Dorian Gray

Colin Firth, Ben Barnes, Rachel Hurd-Wood

“The problem with beauty is that it’s like being born rich and getting poorer.” – Joan Collins

Against Him, those women sin, who torment their skin with potions, stain their cheeks with rouge and extend the line of their eyes with black coloring. Doubtless they are dissatisfied with God's plastic skill. In their own persons they convict and censure the Artificer of all things. – Tertullian, one of the Christian church’s early leaders

Even though there are no laws against it, several of Michael Jackson’s doctors should be in jail playing tonsil hockey with their cellmate Bubba. I am not talking about the Dr. who injected him with sleepy juice. There are scrip jockeys everywhere and the popo kind of frown on that kind of thing. I am talking about the dudes who cut, injected, sliced and diced, and generally turned him into a circus freak. Any doctor should have been able to look at this 5’10, 112 pound man and know that something was just not right with him. The autopsy says it all. Skin bleached, numerous plastic surgical scars, his lips and forehead tattooed, and let’s not forget the collapsed nose.

Jackson’s doctors are not the only ones who should be put in handcuffs. Barry Manilow, Burt Reynolds, Billy Bob Thorton, Gary Busey, and Kenny Rogers all have a permanent surprised look on their faces. Janis Dickinson, Joan Rivers, Melanie Griffith, Priscilla Presley, and Victoria Beckham could scare small children. Meg Ryan was once America’s sweetheart and is now the bass lipped aunt that no one wants to talk about. Pamela Anderson’s breasts look like they should be floating over the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. While Paris Hilton could not spell rhinoplasty, she could pick a lock with her new botched nose. I still wake up, in the middle of the night, screaming as I remember her Franken-boob falling out of her dress on the red carpet. The skin on Michelle Pfeiffer’s face has been pulled so tight that you could bounce a quarter off of it. Shauna Sand’s face has all the range of a Kevin Costner’s greatest moments in acting DVD. Sylvester Stallone has so much plastic and so many chemicals in him that he would probably melt if he walked near an open flame. By the way, all you gals out there, nothing says sexy, like looking like you cut a basketball in half and glued it to your chest, like too many actress and centerfolds to mention.

We are living in a Dorian Gray world and you are just the ugly coat check girl or the guy handing out towels in the men’s room. The irony that is Hollywood and the movie industry is delicious. Tinseltown is supposed to be liberal central, but I am going to punch someone if I have to sit through another “family is wonderful” or “small town values are where it is at” crapfest. I already bought the t-shirt. Got it. A few years ago I was watching television with a friend of mine, when I turned and asked, “What happened to all the ugly people on television? The Darren McGavins, Jack Klugmans, Buddy Hacketts, Walter Matthaus, Ernest Borgnines of the world, guys, as the old joke goes, so ugly their mom tied pork chops around their necks so the dogs would play with them. The beefy guys and gals, if they had failed in LA, would have been your lunchroom lady or shop teacher. Southern California is filled with people more shallow than a kiddy wading pool in Munchkinland. How do I know this? As I am typing this from the West Coast, I am watching two bleach blonde bimbos discussing, for the last 30 minutes, whether Spinal Tap was a real documentary or not. Both seem to think it is. It is this shallowness that makes it ironic that this is the 24th time Oscar Wilde’s only novel has been made into a movie. The movie industry has been peppering audiences with this story every few years since 1910. There have been six incarnations of it in the last decade alone. It is kind of like a Mormon congregation holding Howard Stern night at the temple. (Howard: “I hope you are wearing your magic underwear because it is time to play lesbian butt bongo. Baba Booey. Baba Booey.”)

For those of you who were not forced to read the Cliff Notes in high school, or have lives unlike myself, “The Picture of Dorian Gray”, first published back in 1890, in Lippicott’s Monthly Magazine, is the story of a young man who is so beautiful that the artist painting his portrait, Basil Hallward, becomes infatuated with him and sees him as a muse for his art. (A 19th century homosexual reference here). Skip forward a little. Pretty boy Dorian finds himself in Basil’s garden talking to a gentleman named Lord Henry Wotton, a firm believer in the hedonistic lifestyle, i.e. beauty and fulfilling the desires and senses are the only things worthwhile. Dorian is enthralled by this philosophy of life, but suddenly realizes that one day his looks will fade. At that moment he cries out that he would gladly trade his soul to maintain his youth, that the only thing that would age would be the painting that Basil had painted of him. His wish is granted and the young man plunges into the passions of the flesh. It is a naked game of Twister the rest of his life. One little problem, with each sin, the portrait will grow more and more repugnant and gruesome, until it is as painful to look at as what the bikini wax girl sees on Rosie O’Donnell every Wednesday. Over the next eighteen years, Dorian gives into every kind of lust and vice possible. In other words, he is living the life of a Madonna music video. Of course things never work out like we plan and they do not for Dorian.

How do you know if this movie is for you? Simple. If you know the story already or you have more than one Merchant Ivory film in your DVD collection. If given the choice between a teenage sex comedy or an English melodrama with corsets and riding boots, and you chose the one starring Sir Anthony Hopkins and not a pastry, this is your flick. If you can name a Prince who did not sing “Purple Rain,” is named Albert, or a neighbor’s pet, you might want to think about penciling this puppy in. The problem is most people do not want to see something your English teacher would recommend, and I think the same could be said for this movie. I liked it, but I also know its audience.

We live in a youth obsessed culture. Hollywood is just a mirror that reflects what most of us want. There is something sad about a 40-year-old woman who wants to look 20. When an actress or actor lets a surgeon cut them or inject poisons into their skin to keep the illusion of youth, there is something sad about that. Youth is truly wasted on the young. Whether it is Madonna or Meg Ryan, there is something creepy about someone the age of your mother wanting to be seen as sexy. The problem is, instead of accepting age gracefully, our society treats it like the Indians and we are George Custer at his last stand. Instead, we should be happy if we find that one person that we can ask, “Will you love me when I am ugly, fat, and old?” They answer, “Of course I will.”

Verdict: A Nice Costume Piece