In the 1945 American film, The Picture of Dorian Gray, adapted from Oscar Wilde’s first and only novel, first published in Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine in June of 1890, a young wealthy British aristocrat by the name of Dorian Gray makes a Faustian deal with an Egyptian god for eternal youth while his portrait, created by the artist Basil Hallward, bares the weight of time and of his sins. Gray, encouraged by the ever incorrigible Lord Henry Wotton, an old friend of Hallward’s, and the enchantment of a seemingly consequence-free life, begins to weave an intricate web of lies, death, and ruin about him, all for the sake of taking life for all of the pleasures it has to offer. With each new cruelty, however, the young man’s portrait twists with evil until, over the span of nearly two decades, it becomes a horrible decrepit old man. Gray looks on with fascination at the deterioration of his own soul until somewhere along the way he tires of the perverse form that his life has taken; and perhaps partially spurred by the untainted love of his fiancé, Gladys Hallward, Basil’s niece, he decides to undo the damage has been done unto his soul. Dorian destroys the portrait, unwittingly ending his own life in the process. A few good deeds in the end, it seems, are not enough to redeem a lifetime of evil.
The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, sold, and bartered away. Gray was not poisoned by his portrait, nor was his conduct the fault of Lord Wotton’s amoral influences, for one cannot influence what is not already there. The film contains a plethora of themes; such as, appearance vs. reality, the corruption of decadence, and the question of the human condition and the reality of the soul, but perhaps the foremost subject discussed is the importance of art in society. As Lord Henry Wotton declares in Oscar Wilde’s novel: “The books that the world calls immoral are the books that show the world its own shame”; and such is the case with all art (455). A painting, a book, a song, or perhaps even a flower arrangement reflects the desires and thoughts of not only who it is being made for or of, but also the innermost self of the artist. Basil Hallward brings this fact to the audience’s attention by adamantly refusing to exhibit Gray’s portrait because he feels that he has imbued into it too much of himself. A portrait is not just a picture of the sitter, but a portrait of the artist himself as well. This is the importance of the soul residing within the body instead of without. We do not have to stare our mistakes in the eye, the hell within each one of us, every day. We are not tethered to a locked door in the uppermost corners of our house for fear of the discovery of our true selves. Our memories, shameful and redeeming, are carried within, arguably under our control, to be summoned and faced at will.
The scene that I found to be most striking in the film occurred very early on when Lord Henry Wotton first met Gray in Hallward’s studio during a sitting for his portrait. While spinning his usual scandalous yarn of opinions, Lord Wotton takes notice of a butterfly that has perched upon the terrace curtains. His first attempt to catch the insect fails; however, after stalking it for a time, he finally brings his hat down over it on a drawing table. Filled with what appears to be some sort of liquor, he places a small dish within the insect’s enclosure. All the while, Gray’s face is shown intermittently, filled with ecstasy and wonder at the quiet torrent of Lord Wotton’s words. The hat is soon returned to Wotton’s head, and the butterfly, presumably in want of water, has fallen into the shallow pool of liquid, fluttering helplessly as Wotton watches it perish with a removed curiosity. The music grows ever more intense, Gray’s enthralled face and the dying butterfly fading in and out together, quickly and rhythmically, pulsating. This scene is a powerful and none too subtle foreshadowing of Gray’s fate and his relationship with Lord Wotton. One may show a horse to water, but it cannot be made to drink. And just as its thirst is its own responsibility, it is not anyone else’s if it happens to fall in and drown. The spectacle reminded me aptly of Gray’s primary reaction to Wotton’s words in the novel; “Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what subtle magic there was in them…Was there anything so real as words?” (42). It is a moment of pure enchantment, of a door opening and closing, a potent barb of ruin.
The soul is a terrible reality. It can be bought, sold, and bartered away. Gray was not poisoned by his portrait, nor was his conduct the fault of Lord Wotton’s amoral influences, for one cannot influence what is not already there. The film contains a plethora of themes; such as, appearance vs. reality, the corruption of decadence, and the question of the human condition and the reality of the soul, but perhaps the foremost subject discussed is the importance of art in society. As Lord Henry Wotton declares in Oscar Wilde’s novel: “The books that the world calls immoral are the books that show the world its own shame”; and such is the case with all art (455). A painting, a book, a song, or perhaps even a flower arrangement reflects the desires and thoughts of not only who it is being made for or of, but also the innermost self of the artist. Basil Hallward brings this fact to the audience’s attention by adamantly refusing to exhibit Gray’s portrait because he feels that he has imbued into it too much of himself. A portrait is not just a picture of the sitter, but a portrait of the artist himself as well. This is the importance of the soul residing within the body instead of without. We do not have to stare our mistakes in the eye, the hell within each one of us, every day. We are not tethered to a locked door in the uppermost corners of our house for fear of the discovery of our true selves. Our memories, shameful and redeeming, are carried within, arguably under our control, to be summoned and faced at will.
The scene that I found to be most striking in the film occurred very early on when Lord Henry Wotton first met Gray in Hallward’s studio during a sitting for his portrait. While spinning his usual scandalous yarn of opinions, Lord Wotton takes notice of a butterfly that has perched upon the terrace curtains. His first attempt to catch the insect fails; however, after stalking it for a time, he finally brings his hat down over it on a drawing table. Filled with what appears to be some sort of liquor, he places a small dish within the insect’s enclosure. All the while, Gray’s face is shown intermittently, filled with ecstasy and wonder at the quiet torrent of Lord Wotton’s words. The hat is soon returned to Wotton’s head, and the butterfly, presumably in want of water, has fallen into the shallow pool of liquid, fluttering helplessly as Wotton watches it perish with a removed curiosity. The music grows ever more intense, Gray’s enthralled face and the dying butterfly fading in and out together, quickly and rhythmically, pulsating. This scene is a powerful and none too subtle foreshadowing of Gray’s fate and his relationship with Lord Wotton. One may show a horse to water, but it cannot be made to drink. And just as its thirst is its own responsibility, it is not anyone else’s if it happens to fall in and drown. The spectacle reminded me aptly of Gray’s primary reaction to Wotton’s words in the novel; “Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what subtle magic there was in them…Was there anything so real as words?” (42). It is a moment of pure enchantment, of a door opening and closing, a potent barb of ruin.
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