Et In Arcadia Ego

Today's issue: lots of lovely Oscar Wilde stuff, then much quoteology

This poem was written by one of Oscar Wilde's friends to celebrate the publishing of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Sorry, I can't remember which, and I don't have an Ellerman to hand - Lionel Johnson, the internet tells me.

It wouldn't quite be understood by Romans - typically, Latin poetry does not rhyme - but it's still a cool and decadent piece of work, with deliberate elements of a hymn. It gives me joy how quickly and simply I can translate it:

In Honorem Doriani Creatiorisque Eius

Benedictus sis, Oscare!
Qui me libro hoc dignare
Propter amicitas:
Modo modulans Romano
laudes dignas Doriano,
Ago tibi gratias!

Juventutis hic formosa
Floret inter rosas rosa,
Subito dum venit mors:
Ecce homo! Ecce deus!
Si sic modo esset meus
Genius misericors!

Amat avidus amores
Miros, miros carpit flores
Saevus pulchritudine:
Quanto anima nigrescuit,
Tanto facies spelendiescit,
Mendax, sed quam splendide!

Hic sunt poma Sodomorum;
Hic sunt corda vitiorum;
Et peccata dulcia.
In excelsis et infernis,
Tibi sit, qui tanta cernis,
Gloriarum gloria

In honour of Dorian and his Creator

Blessings be to Oscar!
Who has honoured me with a copy of this book
on account of our friendship
Adopting the manner of the Romans,
(fitting praise for Dorian)
I thank you!

This most splendid of youths
flourishes as a rose among roses,
until death comes suddenly:
See, man! See, god!
If only thus could be my
Talent for sympathy!

[OK, my translation is a little dodgy for those two lines]

Eager, he loves strange loves,
He plucks out curious bouqets,
cruel beauty!
However much his soul is blackened,
so much his face is radiant -
Crime, but how glorious!

Here are the apples of Sodom!
Here are the hearts of corruption
And sweet sins!
In heaven and hell
May there be to you, who understands so much,
Glories of glories!

Fantastic, eh?

Another poem about Oscar Wilde is "Sebastian Melmoth" by Patrick Lloyd-Bedford. I have never read it, but came across it in Oxfam once. Alas, the only copy in published form is collectable, and I didn't feel like spending £20 for it. Regret that decision now, but it can't be helped.

I've always wanted to write a poem about him. He wrote poems on the graves of Keats and Shelley, so I know it's a gesture he would have appreciated. Rather scuppered by the fact I don't write brilliant poetry, and yet he never let that stand in his way. Oscar Wilde has yet to be rehabilitated as a great poet, and though I don't really get poetry much of the time, I've a sneaking suspicion it's because his poetry isn't that great as I've discussed before. Bizzare, considering how wonderfully poetic his prose is. It always reminds me of his own quote about bad poetry:

"[the bad poet] lives the poetry he cannot write. The others [good poets] write the poetry that they dare not realise"

It's a project I still rumble over from time to time, and I've got the odd line jotted down in various notebooks, but probably something which will never be completed, and never shown to the public even if it is.



All this was inspired by rediscovering my commonplace book, which had been lost among heaps of other journals and doodlepads. It's given over soley to quotes, mostly from books or poems, sometimes from telly - first comment I ever wrote about Doctor Who is recorded there - sometimes from real people, and some of them are even my own. It's also packed with ellipses... I've been looking for it for a while to transcribe a great piece of song lyric which struck me:

"The game of life is hard to play - you're gonna lose it anyway" from "Suicide is Painless"

It's a record of five years of my life in other people's words - mostly Oscar Wilde's. It was my companion when I read the epic Ellerman biography I mentioned earlier. Rereading it, I'd love to transcribe it all for you, but I'll make do with one or two of the very best:

"Where there is a will to condemn, there is evidence" ~ Wild Swans
[I think I was thinking about slash fiction at the time...]

