,

Oscar.



   

                   

Before he drives

my whole family to suicide!



   

                   

Bosie...



   

                   

Bosie, I promise you,



   

                   

I won't let him hurt you

ever again.



   

                   

I promise.



   

                   

That's not enough.

I want him stopped.



   

                   

I want...



   

                   

the whole world to know

what he's done.



   

                   

What an evil man he is.



   

                   

Table, my lord?



   

                   

Is Lord Alfred here?



   

                   

And that shit and sod, Wilde?



   

                   

No, my lord. Not tonight.



   

                   

Bugger must be at Kettner's.



   

                   

Is my son

staying here?



   

                   

Is Lord Alfred Douglas

staying here?



   

                   

Uh, no, sir. He's not.



   

                   

What about Wilde?



   

                   

No, sir.



   

                   

If I find they have

been staying here,



   

                   

I'll give you the biggest

whipping of your life.



   

                   

Well, I expect you two

would like a drink



   

                   

after your exertions.



   

                   

I must ask you to leave,

Mr Wilde.



   

                   

My dear man, what

are you talking about?



   

                   

At once. Please.



   

                   

What's the matter?



   

                   

My father cracking the whip

downstairs, is he?



   

                   

- My lord...

- Bosie.



   

                   

You're not frightened

of what this little man thinks?



   

                   

I think the pleasures

of the evening



   

                   

should be resumed

elsewhere.



   

                   

You're such a coward.



   

                   

You say you despise convention.



   

                   

But you're the most

conventional man I know!



   

                   

Come on, then.

If we're going, let's go.



   

                   

Until tomorrow, Tommy.



   

                   

Goodbye, sir.



   

                   

Oscar!



   

                   

Wait a minute, Oscar!



   

                   

Alfred. How nice

to see you.



   

                   

And Charlie.

Looking so well.



   

                   

I'm busy this evening



   

                   

but we must

have dinner soon.



   

                   

It's not a question

of dinner.



   

                   

I got a letter of yours.

To Lord Alfred.



   

                   

It's a nice letter,

Oscar.



   

                   

Beautiful.



   

                   

"Lips like roses.



   

                   

"The madness of kisses

in Ancient Greece. "



   

                   

Then I expect it's one

of my prose poems.



   

                   

A gentleman's

offered me    for it.



   

                   

Then you must accept.



   

                   

I've never received

so large a sum



   

                   

for a prose work

of that length.



   

                   

I'm delighted that someone

values my work so highly.



   

                   

- He's gone away.

- To the country.



   

                   

I'm sure

he'll be back soon.



   

                   

Oscar!



   

                   

Oscar, look...



   

                   

you couldn't let us have

something, could you?



   

                   

Bit short at the moment



   

                   

and... you know.



   

                   

Of course. Of course.



   

                   

Here's half a sovereign.



   

                   

Take good care

of that letter.



   

                   

Lord Alfred's going to

publish it in sonnet form



   

                   

in his new magazine.



   

                   

For fuck's sake!



   

                   

Oscar...



   

                   

it's no good trying to rent you.



   

                   

You just laugh at us.



   

                   

Here.



   

                   

Thank you.



   

                   

He can be very

careless, Lord Alfred.



   

                   

What a wonderfully

wicked life you lead.



   

                   

You boys!

You boys!



   

                   

Where is he?



   

                   

Mr Wilde

is not receiving guests.



   

                   

Where is he?



   

                   

Excuse me, sir,

there's a gentleman...



   

                   

You!



   

                   

Listen to me.



   

                   

You're a BUGGER!



   

                   

I don't allow people

to talk to me like that



   

                   

in my own house,

Lord Queensberry.



   

                   

Or anywhere else.



   

                   

I suppose you've come

to apologise



   

                   

for the lies you've been

spreading about me.



   

                   

I've come to tell you



   

                   

to leave my son alone,

you sodomite!



   

                   

The Marquess

appears obsessed



   

                   

with other people's

sexual activities.



   

                   

It is anything to do with

his new wife, I wonder,



   

                   

seeking divorce

for non-consummation?



