Robert Tanitch reviews Dorian Gray at Riverside Studios, Hammersmith, London W6
In 1890 publishers didn’t want to publish The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde’s homoerotic novel. Booksellers didn’t want to stock it. Newspapers didn’t want to review it. One editor thought it was a matter for the Criminal Investigation department rather than the critic. Those who did review it thought it suitable reading only for perverts.
Dorian, you will remember, is a young man of extraordinary beauty, who sells his soul for the gift of eternal youth and indulges his passion for pleasure and sin. Dorian remains young; but the picture, painted when he was twenty years old, grows old.
The conceit is that his 30 years of depravity is visible only on the portrait, which becomes the emblem of his conscience, a monstrous and loathsome thing to be locked away in the attic.
The novel is remarkably prophetic of Wilde’s downfall and certain passages (with hindsight) read as if he were expressing his worst fears. The story’s popularity is undimmed. The novel has been translated into every language and endlessly staged, filmed and televised. There have been at least three operas and nine ballets.
The present adaptation and direction by Linnie Reedman is embarrassingly awful and does Wilde a gross disservice. The production is awkwardly staged. The pace is painfully slow. The acting is very poor. Jack Fox (son of James Fox) in his stage debut has the looks for Dorian but he has not got the experience to be playing a leading role.
Daisy Bevan (granddaughter of Vanessa Redgrave) is cast as Siby Vane, a bad actress who acts Shakespeare badly. Acting Shakespeare badly is very boring to watch and listen to.
Lord Henry has all the best epigrams but Joe Wredden who plays him doesn’t know how to deliver them. The inclusion of a Master of Ceremonies and songs is a big mistake. Wilde’s famous climax is completely ruined.
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