"When I make a movie, I want it to be everything to me; like I would die for it" ~ QT
[People always talk about Tarantino's quoteable movies, but it's the man himself I'm fondest of. His films are idiosyncratic and indulgent - he makes them for himself and no one else. I find this enormously inspiring. Another one I like:]

"When I'm getting serious with a girl, I show her Rio Bravo, and she'd better fucking like it"
[Because it's not like I'd ever do something like that. Rumours that I semi-dumped the one guy I semi-dated last year purely because his favourite film was "A Beautiful Mind" have been exaggerated. But the first guy who invites me on a cinema date had better understand that we are watching that movie!]

"If it can be written or thought, it can be filmed" ~ Kubrick

"The end of a picture is always the end of a life" ~ Peckinpah
[Brilliant quote - the end of a life for the creators who have been so involved, the end of the vicarious life the audience have partaken of. And frequently, the end of life for one or more characters, literally or otherwise.]

"Everybody wants to be Cary Grant. Sometimes even I want to be Cary Grant" ~ Cary Grant
[About his screen persona]

"Very sweet but a bit stupid" ~ my sister on the sons of Feanor

"I would like to protest against the statement that I have ever called a spade a spade. The man who did so should be compelled to use one" ~ Oscar Wilde, or OW as he is usually abbreviated to

"One should be different because one is human, not because one is a monster" ~ Miss Geach, my heroic Latin teacher.

"Just because there is twilight, does not mean there is not night and day" was one of hers also I think.

"Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won" ~ Wellington

"My next Shakespeare book will be a discussion on whether the commentators on Hamlet are mad or only pretending to be" ~ OW, after The Portrait of Mr W.H. clunked

"If we lived long enough to see the results of our actions it may be that those who call themselves good would be sickened with a dull remorse, and those whom the world calls evil stirred by a noble joy" ~ one of the many unattributed quotes, but we can safely guess it's OW again. "Dull remorse" is very him.

"You're a clever man, Unferth,
But you'll endure Hell's damnation for that" ~ Beowulf. Just liked the rhythm.

"When in doubt, draw a sunflower" ~ one of my quotes which pepper the book. It's sound advice.

"If God was clothing he'd be a bra cos he suppors us
If god was an organ he'd be a bladder cos he relieves us
If god was a person he'd be a pop star cos he turns us on
If God was a thing he'd be a G-string
If God was a plant he'd be marujana, cos he gets us so hi-i-igh!"
~ the collective wisdom of Lower Four Z, presumably after a misguided PSHE lesson.

"My heart was turned to one doomed man, but if he reads Heir of Redclyffe it's perhaps as well to let the law take its course" ~ OW on the literary habits of a prisoner awaiting execution

"All archaeological pictures that make you say "how curious", all sentimental pictures that make you say "how sad", all historical pictures that make you say "how interesting", all pictures that do not immediately give you such artistic joy as to make you sat "how beautiful", are bad pictures" ~ guess who.

"I deplore being told I'm not a musician by a man who couldn't hold a tune in a bucket with both hands" ~ Billy Connolly

"You been mudwrestloig?"
"Only with my conscience."
"Really? Who won?"
"Well it was one of those rare scenarios where violence really doesn't solve anything."
"I know the scenario well. usually crops up when one is trying to decide whether to open the next bottle or not"
~ Use of Weapons

"I love drugs, drugs love me
crack cocaine and ecstasy.
With a sniff sniff here and a sniff sniff there
I'll end up in intensive care"
~ more wit and wisdom from Lower 4 Z...

"Always forgive your enemies, nothing annoys them so much" ~ OW

"Beware the fury of a patient man" ~ John Dryden and "Ira brevis furor est - anger is brief insanity" ~ Horace. Wrote them down for M.

"Either I made a good album, or people just have bad taste" ~ Enrique Inglesias

"On the subject of Wilde's homosexuality Ellmann seems to me eminently sane. Perhaps a little too sane, since it was a subject on which Wilde himself was prepared to be a little crazy" ~ a review of Ellman's book. It's a fair observation, though, because all the earlier biographies are trammelled by the conventions of the time it was written. My 1920s Dorian Gray employs some fantastic science in explaining "the homosexual character".

Then PAGES of OW, some of the best (i.e. shorter...)

"The only possible exercise is to talk, not to walk" ~ you may have heard me use this on several occasions...

