HOW DO YOU LIKE ME NOW?
On Tuesday afternoon, I watched The Libertine. TWICE.
Wednesday night, watched it again ( yay! Comcast OnDemand! ).
Last night, went out and bought the DVD. Stayed up all night watching it again and again and again.
The movie is amazing, although I do take exception to the premise. As an English major, I'd had some exposure to Rochester's writings and I developed an impression of the man completely at odds with the way he was presented in the movie.
This was a man who loved no one, least of all himself, and yet the plot revolves around the creation of Elizabeth Barry, one of Rochester's many lovers, as some great love of his life.
His relatively open bisexuality is given short shrift, only in hints and heated glances, a defect in the film that would have left me wondering as to the nature of the relationship if I did not already know the historical record. As it was, William Downs is dropped in and out of scenes as if he were little more than an extra, making the ending, when he helps Rochester escape the King's wrath and goes into hiding with him, seem unreliable. Not enough of a friendship is shown developing between them to account for this sort of dedication.
And when Downs is accidentally killed and lies on the cobblestones, bleeding out his life and crying for "Johnny," it makes even less sense.
Unless, of course, one interprets their relationship as one of lovers, rather than the peripheral sort of alliance shown in the film.
And, okay, granted . . . I admit it, the prurient part of me was hoping to see Rochester and Downs making out, because damn! Rupert Friend is a very pretty man. ( An aside: can you imagine, as a young, completely unknown actor, getting your very first role and learning you'll be snogging JOHNNY DEPP?!?!?!?!?! Holy cow! )
I don't think the scene ever made it to film, because I haven't been able to find it anywhere, and you know that someone, somewhere would have posted a clip of something juicy like that.
So I ordered the play on which the movie was based, and a couple of other books that seemed promising.
And, of course, I'm rewriting the story from Billy Downs' POV. As slash.
That thumping noise you hear? Yeah, that would be my forehead, meeting my desk. REPEATEDLY.
*****************************
William Downs had known much of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, long before he ever met the man.
There had been whispers ‘round school, giggles at home from serving maids and stable boys, once even a scurrilous pamphlet purportedly written by the earl himself.
It was said that Rochester was insatiable, a lover of both men and women, a scandalous debauchee and an avid practitioner of every sexual perversion known to God and man. He drank to excess daily, indulged in all manner of vice well past the point expected of a gentleman, and even, it was rumored, took to the stage in defiance of all rules of noble deportment.
In truth, the writing of plays could be forgiven, but to tread the boards oneself? It was simply not done.
Rochester was reputed to be fair of face and fine of body, as skilled in swordmanship and gaming as he was in poetry and seduction. Even the king loved him and forgave him his excesses with gifts and kisses.
William found much to admire in a man who cared so little for the opinions of others, and moreover, one whose wit and intelligence seemed unparalleled, a shining blade to slice through the tedium and pedantry of endless rounds of proscribed behavior.
It was simple to set his mind upon meeting this paragon of achievement.
When William completed his schooling at Kings and was sent to London to live for a season or two, as any young man of good breeding was expected to do before his wedding to an acceptable heiress, he immediately began a campaign of introduction that ultimately led to his inclusion into the Merry Gang and a social whirlwind the likes of which he had never known.
For all his planning and scheming, however, it was by merest chance that William at last spotted the earl in the street with his companions and followed him to the drapers.
He had hoped only to catch Rochester’s eye; he never expected to catch his fire.
For when John gazed upon him, William burned.
He was no novice to pleasures of the flesh, but never had he felt such passion . . . as though a word, a single breath might bring him to completion in his breeches like a boy not yet a man.
John’s hand upon his shoulder was cause for shudders of delight; his fingers brushing William’s cheek were rapture itself.
He might be innocent in the ways of sin between men, but desire was easily recognized, whether it be for cunt or cock, and William’s longing for John Wilmot grew with every deliberate touch, every heated glance, every carefully selected word that the man chose to send his way.
He could not understand this slow seduction, this inexorable stoking of his ardor. Was not Rochester famous for his conquests and his sexual exploits, as well-known for his unnatural lusts as for his political satire? Should he not then have set upon William like an animal, in a frenzy of teeth and nails, biting and bruising on his way to spending his pleasure?
For a man who denied himself nothing to refuse what was on offer, whilst seeming to covet it most clearly, was disconcerting at best.
****************************
I was inspired by this poem, which I read in undergrad but rediscovered while on a hunt for something slightly less scurrilous and satirical than Rochester's commonly known works.
I could love thee till I die,
Would'st thou love me modestly,
And ne'er press, whilst I live,
For more than willingly I would give:
Which should sufficient be to prove
I'd understand the art of love.
I hate the thing is called enjoyment:
Besides it is a dull employment,
It cuts off all that's life and fire
From that which may be termed desire;
Just like the bee whose sting is gone
Converts the owner to a drone.
I love a youth will give me leave
His body in my arms to wreathe;
To press him gently, and to kiss;
To sigh, and look with eyes that wish
For what, if I could once obtain,
I would neglect with flat disdain.
I'd give him liberty to toy
And play with me, and count it joy.
Our freedom should be full complete,
And nothing wanting but the feat.
Let's practice, then, and we shall prove
These are the only sweets of love.
And some tasty quotes to round out the post.
When I wake in the country, I dream of being in London. When I get here, it's full of people like you.
{ After hiring a known thief for a servant} If he turns honest after coming within my orbit, I am not the malicious planet I had hoped.
You must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. In my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: The stupid and the envious. The stupid will like you in five years' time. The envious, never.
I don't mean to upset people, but I must speak my mind. For what's in my mind is far more interesting than what's outside my mind.
