This Modern Day Telling of Oscar Wilde's Celebrated Work "The Picture of Dorian Gray" Is Sensual, Stimulating, Daring, Homoerotic and Decadent

 By James V. Ruocco

"Dorian was a very special person to me. What happened to him was just tragic."

Originally published in serial form for "Lippincott's Monthly Magazine" back in 1890 and then as a novel the following year, "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde,  embodies 19th century narcissism, decadence and obsession as it collectively portrays the loss of youth, the corruption of the mind, the descent of moral degradation and the perversion of ethics, self-indulgence and influence as seen through the eyes of the title character.

A fascinating work infused with weight, detail and veracity, the novel is a towering achievement as forceful and demanding as it is chilling, eerie and wildly inventive. It also contains the signature wit, flamboyance, energy and incandescent dazzle Wilde was famous for.

The story itself pinpoints the cryptic journey of the title character who, after admiring a full-length portrait of himself, sells his soul for the right price and remains forever young while the actual portrait ages and records every sin and every poisonous act he commits with an ugliness from which there is no escape.

"The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul."

In the Barn Theatre's modern take (this adaptation was written by Henry Fillous-Bennett), on Wilde's prolific fantasy fable, co-produced with the Oxford Playhouse, the New Wolsey Theatre, the Lawrence Batley Theatre and the Theatr Clwyd, "The Picture of Dorian Gray" is set in 2021 right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic and a world where social media is the name of the game - ugly, straightforward, grounded, loud, obsessive and shameful.

The big question: By abandoning the Victorian setting and mindset of the original novel, does this production actually work?
You bet it does.

Ambitious.
Reflective.
Homoerotic.
Immediate.
Truthful.
Radical.

The Faustian-like undercurrents and conceptualization of this fascinating new work not only give it the bite, sting, shock and purpose it deserves, but shrewdly frame the artistic ground and stratum of the presentation with compelling observation, style and illumination. To miss it would be the ultimate original sin. 

Written by Henry Fillous-Bennett, "The Picture of Dorian Gray" evokes recognition and timeless essence as it moves through our minds, scene by scene with a rawness, honesty and consciousness that serves the material well. Immediately, we are thrust into the story, so much so that it's impossible to look away. Bennett, in turn, offers thoughts, conversations, musings and arguments weighted by language that is skillful and imaginative.
It's a potent mix of this and that with storytelling that reflects and respects Wilde's conceit, his quandaries, his decadence and  his preoccupation with both heterosexual and same sex couplings. Oddly, there is no physical painting of Dorian, but Bennett has other ideas that enhance the character's advancement, his ugliness and the decaying of his soul, mind and body, which eventually lead to his death. It's a creative progress that is well worked and well thought out.

"There are many things that we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up."

"The Picture of Dorian Gray" is being staged by Tamara Harvey whose directorial credits include Tim Rice's "From Here to Eternity: The Musical," "Uncle Vanya," "Educating Rita," "Pilgrims," "Closer," "Breeders" and "Dancing at Lughnasa." An intuitive director whose fresh take on theatre is fraught with truth, nuance and opportunity, Harvey charts Dorian Gray's descent into darkness with invention, fervor, vibrance and capability. She always knows what buttons to push and push them she does. 

As director, she takes chances and runs with them. She surprises, cajoles and shocks. She slaps you in the face and gets you all riled up. She kicks you in the ass. She pushes you over the edge. She messes with your mind. She catches you off guard. She turns you upside down. She entertains. She keeps you guessing. She grabs you by the throat with her crafty interventions. And then there are times, when you never quite know what she's thinking, a conceit that heightens both the theatrical experience at hand, it's interplay, the drama and its storyboard of ideas, thoughts and confessions.

But she doesn't stop there. Working side by side with her crew of camera operators and editors including Benjamin Collins (director of photography), she creates a wild, staggering portrait (no, pun intended) that preys upon and rips apart social media, its obsessions, its egocentrics, its mind games and its tempting, provocative allure. It's all very much in the moment: selfies, Zoom, flashbacks, documentary style interviews, texts, clicks, chats, tweets, artsy edits and camera trickery, flirtations, sexual interplay, split screens, likes, dislikes, numbers, etc. That said, it's all smartly controlled and edited with a voyeuristic style and propulsion that draws you in immediately and keeps you there until its savvy, justified conclusion.