"History never repeats itself. The historians repeat each other. There is a wide difference"

"There goes that bloody fool Oscar Wilde"
"It's extraordinary how soon one gets known in London"

"Where will it all end? Half the world does not believe in God, and the other half does not believe in me."

Wilde ~ "Punch too ridicuylous. When you and I are together we never talk about anything except ourselves"
Whistler ~ "No, no, Oscar, you forget. When you and I are together we never talk about anything except me."
Wilde ~ "It is true, Jimmy, we were talking about you, but I was thinking of myself"
BEST. PUTDOWN. EVER.

"There are two ways of disliking my plays. One is to dislike them, the other is to like Earnest"
Horribly correct. Earnest is the least personal, least interesting of his works by some way. Easily the greatest, undeniably hilarious, but it's been remembered precicelt because it is like nothing else he has ever written. Some of the other plays are funny, but none so farcical or whimsical.

"I want to show you Dorian Gray's photograph. that's the way I imagine Dorian. I didn't find or see him until after I described him in my book. You see, my idea is right, that art inspires and directs nature. This young man would never have existed if I had not described Dorian"
I believe this to be true with every fibre of my being. And it's torture knowing that this photo once existed, and may still exist, and that no one knows where it is.

The dead are dancing with the dead, the dust is whirling with the dust...


Suprising confession: I'm an awful reader of poetry. For one thing, I'm a compulsive skim reader - of course, you can't skim read poetry or you miss the point. I also loathe intrusive Classical references ("like Niobe, all tears!") which a certain era of poetry cannot do without. I tend to regard a lot of it as pretentious, and finally (most importantly) I can't understand it. I usually have to have poems explained to me.


I mean, I like poetry in theory - a single idea, perfectly expressed. Oscar Wilde said poetry was idealised grammar, and it is true. But my appreciation of it is rooted in the fact it confuses me, because in my book, the greatest poets can get their point across even if you don't understand - T.S. Eliot, probably the best poet I've ever read, is a master at this. No, I don't get what he's going on about on a stanza, line or even word by word basis - but at the end, I have grasped the atmosphere and meaning in some intangible way.


And I love beautiful poetry for the sake of the beautiful imagery or perfect phrasing alone, again because I don't always get the whole picture. My favourite poet is actually George Barker, who you probably haven't heard of. He's a contemporary of Eliot, and you can kinda tell - a mess of imagery and referencing, building up a grim and glum picture of life.


I picked a copy of his book up at a second hand book stall, and it's the only book I brought with me to university. I don't understand a damn word of it, and have no idea whether or not they are any good. But he writes so well, and I'm attracted to some cadance in the words. Take the climax of my favourite, Bamborough Castle:


There where no house is no home I stood,
Bamborough I - cracked and crowned with blood
Disfigured by the birds I knew were no birds
But the heart haunting human who kills with words


I mean, the rhythm of it, the picture. Maybe if I gave you the whole poem you could explain, but that's not the point. I genuinely find something moving in the way he arranges words. Or from Battersea Park:



How can I ever be at home here
Where Sorrow sings of Joy in my ear?
How can I here be happy, when I know
I can be happy only here and now?


Again, in the context of the poem I'm not sure exactly what he's getting at, but it's a beautiful phrase which often pops into my head. Actually, I think it's on my Facebook page.


Curiously, a month after being here, the meaning of one poem suddenly leapt into dazzling meaning. So there is one I understand now, though it could just be me overlaying my own angsts onto it. In another one of his lovely lines, it opens:


Time is not quick enough, space is not far enough
But I can hit it with the point of my hand...


I'm interested in reading his book The Dead Seagull, partly because I love his style, and partly because it's his account of his affair with writer Elizabeth Smart, who also novelised the dirty details in By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. The pair are going to be fascinating to compare...


The best of the entire poems I've found online is O Who will speak from a Womb or a Cloud?

in case you feel like reading a whole one. I've always thought of it as a song about a miscarriage. And if you don't have time for the whole thing, I mean just look how gorgeous this stanza is:


O remember
How once the Lyrae dazzled and how the November
Smoked, so that blood burned, flashed its mica,
And that was life. Now if I dip my hand in your grave
Shall I find it bloody with autumn and bright with stars?