   

                   

Unless you swear to have

nothing more to do with Bosie,



   

                   

I shall go to Scotland Yard.



   

                   

You can go to the devil!



   

                   

You and your...

Who is this gargoyle?



   

                   

You're a queer!



   

                   

And a sham! A poseur!



   

                   

If I catch you and Bosie

together again,



   

                   

I'll give you such a thrashing!



   

                   

I believe Lord Queensberry



   

                   

once invented some rules

for boxing.



   

                   

I've no idea what they are.



   

                   

But the Oscar Wilde rule

is to shoot on sight.



   

                   

Now kindly

leave my house.



   

                   

Shut up! I shall leave

when I'm damned well ready!



   

                   

It's a scandal,

what you've been doing.



   

                   

All the "scandal"

is your own.



   

                   

Your... your treatment

of your wives,



   

                   

your neglect

of your children.



   

                   

And above all, the...



   

                   

the depraved insistence



   

                   

that they be as tyrannical

and unloving



   

                   

as you are yourself!



   

                   

Arthur, this is

the Marquess of Queensberry,



   

                   

the most infamous brute



   

                   

and the least tender father

in London.



   

                   

Never let him

into my house again.



   

                   

Very well, then.



   

                   

Let's get out of this... stew.



   

                   

- Gangway, man!

- Sorry, sir!



   

                   

- Move back!

- I'm very sorry,



   

                   

but it's just not possible!



   

                   

- What you doing?

- Rotten vegetables?



   

                   

I want you to give that

to Oscar Wilde.



   

                   

Thank you, sir.



   

                   

We'll take care of it.



   

                   

I wanted to give it

to him personally,



   

                   

as a bouquet.



   

                   

I dare say you did, sir,



   

                   

but you're not going to.



   

                   

He's a cur!



   

                   

A sod!



   

                   

And a BUGGER!



   

                   

You remember that!



   

                   

I always told you,

Gwendolen,



   

                   

my name was Ernest,

didn't I?



   

                   

Well, it is Ernest

after all.



   

                   

I mean, it naturally

is Ernest!



   

                   

Yes, I remember now



   

                   

that the General

was called Ernest.



   

                   

I knew I had some

particular reason



   

                   

for disliking the name.



   

                   

Ernest. My own Ernest!



   

                   

I knew from the first



   

                   

you could've had

no other name.



   

                   

Gwendolen, it's a terrible thing



   

                   

for a man to find out suddenly



   

                   

that all his life,



   

                   

he has been speaking

nothing but the truth.



   

                   

Can you forgive me?



   

                   

I can, for I see



   

                   

you are sure to change.



   

                   

My own one!



   

                   

Laetitia!



   

                   

Frederick! At last!



   

                   

Cecily! At last!



   

                   

Gwendolen! At last!



   

                   

My nephew, you seem

to be displaying



   

                   

signs of triviality.



   

                   

On the contrary,

Aunt Augusta.



   

                   

I've now realised

for the first time in my life,



   

                   

the vital Importance

of Being Ernest.



   

                   

Bravo!



   

                   

Author!



   

                   

Alan, you were

wonderful!



   

                   

Thank you all

so much!



   

                   

They're calling for you.

You must come on.



   

                   

- No, please.

- Come on!



   

                   

Er, Mr Wilde, sir...



   

                   

Yes?



   

                   

For you.



   

                   

Thank you.



   

                   

"For Oscar Wilde.



   

                   

"Ponce... " Is it?



   

                   

"Ponce and somdomite. "



   

                   

"Posing as a sodomite. "



   

                   

He's illiterate.



   

                   

Illiterate, ignorant...



   

                   

It's hideous.



   

                   

We've got him now, Robbie.



   

                   

He wrote it down,

the porter read it -



   

                   

that makes it a public libel.



   

                   

- Now we can take him to court.

- For God's sake!



   

                   

Oscar!



   

                   

Oscar, you mustn't

do that.



   

                   

That would be...

I mean...



