Wilde is an awful movie. I can’t stop watching it.
Wilde over and over and over again. Not because it’s good (it’s not) and not because I like it (I don’t!) but because something about it is extraordinarily soothing.
I guess there’s nothing that puts your own pain in perspective like a bad movie about Oscar Wilde’s life, which was, in itself, a kind of trash fire.
But Wilde does even the Wilde tragedy one better: it’s at once a cautionary tale, a forbidden romance, and a piece of unabashed camp.
And yes, you get to see a young Jude Law’s ass a fair amount of times, so there’s that. But mainly, it’s an extremely sappy movie that casts Wilde as a tortured, penitent lover of men who only starts enjoying a gay lifestyle at the age of 40, after his marriage to Constance Wilde and the birth of his two sons Cyril and Vyvyan.