Now that, my friend, is breathtaking.


Strictly, Mr Barker should count as a Wonderful Thing all on his own, but lets expand this to "my favourite poetry" full stop. There's not very much of it - see above: I don't get the mass of poetry.


Oscar Wilde is obviously a topic I can't help but address. We all know how much I adore him, but to be honest I've always had the impression that really, his poetry isn't very good. It tries very, very hard indeed. I'm intensely fond of it, and some days in the mood for even the ones I regard as daft. But en masse, they're terribly pretensious. It works in his prose, but in poetry it sounds like he's trying too hard. I'd be curious to see how his poetry is regarded by someone who knows what they're talking about. I've never been able to get through The Sphynx, because I find it impossible to take seriously. I think it was the porphyrie stanza that did it. I find the lavish description glorious in Dorian Gray, and I'm even Salome's only fan. But these are in general too much for me.


But there are some I regard as truly perfect. Obviously, Ballad of Reading Gaol - another example of how an idea can be so perfectly expressed in poetry. Resquiescat, for his sister who died when he was very young, is so moving precicely for its simplicity. Helas! and Taedium Vitae are probably among the most interesting for scholars, looking to read the author into his poems. But The Harlot's House is my favourite, the imagery is very dark and desperate, with a surreally nightmarish feel, and there are some wonderful lines. It's worth reading in full for the buildup.



And there are other poems I like, though I'm going to bring them to mind very randomly. My favourite T.S. Eliots are Portrait of a Lady and La Figlia che Piange, particularly the latter which yet again I don't pretend to understand, but find very lovely.


I've recently discovered a new favourite via Poems on the Underground, Francis Cornford's Parting in Wartime. Again a simple idea, simply expressed, combined with a pummeling-emotional-gut-kick, copied here in full:


How long ago Hector took off his plume,
Not wanting that his little son should cry,
Then kissed his sad Andromache goodbye
-And now we three in Euston waiting-room.


The damned Canada expedition will recieve little praise from me, but it's left me with an enduring love of Laurence Binyon's epic classic, "they shall not grow old as we that are left grow old", and John Magee's High Flight. So maybe it wasn't a wholly wasted experience.


I remember a time when I loved The Raven (Poe) and "To see a world in a grain of sand" (Blake) most. And lets not forget the Romans. I adore Virgil and the Aeneid, and Catallus. Both of those have actually had me in tears before. And Ovid is the wonderfuls. I'll talk more about them at some point, but I want to wrap up and do some actual Latin now. So I'll leave you with a favourite drawn from poetry classes five years ago, picked by a teacher interestingly named Mr Hill. It's The Hill by Rupert Brooke, and it's content and style will suprise nobody from the poetry appreciation in the poetry above.



BREATHLESS, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.

You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old.…” “And when we die
All’s over that is ours; and life burns on
through other lovers, other lips,” said I,
—“Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!”

“We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!” we said;
“We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!”… Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
—And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

It’s hard to deny that the alarmingly young cast had buckets of energy. I loved the music, the singing was wonderful – lots of complex harmonies, lots of swooping violin). I loved the staging too, and the comedy when it was there. The main cast of 10 bounced off each other wonderfully – everyone had their moment, everyone had some lines.



I just objected to the storyline in the strongest terms, and while I could cope with the first half, the second really made me sick.



Firstly, the period peeved me off. In the Q&A afterwards they claimed it had been deliberately modernised to be more relevant, as if we couldn’t handle it as a period piece. If the plot is relevant, it remains relevant. End of. And allow the audiences to draw their own inferences. I’m actually quite curious to read the original 1880s play now.



But most importantly, I didn’t sympathise with the characters. I just took exception to the misery. Why put yourself through it? I’m easily upset, and so sitting through two hours and twenty of death and despair – guess what – upsets me! Which is what it’s supposed to do, but I could have told you in advance that sad things were sad. I don’t feel I’ve learnt anything from the musical. Of course, you can say “but Unmutual, you hate happy endings too!” Which is true. I suppose I like surprising yet appropriate endings, and this musical just felt manipulative. Life is wonderful, and so is love, and so I almost find this wallowing in misery almost offensive. You’ve got a job convincing me that (fictional) suicides are sad, for example, instead of just stupid. Lord Henry puts it better than me:

"I cannot sympathize with that. It is too ugly, too horrible, too distressing. There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores, the better."

