The Trials of Oscar Wilde

Handsomely crafted and adorned with a fittingly witty screenplay, The Trials of Oscar Wilde bears all the markings of a prestige picture for its era. Hughes tracks Wilde's fall from grace and legal torture in the late nineteenth century as he was tried and sentenced for sodomy at the height of his fame. The legacy of Wilde's work at this point is almost completely inextricable from his homosexuality yet censorship laws and general social unease leads this film to pull a lot of its punches, never once referring to "homosexuality" or "queer" or "gay" in its script and instead adopting somewhat vague allusions. There's also a reassurance that Wilde does in fact love his wife as a man should and that much of this hullabaloo is the work of a vindictive, crazed father. More so, the engine putters out almost completely before the end as we get further involved in the trials, which is confusing as that would seemingly be the most exciting part of the story or at least one that would lead to more passionate moments than a singular strong cross-examination between Finch's Wilde and a scene-stealing Mason's Carson. Still, there's plenty to at least admire in this film even if it doesn't leap off the screen. For one, the production and costume design are well-crafted, lending an upper-class Victorian elegance to the visuals. Arguably the biggest selling point of the film is Peter Finch's performance as Oscar Wilde where he is equally captivating while casually tossing out sharp witticisms as he is crushed by an unforgiving justice system and social judgment. A perfect film to catch if it's on TCM one afternoon but I don't think there's much else to make me say you need to seek it out.

Handsomely crafted and adorned with a fittingly witty screenplay, The Trials of Oscar Wilde bears all the markings of a prestige picture for its era. Hughes tracks Wilde's fall from grace and legal torture in the late nineteenth century as he was tried and sentenced for sodomy at the height of his fame. The legacy of Wilde's work at this point is almost completely inextricable from his homosexuality yet censorship laws and general social unease leads this film to pull a lot of its punches, never once referring to "homosexuality" or "queer" or "gay" in its script and instead adopting somewhat vague allusions. There's also a reassurance that Wilde does in fact love his wife as a man should and that much of this hullabaloo is the work of a vindictive, crazed father. More so, the engine putters out almost completely before the end as we get further involved in the trials, which is confusing as that would seemingly be the most exciting part of the story or at least one that would lead to more passionate moments than a singular strong cross-examination between Finch's Wilde and a scene-stealing Mason's Carson. Still, there's plenty to at least admire in this film even if it doesn't leap off the screen. For one, the production and costume design are well-crafted, lending an upper-class Victorian elegance to the visuals. Arguably the biggest selling point of the film is Peter Finch's performance as Oscar Wilde where he is equally captivating while casually tossing out sharp witticisms as he is crushed by an unforgiving justice system and social judgment. A perfect film to catch if it's on TCM one afternoon but I don't think there's much else to make me say you need to seek it out.

I vaguely remember first stumbling into Oscar Wilde. I was astounded by the wit, the honesty, the power. I keep a dusty book of his plays in my room, maybe it’s time I reread it.

It’s moments like this that I am proud to have majored in English. There’s the pompous and pretentious side of it all — knowing, reading, dissecting, and rereading the classics (a never ending process, much like a trial-and-error of sorts).

But, really, what I adore most about it is this longing for and this observance of life and love shown throughout the years. It’s beautiful and humbling. It’s learning that there are so many ways to read the world; there are so many ways to spread a message. Nothing is real, and I keep my peace knowing this.

I vaguely remember first stumbling into Oscar Wilde. I was astounded by the wit, the honesty, the power. I keep a dusty book of his plays in my room, maybe it’s time I reread it.

It’s moments like this that I am proud to have majored in English. There’s the pompous and pretentious side of it all — knowing, reading, dissecting, and rereading the classics (a never ending process, much like a trial-and-error of sorts).

But, really, what I adore most about it is this longing for and this observance of life and love shown throughout the years. It’s beautiful and humbling. It’s learning that there are so many ways to read the world; there are so many ways to spread a message. Nothing is real, and I keep my peace knowing this.