Bit of a waste shooting good jism up the lawful!
Wednesday night, watched it again ( yay! Comcast OnDemand! ).
Last night, went out and bought the DVD. Stayed up all night watching it again and again and again.
The movie is amazing, although I do take exception to the premise. As an English major, I'd had some exposure to Rochester's writings and I developed an impression of the man completely at odds with the way he was presented in the movie.
This was a man who loved no one, least of all himself, and yet the plot revolves around the creation of Elizabeth Barry, one of Rochester's many lovers, as some great love of his life.
His relatively open bisexuality is given short shrift, only in hints and heated glances, a defect in the film that would have left me wondering as to the nature of the relationship if I did not already know the historical record. As it was, William Downs is dropped in and out of scenes as if he were little more than an extra, making the ending, when he helps Rochester escape the King's wrath and goes into hiding with him, seem unreliable. Not enough of a friendship is shown developing between them to account for this sort of dedication.
And when Downs is accidentally killed and lies on the cobblestones, bleeding out his life and crying for "Johnny," it makes even less sense.
Unless, of course, one interprets their relationship as one of lovers, rather than the peripheral sort of alliance shown in the film.
And, okay, granted . . . I admit it, the prurient part of me was hoping to see Rochester and Downs making out, because damn! Rupert Friend is a very pretty man. ( An aside: can you imagine, as a young, completely unknown actor, getting your very first role and learning you'll be snogging JOHNNY DEPP?!?!?!?!?! Holy cow! )
I don't think the scene ever made it to film, because I haven't been able to find it anywhere, and you know that someone, somewhere would have posted a clip of something juicy like that.
So I ordered the play on which the movie was based, and a couple of other books that seemed promising.
And, of course, I'm rewriting the story from Billy Downs' POV. As slash.
That thumping noise you hear? Yeah, that would be my forehead, meeting my desk. REPEATEDLY.
*****************************
William Downs had known much of John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, long before he ever met the man.
There had been whispers ‘round school, giggles at home from serving maids and stable boys, once even a scurrilous pamphlet purportedly written by the earl himself.
It was said that Rochester was insatiable, a lover of both men and women, a scandalous debauchee and an avid practitioner of every sexual perversion known to God and man. He drank to excess daily, indulged in all manner of vice well past the point expected of a gentleman, and even, it was rumored, took to the stage in defiance of all rules of noble deportment.
In truth, the writing of plays could be forgiven, but to tread the boards oneself? It was simply not done.
Rochester was reputed to be fair of face and fine of body, as skilled in swordmanship and gaming as he was in poetry and seduction. Even the king loved him and forgave him his excesses with gifts and kisses.
William found much to admire in a man who cared so little for the opinions of others, and moreover, one whose wit and intelligence seemed unparalleled, a shining blade to slice through the tedium and pedantry of endless rounds of proscribed behavior.
It was simple to set his mind upon meeting this paragon of achievement.
When William completed his schooling at Kings and was sent to London to live for a season or two, as any young man of good breeding was expected to do before his wedding to an acceptable heiress, he immediately began a campaign of introduction that ultimately led to his inclusion into the Merry Gang and a social whirlwind the likes of which he had never known.
For all his planning and scheming, however, it was by merest chance that William at last spotted the earl in the street with his companions and followed him to the drapers.
He had hoped only to catch Rochester’s eye; he never expected to catch his fire.
For when John gazed upon him, William burned.
He was no novice to pleasures of the flesh, but never had he felt such passion . . . as though a word, a single breath might bring him to completion in his breeches like a boy not yet a man.
John’s hand upon his shoulder was cause for shudders of delight; his fingers brushing William’s cheek were rapture itself.
He might be innocent in the ways of sin between men, but desire was easily recognized, whether it be for cunt or cock, and William’s longing for John Wilmot grew with every deliberate touch, every heated glance, every carefully selected word that the man chose to send his way.
He could not understand this slow seduction, this inexorable stoking of his ardor. Was not Rochester famous for his conquests and his sexual exploits, as well-known for his unnatural lusts as for his political satire? Should he not then have set upon William like an animal, in a frenzy of teeth and nails, biting and bruising on his way to spending his pleasure?
For a man who denied himself nothing to refuse what was on offer, whilst seeming to covet it most clearly, was disconcerting at best.
****************************
I was inspired by this poem, which I read in undergrad but rediscovered while on a hunt for something slightly less scurrilous and satirical than Rochester's commonly known works.
I could love thee till I die,
Would'st thou love me modestly,
And ne'er press, whilst I live,
For more than willingly I would give:
Which should sufficient be to prove
I'd understand the art of love.
I hate the thing is called enjoyment:
Besides it is a dull employment,
It cuts off all that's life and fire
From that which may be termed desire;
Just like the bee whose sting is gone
Converts the owner to a drone.
I love a youth will give me leave
His body in my arms to wreathe;
To press him gently, and to kiss;
To sigh, and look with eyes that wish
For what, if I could once obtain,
I would neglect with flat disdain.
I'd give him liberty to toy
And play with me, and count it joy.
Our freedom should be full complete,
And nothing wanting but the feat.
Let's practice, then, and we shall prove
These are the only sweets of love.
And some tasty quotes to round out the post.
When I wake in the country, I dream of being in London. When I get here, it's full of people like you.
{ After hiring a known thief for a servant} If he turns honest after coming within my orbit, I am not the malicious planet I had hoped.
You must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. In my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: The stupid and the envious. The stupid will like you in five years' time. The envious, never.
I don't mean to upset people, but I must speak my mind. For what's in my mind is far more interesting than what's outside my mind.
Bit of a waste shooting good jism up the lawful!