Of course, he’s talking in the context of poor people in Whitechapel – and life’s genuine sores are obviously important and shouldn’t be ignored. Yet they should be avoided in fiction unless you’re going to do something truly interesting with it. Finally, I’m sure the moral is that “sexual repression is bad” – although there’s an intriguing alternate moral in there about chastity being by far the best policy.



Overall analysis? It’s RENT – with plaits and homework. But the music is quite lovely, so if you can handle the misery (you might even enjoy it). And there’s a real sense of being at the centre of something exciting – this is The Big Musical right now, and with its transfer to the West End its sights are only rising.

In this post: a run down of last night's dream; a digression on Robert Holmes: hero of Who; another digression on Jason Foss, future bestselling author; corset shopping with Calypso; and bad news for the new Movie of Dorian Gray.

I wonder if dreams can come true?

Last night, it was me Anne and Jessie, and in a gloruiously mundane detail, we were sitting down in someone's lounge to watch some Doctor Who. Out of the stash of videos, Ribos Operation won - which warmed the cockles of my heart. It's more or less The Sting in space, but I love that episode, it's fantastic - good old Saint Holmes - because you actually genuinely end up caring for the extras. I cried, CRIED in the last episode. For the bad guys. Saint Holmes, incidentally, stands for Robert Holmes. You get so tired of people telling you he's a genius, you forget he really is a genius - he invented the Master, the Sontarans, the Valeyard; while he didn't invent it, he redefined Gallifrey as corrupt and sneaky, and is responsible for phrases like "Eye of Harmony", "Chancellery Guard", "Castellan", "Panopticon", "Prydonian" and "Matrix" which we all use like second nature nowadays. If that wasn't enough, he really knows how to write an episode - they're always rich in background detail (one of the things I loved about Ribos Operation was how real Ribos felt. Throwaway comments gave it an economy, religion, history - all backed up by the lovely set, of course), his extras are always interesting (a valuable skill for a Doctor Who writer; Moffat has this perhaps even better, making them loveable in a line or less e.g. "Proper Dave" and "Other Dave") and his plots, while often nothing new, are so well executed they become the ultimate in that story. As if to prove it, Caves of Androzani and Talons of Weng Chiang always battle it out for the top spot in Doctor Who polls, along with the indomitable Genesis of the Daleks (written by Someone Else).

For the second half of the dream, my mind kind of forgot that it was about "Anne and Jessie" - when I next found them, it was Lauren and Jessie - which obviously makes sense at the time, though now awake I feel guilty my subconscious mind has done what teachers have done for years. The part you will enjoy, however, was I was at a post-book launch party for my dad, Jason Foss - who's a soontobe famous author.

Now my dad isn't quite up to the standard of Saint Holmes yet. He's written, broadly speaking, airport novels - only nobody buys them, presumably on the basis that they're far too well written. In other words, good books, but crap airport novels. The first set - Shadow in the Corn (the New Age one), Byron's Shadow (the Greek one) , Lady in the Lake (The Arthurian one) and Shadesmoor (my memories of this are hazier) - are about Jeffrey Flint, archeologist come private detective. In other words, they're murder mysteries with a historical twist - but the characters are solid, the observations great, and a total absence of cliche. If that's your kind of thing, give them a look up - they can be got all over the internet, although ignore the nutter on Alibris trying to flog his Shadesmoor for £47. It's good, but not that good. Off the top of my head, Lady in the Lake is the one I recommend - but only because the twist regarding the sword is great; and perhaps it would be best to start with Shadow in the Corn, as it's first.