"I don't want to be at the mercy of my emotions. I want to use them, to enjoy them, and to dominate them."

"The Picture of Dorian Gray" stars Fionn Whitehead as Dorian Gray, Joanna Lumley as Lady Narborough, Alfred Enoch as Harry Wotton, Emma McDonald as Sibil Vane, Russell Tovey as Basil Hallward and Stephen Fry as the Interviewer. 

Fionn Whitehead plays the pivotal role of the narcissistic, bisexual Dorian Gray (in this telling, he is intrigued by both men and women) with a chilling rage and eerie calm and numbness that is exactly right for the character. He is sexy. He is charming. He is personable. He is real. He also makes Dorian's obsession with social media - in this case, his YouTube channel - a dominant factor in his life, which, in turn, works especially well, given the production's documentary-like influences and elasticity. They don't get any better than Joanna Lumley, cast in the part of Lady Narborough, Dorian's most ardent admirer and friend who spends a great deal of time on camera being interviewed by Fry's character. It's a polished, mannered performance that intrigues and fascinates in true social media fashion.
As Henty Wotton, the aristocratic antagonist of the story, Alfred Enoch intrigues, preys, flirts and seduces with apparent innovation and purpose. Emma McDonald, in the role of actress Sibil Vane, aptly projects the insecurity, angst and vulnerability of a young woman pushed to the brink of suicide once she discovers that Dorian no longer loves her. Russell Tovey, as Basil Hallward, the artist obsessed with Dorian, offers a completely plausible performance, marvelously conveying the character's infatuation, pent-up desires and anxiety. As the Interviewer, Stephen Fry's investigative line of questioning makes his otherwise brief screen time completely memorable.

Clever, intriguing and digitally connected, "The Picture of Dorian Gray" is an ambitious, collaborative effort that pays homage to Oscar Wilde's original story, its flamboyance, its engagement and its iconic madness, It is one of the UK's finest theatrical achievements hitting highs with its artistic savviness, its willfully perfect direction, its multi-layered performances and its highly credible glimpse of life during the pandemic as time marches on with uncontrolled mania and uncertainty.

"Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had known how to laugh, history would have been different."

 "The Picture of Dorian Gray" can be streamed online, now through April 17, 2021. Tickets are £12.  To book the production, go to barntheatre.org.uk. Once you purchase your ticket, you will receive a booking confirmation that includes your screening link. It is active from the date you book the production for viewing and will expire after 48 hours.

 

Original Theatre's Thrilling Production of "Barnes' People" Gives Voice to the Late Playwright's Quartet of Liberating, Intriguing, Observant, Darkly Comic Monologues

 By James V. Ruocco

The works of Olivier award-winning playwright Peter Barnes ("The Ruling Class," "Red Noses," "The Bewitched," "The Candlemaker") are intellectually ambitious, filled with gravity, grace, persona, angst and clawing desperation and disenchantment. If we care - and yes, we do - it's because Barnes has established a confident voice mixed with just the right amount of curiosity, bafflement, intelligence and cruel emotion.
Moreover, he is an observant writer unafraid to express himself through dialogue and conversations that toy with our senses, force us to listen attentively and purposely shake us up in articulate, driving and attention-grabbing ways.

With his stage plays, he establishes a viable pulse between the actors, the audience and himself that allows him to get the message across, let the emotions get inside our heads and more importantly, establish a profound affect, mixed with words that unfold with passion, remarkable force, presumption and vulnerability.

"Barnes' People," an intoxicating mix of four individual monologues, only furthers that notion. Presented by the Original Theatre Company and Perfectly Normal Productions, this superbly crafted theatre piece is an original, confidant showcase of talent, hair-raising delirium, hypotheticals, indulgences and marvelously orchestrated intelligence. 
The ultimate result, of course, is that everyone suffers. Everyone has secrets that need to be explored and uncorked. Everyone has something to lose. Everyone has opportunity. It's also no fluke that everyone wants to prove that he or she is special despite their complicated agenda.