   

                   

We've been waiting

to get him in the dock



   

                   

and show the world

what a swine and shit he's been.



   

                   

To me, my mother,

my brothers...



   

                   

But he'll plead justification.



   

                   

He'll call the renters

as witnesses for the defence.



   

                   

He doesn't know

what a renter is.



   

                   

No? I hear he's had

detectives following you



   

                   

ever since you came back

from Egypt.



   

                   

He can't prove anything.

But we can.



   

                   

We can prove

he's the vilest man



   

                   

that ever walked

the earth.



   

                   

Tear the card up.



   

                   

- Pretend you never got it.

- Are you mad?



   

                   

That's our main piece

of evidence.



   

                   

If Oscar went abroad

for a few months



   

                   

while your father calms down...



   

                   

Whose side

are you on?



   

                   

If this goes to court,



   

                   

Oscar will have to tell lies!



   

                   

Perjure himself!



   

                   

Everything will come out.



   

                   

Whatever the result,

it'll be utter disaster.



   

                   

You're an enemy, then.



   

                   

No, no.

Bosie, please.



   

                   

Robbie, you're a dear boy,



   

                   

but I can't even think

of leaving the country.



   

                   

As a matter of fact,



   

                   

I can't even leave this hotel.



   

                   

I can't pay the bill.



   

                   

We can raise you money,

for heaven's sake!



   

                   

Anyway, what about

your royalties?



   

                   

We shall need all the money

for the libel case.



   

                   

My father can't go on



   

                   

making all our lives

a torment like this.



   

                   

Oscar, I beg you...



   

                   

I'm not going

to run away, Robbie.



   

                   

I'm not going to hide.



   

                   

That would be

the English thing to do.



   

                   

If you take

Queensberry to court,



   

                   

all hell will break loose.



   

                   

All my life, I've fought

against the English vice -



   

                   

hypocrisy. Not that

that's the point.



   

                   

Queensberry's already

caused the death



   

                   

of one of his sons.



   

                   

If I don't try and stop him now,



   

                   

who will he harm next?



   

                   

He's avoiding me, Robbie.



   

                   

I know what

everyone's saying.



   

                   

But it's not true.



   

                   

It's NOT true.



   

                   

Is it?



   

                   

Of course not.



   

                   

Oh, it's so shaming.



   

                   

I... I find it

easier to stand.



   

                   

I'm going to Torquay

for a month,



   

                   

to try to get my back right.



   

                   

Oscar's been so busy...



   

                   

I'm sure he'll be

terribly upset



   

                   

when he knows you've been

in so much pain.



   

                   

The truth is, I need some money.



   

                   

I'm not even sure

where he is to ask for it.



   

                   

It does seem rather hard



   

                   

when he's having

extraordinary success...



   

                   

I think I can find him.



   

                   

I keep hearing these stories



   

                   

about Bosie and his father.



   

                   

- I'm sure you don't want to.

- Oh, yes!



   

                   

I do.



   

                   

Men think women

should be protected



   

                   

by not knowing.



   

                   

Not knowing only makes it worse.



   

                   

Is there...

going to be trouble?



   

                   

I hope not.



   

                   

I believe a prosecution



   

                   

would certainly succeed



   

                   

provided, and I stress this,



   

                   

provided there is

no truth whatever



   

                   

in the accusation

made by Lord Queensberry.



   

                   

Of course there's

no truth in it.



   

                   

Then so long as I have

Mr Wilde's assurance



   

                   

that that is indeed

the case...



   

                   

There is no truth

in the accusation whatever.



   

                   

Good.



   

                   

Excellent.



   

                   

The defence, I understand,



   

                   

will be led

by Mr Edward Carson.



   

                   

Old Ned?



   

                   

I was at college with him

in Dublin.



   

                   

No doubt he'll perform his task



   

                   

with all the added bitterness

of an old friend.



   

                   

In writing

a book or a play,



   

                   

I'm concerned entirely

with literature -



   

                   

with art.



