The annual Dublin Theatre Festival ended last week. Trying to get tickets in advance at the student price is essentially impossible. After a four hour bus ride from Cork, a night it a dingy hostel with the word “Paddy” in its title, and few nervous phone calls later, a friend and I secured two tickets to The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, adapted to stage and directed by Neil Bartlett – and performed at the Abbey! We were ecstatic. Two fools had abandoned their seats to the matinée; we swooped in like proper cultural vultures.
It had been years since I have read Wilde’s novel. It is, I believe, his only novel; a quick search on Wikipedia does not clarify by passing curiosity. I was excited to see the show.
Now, simply being in the Abbey was quite an event for me. I had read that Yeats had helped open the theatre; his play and many of Synge’s were performed there. To be in the old building which once staged two Irish greats was quite impressive, and now we were to see a new adaptation of a novel originally written by a theatrical master in his time.
The notion of time kept entering my mind.
It took quite a bit of time to gets seats. We were completely uncertain throughout the night whether our trip over was a complete loss. Had we spent so much money and time to simply have to return home without seeing a play? We were frustrated.
Finally, the play began. It was astounding. The stage was simple. The portrait occupied the largest space of the stage. Various characters moved on and off stage. Each member that sang or dance in the chorus moved with remarkable precision. A theatrical machine had been switched on when we sat down and the lights dimmed. All was grand and sublime.
Lord Henry Wotton kisses Dorian Gray.
What? I didn’t remember that from the novel. I am not shocked by the suggested homosexuality. Seriously, it’s the twenty-first century! I am shocked that a nineteenth century novel has been “updated.” I wasn’t sure if it was an update at all but an artist’s interpretation that unsettled me — but why? Homophobia? That was highly doubtful.
The play moved along wonderfully. There was a technical difficulty with the portrait at the end when Dorian tried to walk through, thus appearing as his actual age. My companion and I thoroughly enjoyed the entire production. I would see it again, but there was that one moment that left me unsure. It was a minor hiccup of the play, so it did not enter my mind much at all until some part of my brain worked out what bothered me about the whole event: art and artist.
The decision to have Lord Henry Wotton kiss Dorian Gray was the adapter trying to mix Oscar Wilde, the creator, with the characters of the novel, his creation. The assumption was that Wilde would have done so if the times he lived in weren’t so hostile to his lifestyle. There is no way of knowing that. To say that an artist is his or her art would be absurd. An artist creates. The creation is not necessarily a reflection of his or her tastes or orientation.
Whether Wilde would approve the adaptation is irrelevant. What I found interesting about the adaptation was that Wilde’s own life was inserted into his work of fiction by a person who was being socially and politically correct for his time.
Time again.
I just wonder if Wilde’s story about the unwillingness of a person to age had anything to do with Wilde’s sexual orientation, or is it just a needless distraction from the story. Did Wilde’s time prevent him from including his sexuality in the novel or was it a decision made by him as an artist? I am all for respecting a person as they are and how they were born. I suppose I feel the same way about art – or at least enough to write a blog about it.
Reflections on Modernities: 