Powerful.
Extraordinary.
Persuasive.
Observant.
Moody.
Intriguing.

The play, filmed entirely at Windsor's plushy Theatre Royal (I want that chandelier), is both timely and powerfully poetic. It is easily one of the UK's best dramatic works of 2021 and one that stands on its own ground in much the same way as Alan Bennett's "Talking Heads," Brian Friel's "Faith Healer" and Conor McPherson's "Port Authority."

"A True Born Englishman."

"If people know your secret, they're stealing something from you, aren't they? Keep your mouth shut is my motto. Better still, ask somebody to keep it shut for you."

In "A True Born Englishman," Adrian Scarborough plays Leslie Bray, a Head Footman and Keeper of the First Door at Buckingham Palace, a position he has held for 25 years. Hired first as a Third Door Opener, Bray's employment at the Palace of Queen Elizabeth II is one filled with a lifetime of closely guarded secrets, protocols and traditions, social prestige, poor pay, odd Christmas holiday gift giving,  upholding the dignity of the crown and very strict rules and regulations which include precisely timed acumen when dealing with the Queen and never looking directly into the eyes of the Royal Family when speaking to them.

First and foremost, this is an entertaining, glorious work that kicks "Barnes' People" into high gear. It is never malicious, gossipy or outrageously perverse. Instead, Barnes offers an inside look at the Palace as orchestrated by one of its loyal and most respected employees. There are some snappy zingers and one-liners. Lots of cheeky, observational humor. And plenty of inspired dialogue chock full of spontaneity, tailored navigation and natural, tea-sipping conversation.

Director Philip Franks steeps himself in the humor, voice and aesthetics set forth by Barnes. He wants us to feel the play's genuine, scripted moments, which we do. He wants us to care about and appreciate Bray's words, compulsions and influences. Working alongside cinematographer Tristan Shepherd, he crafts a most satisfying work that seizes our attention with magnificent emotion, nuance and subtlety.

Perfectly cast as Lesley Bray, Adrian Scarborough increases our willingness to believe with a mesmerizing performance of truths, connections, modulated activity and raw, often chatty communication. An actor with extraordinary range and stage presence, he has researched the material well (make no mistake about it; he's the real deal), bringing immediate punch and brevity to the piece along with an air of nostalgia and bluster perfectly in sync with the playwright's storytelling techniques, characterization and narrative uniqueness.

"Rosa"

Dr. Rosa Hamilton works with old people institutionalized, on the brink of death in unkempt care homes or those who have become a complete burden to their families. Overworked and tired of being surrounded by death and decay, she is desperate, full of self doubt and more importantly, contemplating whether or not to resign from the four residential homes she manages in London's East End ("waiting rooms for death," we are told)  and the 600 patients who have become her responsibility.

To carry on, she pours ample doses of Scotch into her "Keep Calm and Carry On" coffee mug whenever she feels down and depressed. She fights the system with cynicism and anger. She argues endlessly with the bureaucracy and ploughs daily through the piles of paper and files that sit on her messy, unorganized desk.

As developed by Barnes, there's a sense of despair, control and revelation to "Rosa" which the playwright develops with that kind of theatrical storytelling that gets under your skin, grabs you by the throat, keeps you generously engaged and kicks you in the ass. Peppered with sarcasm, humor and truthfulness, his choice of language and wordplay is tough and engaging, hitting all the right chords, beats, pauses and structures. "Rosa" is finely honed and developed. You're hooked and unable to look away. You can't help but wonder what the next page or two has in store for you. And when it is finally over, you are more than satisfied with Barnes and his master plan for an honest, riveting monologue.