   

                   

I do not aim at doing

good or evil,



   

                   

but at making a thing



   

                   

that will have

some quality of beauty.



   

                   

Here is one of your...



   

                   

pieces of literature.



   

                   

"Wickedness is a myth

invented by good people



   

                   

"to account for the curious

attractiveness of others. "



   

                   

D'you think that true?



   

                   

I rarely think anything

I write is true.



   

                   

"If one tells the truth,



   

                   

"one is sure, sooner or later,

to be found out. "



   

                   

That is a pleasing paradox



   

                   

but I don't set very high store

by it as an axiom.



   

                   

Is it good for the young?



   

                   

Anything's good

that stimulates thought,



   

                   

at whatever age.



   

                   

Whether moral

or immoral?



   

                   

There is no such thing



   

                   

as morality or

immorality in thought.



   

                   

What about this,

then?



   

                   

"Pleasure is the only thing

one should live for. "



   

                   

I think that

the realisation of oneself



   

                   

is the prime aim of life,



   

                   

and that to realise

through pleasure



   

                   

is finer than to realise

through pain.



   

                   

I am, on this point,



   

                   

entirely on the side

of the Ancients. The Greeks.



   

                   

How long have you known

Alfred Taylor?



   

                   

About two years.



   

                   

Two and a half years.



   

                   

Is he an intimate

friend of yours?



   

                   

I wouldn't call him

that, no.



   

                   

But you went often

to his rooms.



   

                   

About seven or eight

times, perhaps.



   

                   

Did you know Mr Taylor



   

                   

kept ladies' dresses

in his rooms?



   

                   

No.



   

                   

Did you know

he was notorious



   

                   

for introducing young men

to older men?



   

                   

I never heard it in my life.



   

                   

Has he introduced

young men to you?



   

                   

Yes.



   

                   

How many

young men?



   

                   

About five.



   

                   

What were their occupations?



   

                   

I really don't know.



   

                   

Oh, well, let me

tell you, Mr Wilde.



   

                   

You met a man

called Charles Parker there,



   

                   

I believe.



   

                   

Yes.



   

                   

Charles Parker is...



   

                   

a gentleman's valet.



   

                   

You met his brother

there too, I believe.



   

                   

- Yes.

- He is a groom.



   

                   

I didn't care tuppence

what they were.



   

                   

I liked them.



   

                   

I have a passion

to civilise the community.



   

                   

I recognise no social

distinctions at all,



   

                   

of any kind.



   

                   

To me youth,

the mere fact of youth



   

                   

is so wonderful,



   

                   

that I would sooner talk

to a young man for half an hour



   

                   

than... well, than be

cross-examined in court.



   

                   

Do I understand that...



   

                   

even a young boy you might

pick up on the street



   

                   

would be a pleasing companion?



   

                   

I would talk to a street Arab

with pleasure.



   

                   

If he would talk to me.



   

                   

- And take him to your rooms?

- Yes.



   

                   

And then commit

improprieties with him!



   

                   

Certainly not.



   

                   

Certainly not.



   

                   

You withdraw your libel action



   

                   

against Lord Queensberry.



   

                   

Well and good.



   

                   

But there remains a question

of the evidence...



   

                   

Lord Queensberry's

evidence against you.



   

                   

My information is



   

                   

that the Crown wishes

to pursue the matter.



   

                   

In which case,



   

                   

an arrest and a charge

of gross indecency



   

                   

are certain

to follow.



   

                   

The maximum sentence



   

                   

is two years'

hard labour.



   

                   

Nine months' hard labour



   

                   

is reckoned to be more than

a man of our... background



   

                   

can survive.



   

                   

Um...



   

                   

The children...

The boys...?



   

                   

I must go and see them.



   

                   

You have no time

for that.



   

                   

But my wife...



   

                   

I have to say goodbye

to my wife.



   

                   

Unless you wish to subject her



   

                   

to the further humiliation

of seeing you arrested



   

                   

and taken away

in front of the gutter press,



   

                   

Mr Wilde, you must go.



   

                   

Oscar, you must take that train.