Then there's my two favourites - Blood and Sandles, which in broadly the same template as the former stories, is about a female archaeologist who becomes a historical consultant on a Hollywood epic, and unwitting private detective when there is attempted murder. Now, though I miss Jeffrey Flint - Maddy Crowe is nowhere near as adorable - the movie background obviously appeals to me even more than the historical one does. And the central idea is genius - after a botched assassination at a dinner party, not only has Maddy to work out the killer's identity, she needs to work out who he was trying to kill as well, which gives the whole thing a great paranoid atmosphere after one character after another becomes either suspect or victim. My other favourite, probably harder to aquire, is Islands that Never Were - a collection of short stories about the Channel Islands. They start in the stone age, with a mythic creation story; move towards the present day via Romans, Witches, Nazis and Fund Administrators, and then into the distant future, in a story that once again takes on a feeling of the mythic. They are all based in some sort of reality - i.e. There really are supposedly copies of Grande Albert and Petit Albert, Guernsey's most famous grimores, in the Guille Alles Library. Bits I really like: "Bring me the Head of Victor Hugo", about an assassin sent over Guernsey's most famous literary denzin (though naturally, soon to be overtaken by my pa...), "The Conquered" about a crashed Nazi pilot who is held prisoner in an abandoned mine during the Occupation, "Rendezvous", probably a ghost story but pretty regardless, "Colours" because of the sick twist, and the first story about the creation of the islands. Bits I don't like: the fact no one bought it, and therefore he will never actually write the sequel Islands in the Mist - we've never seen eye to eye on this, because if I had another book I wanted to write I'd sit down and put it on paper; whereas he doesn't bother, recognising in advance that no one will publish it. Shame, because I really want to read it, never mind anyone else.

Incidentally, Oscar Wilde says it is the first duty of a father to write stories for his children. And I suppose the "Emily and Alice" stories were that - Alice is my sister. They were great in their own way, aimed at the 8-year-old me. The plot was always broadly the same: Mum, who must represent the rational and safe world, was out or away, and we two plus Dad would get into some vaguely supernatural scrape: Aliens on Liberation day, kitchen antics on Pancake Day (and a sequel, I think with Christmas Puddings), and one about how we saved Christmas. Hmm, I really fancy digging those out again now...

He's just finished his new one, which is still a murder mystery, but the detective is a young boy and there's a supernatural twist. Being set where he grew up, it's also probably a bit more autobiographical than he lets on. I was particularly fond of that one, if for no other reason that his previous six books have got through his sisters, parents and wife, and that this one would be my turn for a dedication. No luck with publishers though.

I've been reading drafts, and I keep being asked how it could be better - the answer is, of course, it couldn't be. I'd sugarcoat any criticisms anyway - but the fact is, writing a good book is the last way to get published, as demonstrated by the amount of crud on the shelves. It's an impossible, frustrating industry. Currently, he's revamping the sci-fi murder mystery, which he wrote in the early 90s and in which he inadvertantly invented the internet. Is it going to be good? Of course. Is it going to be published? Watch this space.


In any case, this was the launch party - and there I was, in a fantastic outfit, mingling with stars I didn't recognise in a brilliantly decorated room like the inside of a gold jewellery box. So there you are, pa. Maybe it's a premonition.

If for no other reason, I was pleased about not dreaming From Hell, which I mentioned yesterday as Alan Moore does Jack the Ripper. It all got fantastically violent last night - every time there's a murder, of course, there's a few panels of gore, but there's time to catch your breath afterwards. The final one, however, went on, and on, and on, five pages, six pages in increasing detail. It was brilliantly effective in spelling out the horror of the situation, especially in contrast with how quickly the former ones were dealt with. It reminded me of a similar sequence in Watchmen, where page after page is...well, I won't spoil it. But you can actually HEAR the silence, and in a comic book that's pretty impressive.


What's happened since I last posted? The main important bits are that Calypso is a BAD INFLUENCE, and if a large amount of cash suddenly vanishes from my account (it'll hurt, but I can probably just about manage it) it's ALL HER FAULT for taking me corset shopping - this is the best collection of pictures which look not-too-whory:

http://www.fairygothmother.co.uk/corsets_with_straps.htm

Naturally, it's all about how you wear it - and there are indeed many ways to add corsetry to your image, without resembling a Victorian brothel ma'am; and during the sale, they've been reduced to ONLY £90 or so.

