Marital life among the aristocratic elite of British society one hundred and thirty odd years ago. Pathetic and melodramatic, but the melodramatic that creates no empathy at all. What's surprising is that Oscar Wilde condescended - for monetary reasons probably - to write such a play, apart from the fact that the aristocratic elite is going to love it because it makes them moral and even human. Mind you, pay attention to the intricacy of the situation. There is no plot, just an intricate situation. Lady Windermere, an orphan in a way who was abandoned by her mother though she was told, and she believed, she died shortly after her birth. She is married to a very rich Lord. A strange woman, meaning a woman whose circumstances are totally unknown of everyone, comes up and she is taken care of by Lord Windermere, which brings up some gossip about his marriage. We know from the very start it is not true and there must be some secret that has to do with Lady Windermere, and sure enough, it will be revealed she is Lady Windermere's mother, right at the end and in total secrecy since only Lord Windermere is in the know.
The peripeteias of the story are trite and entirely based on the imbroglio created by gossip versus blackmail versus revelation versus secrecy. I am sure that the little dog of Chopin's famous waltz has lost his tail in his chase by now. Luckily it is rather perfectly well acted in a beautiful real natural, though mostly made of stone and brick, setting. But what is left after the whole story?
Women are wicked for sure but there is always a good spot somewhere, no matter how evil they may be. In the same way, women are good for sure but there is always a wicked spot somewhere, no matter how good they may be. But we can say exactly the same thing about men, and the whole rigmarole turns around and around like a Merry-go-round in a funfair. Has Oscar Wilde aged? For sure my dear, for sure. He has aged a lot and the dandy of his days has become the ghost of a dandy haunting the opera of our life.
The only thing that is left at the end is that all men and women have secrets and that they all lie when necessary, in the name of their greed, or in the name of their honor, or even in the name of their ethical goodness. Love is the most transient situation that lasts as long as necessary for some advantage in life to be conquered, be it some wealth, or be it a son or a daughter. Apart from that, love is permanent treachery and the truth is that love is blind and has to be as blind as an alley that rhymes with cul-de-sac.
In this play, there are a lot of mottos hammered into us by the setting, the acting, the directing, the music too, and of course the mise-en-abyme that is such a charm in Hollywood. But we are here at the BBC! Sure! Is there a difference between the BBC and Walt Disney? Of course not, and I am sure Steven Spielberg would be flattered to be compared to the BBC. But that does not add one gram of weight and one-eighth of an inch of depth to the play that is just quaint and entertaining, because quaint mainly.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU
The peripeteias of the story are trite and entirely based on the imbroglio created by gossip versus blackmail versus revelation versus secrecy. I am sure that the little dog of Chopin's famous waltz has lost his tail in his chase by now. Luckily it is rather perfectly well acted in a beautiful real natural, though mostly made of stone and brick, setting. But what is left after the whole story?
Women are wicked for sure but there is always a good spot somewhere, no matter how evil they may be. In the same way, women are good for sure but there is always a wicked spot somewhere, no matter how good they may be. But we can say exactly the same thing about men, and the whole rigmarole turns around and around like a Merry-go-round in a funfair. Has Oscar Wilde aged? For sure my dear, for sure. He has aged a lot and the dandy of his days has become the ghost of a dandy haunting the opera of our life.
The only thing that is left at the end is that all men and women have secrets and that they all lie when necessary, in the name of their greed, or in the name of their honor, or even in the name of their ethical goodness. Love is the most transient situation that lasts as long as necessary for some advantage in life to be conquered, be it some wealth, or be it a son or a daughter. Apart from that, love is permanent treachery and the truth is that love is blind and has to be as blind as an alley that rhymes with cul-de-sac.
In this play, there are a lot of mottos hammered into us by the setting, the acting, the directing, the music too, and of course the mise-en-abyme that is such a charm in Hollywood. But we are here at the BBC! Sure! Is there a difference between the BBC and Walt Disney? Of course not, and I am sure Steven Spielberg would be flattered to be compared to the BBC. But that does not add one gram of weight and one-eighth of an inch of depth to the play that is just quaint and entertaining, because quaint mainly.
Dr. Jacques COULARDEAU