   

                   

Practically everyone you know



   

                   

will be on it.



   

                   

At least     single gentlemen



   

                   

all in abject terror of arrest!



   

                   

No.



   

                   

Where your life leads you,



   

                   

you must go.



   

                   

I defy society.



   

                   

Tell him to go.



   

                   

He must save himself.



   

                   

Tell him to go abroad.



   

                   

I've been telling him all day.



   

                   

He won't budge.



   

                   

People have never understood



   

                   

the courage he needed

to be himself.



   

                   

You must go abroad too.



   

                   

We must all go abroad.



   

                   

At once.



   

                   

Oscar says will you

tell the boys goodbye?



   

                   

I need to go through his papers.



   

                   

I was always

too silent.



   

                   

If I'd known...



   

                   

Bosie.



   

                   

If I'd only

spoken up.



   

                   

It wouldn't have made

any difference.



   

                   

Perhaps not.



   

                   

But at least I wouldn't

blame myself now.



   

                   

You're an Irish gentleman.



   

                   

Of course you must stay.



   

                   

Your father fought

when he was libelled.



   

                   

I was in the courts myself.



   

                   

- I fought...

- I know, Madre.



   

                   

You'll fight these

English Philistines.



   

                   

And you will win.



   

                   

And even if you lose,



   

                   

if you go to prison,



   

                   

you'll always be my son.



   

                   

Of course, it's too late

to change that now.



   

                   

If you go, Oscar,



   

                   

I'll never speak to you again.



   

                   

No-one will ever speak

to me again



   

                   

whatever I do.



   

                   

Of course I'm your son,

Madre.



   

                   

Which is why,



   

                   

even if I lose,



   

                   

the English will never

forget me.



   

                   

Is his mother with him?



   

                   

Is Lady Wilde there?



   

                   

Lady Wilde!



   

                   

Get out of my way!



   

                   

Get out! Get out!



   

                   

Take me away,

as fast as you can.



   

                   

Lady Wilde!



   

                   

Have you anything to say



   

                   

about your son's disgrace,

Lady Wilde?



   

                   

Have you

anything to say?



   

                   

Come in.



   

                   

Mr Wilde, I believe.



   

                   

Yes, yes.



   

                   

We have a warrant here

for your arrest



   

                   

on a charge of committing

indecent acts.



   

                   

I recommend

Switzerland as soon as possible.



   

                   

You will have to change

your name, of course.



   

                   

I-I can't.



   

                   

My dear Constance,



   

                   

the name of Wilde

will be a word of execration



   

                   

for the next thousand years.



   

                   

You can't let your boys grow up



   

                   

with people knowing

who they are.



   

                   

Think of their lives at school.



   

                   

Thank you

for your advice.



   

                   

I'm sorry our friendship

has to end like this.



   

                   

You will always be my friend.



   

                   

I am still Oscar's wife.



   

                   

That must cease forthwith.



   

                   

Forthwith, do you understand?



   

                   

Anybody who has anything

to do with Oscar from now on



   

                   

will never be received

in society again. Ever.



   

                   

Oh, God, Ada.



   

                   

What is going

to happen to him?



   

                   

That's Oscar Wilde's boy.



   

                   

You must let me

in the witness box.



   

                   

If the jury could hear

what I have to say...



   

                   

But Bosie, darling boy,



   

                   

as soon as they see you

in all your golden youth



   

                   

and me in all

my corruption...



   

                   

You didn't corrupt me.



   

                   

I corrupted you if anything.



   

                   

That's not how

it will seem.



   

                   

But I must have my say!



   

                   

It's outrageous!



   

                   

Everyone else

has said anything



   

                   

that came into his head.



   

                   

But I'm the person

all this is about.



   

                   

It's ME my father

wants to get at, not YOU!



   

                   

It's outrageous

that I can't have my say!



   

                   

It won't help, Bosie.



   

                   

It may actually

make things worse.



   

                   

But my father will win!



   

                   

I can't endure

my father winning.



   

                   

You must go away,

dear boy.