Directing "Rosa," Philip Franks captures and portrays the emotional wounds of Dr. Hamilton with a one-on-one authority that lets us inside her world to experience the tremendous ache she carries with undiluted resonance, mystery, reflection and regret. He knows exactly what he wants and runs with it. Choice editing and cinematography by Tristan Shepherd keeps the mood raw and stimulating, a conceit that gives this interpretation perspective, landscape and lingering self-absorption.

Rosa, as played by Jemma Redgrave, portrays her character's anguish, misgivings, options, proudness and darkness as naturally as life itself. She is in complete control as she tackles words and dialogue that keep changing shape depending on the moment or scene arc in the story. She takes chances. She is a master interpreter. She knows how to play and develop a scene without the slightest hesitation. She becomes the character and runs with it rather than just acting out a part.
What's amazing about "Rosa" is the perceptive richness and observance she brings to the project. Her direct eye contact with the camera, her body language and her inspired unpredictability is incredibly moving. Moreover, she knows the details of what's going on here, the transition from play text to stage performance and the razor-sharp edge necessary to make the material fly.

"Billy and Me"

"Little Billy Barton is only a dummy," we are told.

But is this puppet, made entirely from a block of wood, in complete control of Michael Jennings, his ventriloquist stage partner of 25 years? Or has Jennings, a man who has lost his grip on reality, on the verge of yet another emotional breakdown?

The empty auditorium of the Theatre Royal lends itself nicely to this disturbing yet assertive monologue that frames Jennings' moods, his frequent bouts with diagnosed schizophrenia and his definitive eclipse into the minds and hearts of his puppets - Billy, the Major, Uncle O' Pat and Aunt Agnes. It's a feat that Jon Culshaw tackles with unflinching agony, well-placed depiction and an uncanny sense of real darkness and edge. Voicing all four puppets with raw credulousness, the actor is completely lost in the moment, reciting important dialogue that rings true in chilling, incredibly bleak, unhealthy fashion.

Staging "Billy and Me," aided by Tristan Shepherd's moody camera work and edits (his close ups and reaction shots of the puppets are appropriately spine-chilling), director Charlotte Peters delivers a complex, ingenious portrait of a doomed puppeteer and his dummies. Her approach, like others before her, is deceptively simple. Here, she gives Culshaw apt direction, allowing him to speak directly into the camera, thus, displaying his troubled plight in both surprising, eerie and truthful ways. She also allows Shepherd's camera to roam about casually when framing the action from an actor/audience perspective or backstage in the wings. It's a creative process that works especially well and one that heightens the drama and angst of Barnes' play text.  

"Losing Myself" 

In "Losing Myself," Michael Kelly plays Adams, a desperate but kind hearted man who has lost his own voice, his faith, his ideals and his hope. Seated on a bench at Cramer Street Cemetery, a dirty, run-down stretch of land about to be redeveloped, he chats openly with his friend Maurice Baker, a man who died back in 1950.

As playwright, Barnes fuels the fire with a heady mix of truths, misery, straightforwardness, humor and revelatory outpouring. In turn, his natterings unfold with impact, confidence and dramaturgical relish and give Kelly the perfect fodder to sink his teeth into.

Director Philip Franks lets Kelly soar with wryness and unquiet spirit, a task the actor - so natural and so at ease - greets with empathy and matched perfection. At the same time, Franks doesn't miss a beat. He lets the details of the story make their mark with tremendous urgency and reality. Tristan Shepherd's cinematography and editing is again showcased with direct-to-camera ability and acknowledgement, thus giving Kelly the chance to mold and create a vivid, noteworthy performance, played out against the backdrop of the Theatre Royal, the ideal stomping ground for Barnes' candid, character driven exploration.

"Barnes' People," presented by the Original Theatre Company and Perfectly Normal Productions, is streaming online, now through July 31, 2021.  Tickets to each segment are £10 and £12.50 (includes digital programme). Tickets to the entire 4-part series are £30 and £32.50 (includes digital programme). For paid and free content, you must register and create an online account. Once you are logged in, you can watch and purchase the production.

You can view "Barnes' People" on any device with an internet connection and browser. To do this, just enter the URL - originaltheatreonline.com/login - and submit the details you have been given above.