Wilde (or, How To Succeed At Homosexuality Without Really Trying!)

I have never made secret of the fact that I'd shag Stephen Fry. I don't know what it is. Brains are sexy.

What I love about Wilde is that even that Stephen Fry is nothing like Stephen Fry when he is playing our green carnation sporting hero, there is still a sense that he is still himself. That sounds confusing, I know. What I am trying to say is that Fry so inhabits Wilde that you don't think of Fry but when you take a second look, you realise that there is not really all that much difference going on. In many respects they are two petals on the same rose.

Wilde lived in an age when homogaysexuality was not considered a "lifestyle" and Fry's performance portrays that beautifully. he is simply a aesthete, a walking social commentary who can't help himself. He is a figure to be pitied but only in the respect that he didn't know when to tell the wrong people to fuck off. Then, who could tell Jude Law to leave, especially when he is doing his petulant aristocrat act.

Wilde is a beautifully realised film, thanks in no small part to the flawless performances. Ehle, Redgrave, Law, Wilkinson, Wanamaker, they are all played to the nines.

And, almost ten years on, they still haven't released the album Jude Law Murders Gilbert and Sullivan. They don't know a marketing opportunity even when it is square in their face.