   

                   

I couldn't bear

for them to arrest you.



   

                   

I can't bear what they're

saying about you in court.



   

                   

Jesus Christ!



   

                   

- Goodbye, love.

- Goodbye, dear.



   

                   

Time's over.



   

                   

Goodbye, Bosie.

Dear boy.



   

                   

Don't let anyone,

anything,



   

                   

ever change

your feeling for me.



   

                   

Change your love.



   

                   

Time's up, my lord.



   

                   

Oscar, never!



   

                   

They never will.

I won't let them.



   

                   

I won't let them!



   

                   

You've been a great deal



   

                   

in the company

of Lord Alfred Douglas?



   

                   

Oh, yes.



   

                   

Did he... read his poems

to you?



   

                   

Yes.



   

                   

So you can perhaps understand



   

                   

that some of his verses



   

                   

um... would not be acceptable



   

                   

to a reader with

an ordinary, balanced mind?



   

                   

I'm not prepared to say.



   

                   

It's a question of taste...



   

                   

temperament...



   

                   

and individuality.



   

                   

I should say that

one man's poetry



   

                   

is another man's poison.



   

                   

Yes, I daresay.



   

                   

But in this poem

by Lord Alfred Douglas,



   

                   

"Two Loves"...



   

                   

there is one love -

true love -



   

                   

which, and I quote,



   

                   

"Fills the hearts

of boy and girl



   

                   

"with mutual flame. "



   

                   

And...



   

                   

there is another.



   

                   

"I am the love...



   

                   

"that dare not speak its name. "



   

                   

Was that poem explained to you?



   

                   

I think it's clear.



   

                   

There's no question

as to what it means?



   

                   

Most certainly not.



   

                   

Is it not clear

that the love described



   

                   

relates to natural

and unnatural love?



   

                   

No.



   

                   

Oh.



   

                   

Then what is "the love

that dare not speak its name"?



   

                   

"The love that dare not

speak its name"



   

                   

in this century...



   

                   

is such a great affection



   

                   

of an elder...

for a younger man



   

                   

as there was between

David and Jonathan.



   

                   

Such as Plato made the very

basis of his philosophy



   

                   

and such as you may find



   

                   

in the sonnets of

Michelangelo... and Shakespeare.



   

                   

It is in this century

misunderstood.



   

                   

So much misunderstood



   

                   

that it may be described as,



   

                   

"the love that dare not

speak its name".



   

                   

And on account of it,

I am placed where I am now.



   

                   

It is beautiful.



   

                   

It is fine.



   

                   

It is the noblest

form of affection.



   

                   

There is nothing

unnatural about it.



   

                   

It is intellectual



   

                   

and it repeatedly exists



   

                   

between an elder

and a younger man,



   

                   

when the elder has intellect



   

                   

and the younger man...



   

                   

has all the joy, hope,



   

                   

and glamour of life

before him.



   

                   

That it should be so,



   

                   

the world does not

understand.



   

                   

The world mocks at it



   

                   

and sometimes...



   

                   

puts one in the pillory

for it.



   

                   

Hear, hear!



   

                   

Oscar Wilde,



   

                   

the crime of which

you have been convicted



   

                   

is so bad...



   

                   

that I shall pass

the severest sentence



   

                   

that the law will allow.



   

                   

In my judgement,



   

                   

it is totally inadequate



   

                   

for such a case as this.



   

                   

It is the worst case



   

                   

I have ever tried.



   

                   

The sentence of the court



   

                   

is that you be imprisoned



   

                   

and held to hard labour...



   

                   

for two years.



   

                   

Shame.



   

                   

Pervert!



   

                   

Rotter!



   

                   

Shame on you!



   

                   

Disgusting!



   

                   

A slim thing,



   

                   

gold-haired like an angel,



   

                   

stands always at my side.



   

                   

He moves in the gloom



   

                   

like a white flower.



   

                   

I thought but to defend him

from his father.



   

                   

I thought of nothing else.



   

                   

Now my life seems to have

gone from me.



