Everett’s Happy labour of love
The Happy Prince (M, 105 mins) Directed by Rupert Everett Reviewed by James Croot ★★★
He was the most famous man in London, but now, as the 19th century comes to an end, Oscar Wilde (Rupert Everett) is having to live in exile in Paris under an assumed name.
What started as an attempt to sue the Marquess of Queensberry for libel, ended in the Irish poet and playwright serving 800 days’ hard labour for ‘‘gross indecency’’.
A broken man, Oscar talks of reconciling with his wife Constance (Emily Watson), but struggles to resist the temptations that his new surroundings offer him. And that’s before his lover ‘‘Bosie’’ (Colin Morgan), the son of the Marquess, shows up, alternating between wanting to run away to Naples with Oscar and demanding they part ways so he can have his family allowance restored.
Paralysed by dark thoughts, wrestling with his soul and saddened that those who once applauded him now shun him, Oscar’s wealth and health begin to suffer.
A decade-long labour of love for debutant writer-director Everett (My Best Friend’s Wedding, An Ideal Husband), The Happy Prince is very much a showcase for the now 59-year-old’s talents in front of the camera.
He imbues his Wilde with plenty of pathos and displays an impressive punctiliousness in bringing his character to life.
It’s a performance without vanity – the expected witty bon mots are mixed in with portraying the ‘‘self-inflicted wounds of a gluttonous slob’’.
And yet despite some thoughtful, artful shots and a solid supporting cast (that also includes Colin Firth, Tom Wilkinson and Beatrice Dalle), this Prince never truly compels.
Much of the problem lies in the fractured narrative, which irregularly jumps back and forth from pre to post-trial, and delivers Wilde’s famous ‘‘curtain call’’ seemingly a little too early in the piece.
Likewise, the famous, tearinducing children’s story of the title feels a little too thinly spread across the running time to elicit the impact it should.
It’s an interesting, more sober counterpoint to 1997’s Stephen Fry-starring Wilde, but Happy Prince feels like more of a slog than it should be.
It’s a performance without vanity – the expected witty bon mots are mixed in with portraying the ‘‘selfinflicted wounds of a gluttonous slob’’.