Hurts, doesn't it? I'm aware that we live in an age where unnecessary things are the only necessities, but I truly cannot justify getting one. They're still lovely to ogle, however (I was also very tempted by this Cylon Number 6 dress, but I don't think I could get away with "red dress" look, at least not in a group who knew me: http://www.fairygothmother.co.uk/ch-20.htm)

While talking Wilde, I couldn't help but think of his wife - who was heavily involved in a woman's group for Victorian costume reform. Every month, they'd put out a paper about women whose ribs had been crushed by tight corsets, or whose skirts had caused them to catch on fire or break bones when they were caught in the wind.

And while talking Wilde, I also got a bunch of white roses for my room. I'm pretending they look great.


Finally, talking Wilde - and parents or people with a sensitive disposition might want to look the other way for this bit - I came across a piece of news which made me shout lots of naughty words, very loud, in the middle of Oxford Street.

I've long been a little rattled by the new Dorian Gray movie on the way, particularly by the inadequate casting of Ben Barnes hearthrob as the titular hero. Granted, he's nice to look at - but his beauty is too 50s American Diner Boy. Nowhere near cruel enough. And I know the conceit is he looks innocent while he's rotten inside, but I mean cruelly good looking, gorgeous in a way that spites the rest of the world for being so dull compared. It should be otherworldly, not like any guy you could meet - no matter how lovely. In comparison, the hair colour change matters less to me. This has grated a little, but in the back of my mind I have always thought "maybe he'll be OK". But he seems like the dream compared to a new piece of information someone unwittingly spilled on Oxford Street.

Lord Henry Wotton. Colin Firth.

I'll pause for that to sink in, not to mention calm myself so I don't say something filthy. What infuriates me most is that I want to make this film, as I see it - heavy with decadance, overwhelmed with colours and experience, a bit like Marie Antoinette only with substance to back up the style - yet with such safe casting as Ben Barnes and Colin Firth, I know it's going to be a staid literary adaptation, not a well directed, edgy piece of intriguing cinema. The story is so detatched from contemporary morality and worldview, that to do it in an OTT, surreal way is the only way. Hyper-real, actually - Dorian's romance with Sybil doesn't work in real world terms. And I'd want to keep the "horrible Jew" line, which is naturally an inconcieveable way to speak for modern viewers; hence, you would have to immerse it in Victoriana. And when drugs, blood and sex got involved, it would be as lurid as a penny dreadful, and as corruptingly OTT as a Social Education video in which but picking up a spliff sends you incurably insane.

What I mean to say about Mr Firth is that you cannot have a dubious, dangerous part like Colin Firth played by someone your mother fancies. And I don't just mean my mother, I mean all mothers. Lord Henry has some great lines, but he's so much more than a quote machine a la Lord Goring, Lord Illingworth or Algy. All three of those are just dandy posers - Lord Goring in particular betrays his genuine depth of feeling for his friend. Lord Henry is more 3D - the pose is part of his personality, not just something to air at dinner parties.

Have a look at this gallery - while I'm getting used to Mr Barnes, Colin Firth's expression is the same smile I've seen him pull a thousand times:

http://benbarnesonline.net/gallery/displayimage.php?album=205&pos=1. Those posters look like the crap as well - blue? Surely sepia...

Oliver Parker, director, certainly looks like he should know what he's doing - he made Importance of Being Earnest and Ideal Husband, both of which Friend 4 hated. I actually liked the former, though it's hardly a great pedigree.

It's not like I'm a change freak - it's quite an uncinematic book, and the climax rolls out in a whole chapter of Dorian thinking to himself. But naturally, I don't care who this Emily Wotton character is and while I maybe understand why she was felt necessary to give the second half of the book some structure, it does not nor can it come to any good. So to not "reveal the ending", the actress tells us Dorian finds her "somewhere she shouldn't". So what you mean is, she finds her way up into the attic at the end then? Presumably after he has genuinely fallen in love with her (she probably takes on an equivalent role to Hetty Merton) and has to do something unpleasant.

Why not at least have made it Gwendolyn, Harry's sister, whose children are not allowed to ride with her any more - she does at least feature in the book. Instead of this, presumed, daughter.

No - the only way to do this is like Marie Antoinette, the Sofia Coppola version. All sights and sounds and senses, with a traditional plot on a backburner. Oh! If only you could see the Dorian Gray I would make...