   

                   

I am caught

in a terrible net.



   

                   

But so long as I think

he is thinking of me -



   

                   

my sweet rose,



   

                   

my delicate flower,



   

                   

my lily of lilies -



   

                   

it is in prison



   

                   

that I shall test

the power of love.



   

                   

I shall see if I can't

make the bitter waters sweet



   

                   

by the intensity

of the love I bear you.



   

                   

He asked me not to change.



   

                   

Those were his last words

to me.



   

                   

"Don't change,"



   

                   

Well, things are going to

have to change



   

                   

when he comes out.



   

                   

He'll have no money at all.



   

                   

You're blaming me too,

are you?



   

                   

I'm not blaming anyone.



   

                   

You're not the only person

on this earth



   

                   

Oscar cares about!



   

                   

You've always hated me,

Robbie.



   

                   

Because Oscar loved

and still loves me



   

                   

when you were never more

than one of his boys.



   

                   

I'm suffering just

as much as he is, you know.



   

                   

My life's ruined too.



   

                   

I'm much younger than he is -



   

                   

I've hardly had any life



   

                   

and it's ruined already.



   

                   

When Oscar gets out,



   

                   

we'll live together properly.



   

                   

We'll take a villa

somewhere near here.



   

                   

Prosilipo or... Ischia.



   

                   

Or Capri.



   

                   

I'll take care of him.



   

                   

I'll give him

everything he wants.



   

                   

I love him, Robbie.



   

                   

Oscar's mine and

I'm going to have him.



   

                   

Years went over,



   

                   

and the giant grew very old

and very feeble.



   

                   

He couldn't

play about any more



   

                   

so he sat in a huge armchair



   

                   

and watched the children

at their games



   

                   

and admired his garden.



   

                   

"I have many

beautiful flowers," he said,



   

                   

"but the children are the most

beautiful flowers of all. "



   

                   

I'm afraid Cyril

has got some idea



   

                   

of why you're here.



   

                   

I'm sending them

to school in Germany.



   

                   

I can't manage them

on my own.



   

                   

Your back

isn't better, then?



   

                   

No. Not really.



   

                   

I may have to have

an operation.



   

                   

What I've done...



   

                   

to you and the boys...



   

                   

I can't...



   

                   

I shall never

forgive myself.



   

                   

If we could choose...

our natures...



   

                   

If we could

only choose.



   

                   

But it's no use.



   

                   

Whatever

our natures are,



   

                   

we must fulfil them.



   

                   

Or our lives, my life,



   

                   

would've been filled with...



   

                   

dishonesty.



   

                   

Even more dishonesty

than there actually was.



   

                   

I've always loved you,

Constance.



   

                   

You must believe me.



   

                   

I don't see how

you can have done.



   

                   

Not truly.



   

                   

Not if all the time...



   

                   

I didn't know.



   

                   

"Know thyself",

I used to say.



   

                   

I didn't know myself.



   

                   

I-I didn't know.



   

                   

I suppose you want a divorce.



   

                   

You have every reason.



   

                   

I've been thinking,

when you do come out...



   

                   

When they let you out,



   

                   

you can go to

Switzerland or Italy



   

                   

write another play,

get yourself back.



   

                   

You CAN.



   

                   

You're so clever, you CAN.



   

                   

Oscar...



   

                   

I don't want a divorce.



   

                   

Will you ever let me

see the children again?



   

                   

Of course.



   

                   

But there must be one condition.



   

                   

Oscar, you must never

see Bosie again.



   

                   

If I saw Bosie now...



   

                   

I'd kill him.



   

                   

The children love you, Oscar.



   

                   

They'll always love you.



   

                   

Did... did anyone tell you?



   

                   

They've been performing Salome

in Paris.



   

                   

The giant hastened

across the grass



   

                   

and came near to the child.



   

                   

When he came quite close,



   

                   

his face grew red with anger.



   

                   

And he said, "Who hath dared

to wound thee?"



   

                   

For on the palms

of the child's hands



   

                   

were the prints of two nails.



   

                   

And the prints of two nails



   

                   

were on his little feet.



   

                   

"Who hath dared to wound thee?"



   

                   

cried the giant.



   

                   

"Tell me, that I may take

my big sword



   

                   

"and slay him. "



   

                   

"Nay," answered the child.



   

                   

"But these are

the wounds of love. "



   

                   

Bosie thinks I'm jealous.



   

                   

It will come as a shock to Bosie



   

                   

to realise that he is

relatively unimportant



   

                   

in the scheme of things.



   

                   

But no doubt,



   

                   

Bosie will be remembered

as long as Oscar.



   

                   

Unfortunately.



   

                   

I sometimes wonder...



   

                   

If I hadn't, um...



   

                   

pushed him into...



   

                   

Don't.



   

                   

Oscar was very lucky

to meet you, Robbie.



   

                   

Think who else

it might have been.



   

                   

I'll have that one, thank you.



   

                   

Must you go abroad

again at once?



   

                   

I shouldn't

be here now.



   

                   

But has he got anywhere

to go when he's released?



   

                   

It'll have to be in France.



   

                   

I'm going to see

what I can arrange.



   

                   

But here?



   

                   

When he leaves prison?



   

                   

Goodbye, Mr Harris.



   

                   

Goodbye, sir.



   

                   

Goodbye, Mr Snow.

Thank you.



   

                   

Oscar.



   

                   

My dear Sphinx!



   

                   

How marvellous of you

to know what hat to wear



   

                   

at seven in the morning



   

                   

to meet a friend

who's been away.



   

                   

No, I'll keep this.



   

                   

What is it?



   

                   

It's a letter to Bosie,



   

                   

telling him how I love him



   

                   

but can never see him again.



   

                   

I'm going to ask Robbie

to have it copied out



   

                   

before I send it.



   

                   

I rather fear Bosie

might throw it on the fire.



   

                   

I call it De Profundis.



   

                   

It comes from the very depths.



   

                   

I know not

whether laws be right



   

                   

Or whether laws be wrong



   

                   

All that we know who lie in gaol



   

                   

Is that the wall is strong



   

                   

And that each day is like a year



   

                   

A year whose days are long



   

                   

Yet each man kills

the thing he loves



   

                   

By each, let this be heard



   

                   

Some do it with a bitter look



   

                   

Some with a flattering word



   

                   

The coward does it with a kiss



   

                   

The brave man with a sword



   

                   

Some kill their love

when they are young



   

                   

And some when they are old



   

                   

Some strangle

with the hands of lust



   

                   

Some with the hands of gold



   

                   

The kindest use a knife



   

                   

Because the dead so soon

grow cold.



   

                   

I'm sure we can find



   

                   

an hotel near here.



   

                   

Somewhere where

you can work.



   

                   

I've decided to see him

again, Robbie.



   

                   

Yes.



   

                   

I thought you might.



   

                   

I've nothing left.



   

                   

I've lost my wife.



   

                   

I've lost my children.



   

                   

They won't allow me

to see them now.



   

                   

No-one will ever read my plays

or books again.



   

                   

Yes, they will.



   

                   

Bosie loves me more than

he loves anyone else.



   

                   

As much as he can love.



   

                   

And allow himself to be loved.



   

                   

I think we need

some more wine.



   

                   

I find that alcohol...



   

                   

taken in sufficient

quantities...



   

                   

...Can bring about

all the effects of drunkenness.



   

                   

Suvito!



   

                   

Life cheats us with shadows.



   

                   

We ask it for pleasure,



   

                   

it gives it to us,



   

                   

with bitterness and

disappointment in its train.



   

                   

And we find ourselves looking



   

                   

with dull heart of stone



   

                   

at the tress

of gold-flecked hair



   

                   

that we had once

so wildly worshipped



   

                   

and so madly kissed.



   

                   

Oscar!



   

                   

In this world,



   

                   

there are only two tragedies.



   

                   

One is not getting

what one wants.



   

                   

The other... is getting it.









  

 
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