In 1997, Brian Gilbert directed a sort-of biopic on Oscar Wilde, which you may not recall because a little ol' movie by the name of Titanic dominated the hearts, minds and credit cards of Wilde's intended target audience-- women ages 18-44, and gay men the world over.
I call the film a "sort-of biopic" because the focus is largely on Wilde's homosexuality (a point drilled into us about a quarter in, when David noted that we were on semi-explicit love scene #3), leaving the complexities and nuances of his working life as mere plot fillers for lag time.*
In fact, a viewer unfamiliar with the writer may walk away from the film forgetting the fact in lieu of the oh-so-more-juicy events surrounding The Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name. Yes, his work is mentioned; theaters feature his plays in the background; Constance reads his stories to their children; but the only time we actually witness Oscar writing is in one scene, a truly incredible scene (maybe the scene that made the film worth seeing) when Lord Alfred Douglas decides he is bored with Oscar's frugality and throws a hissy fit that is just so, to put it mildly, delicious:
"You're always so vulgar! No gentleman ever knows what his bank account is!" the very young and very convincing Jude Law screams, right before he runs from the house with abandon-- spit flying, arms flapping like some maladroit bird attempting a first flight. Child-like at vocal pitches maybe only dogs can register, his anger transcends even his vanity, and as you watch those delicately carved, pretty little features mangle in rage, you will have difficulty suppressing the image of Dorian Grey's matted soul. (And a good giggle.)
Nonetheless, the film, based on the celebrated biography by Richard Ellman, does shed a rather sensitive light over the man who brought us such quips as "It is better to be good-looking than to be good." We see him as warm, thoughtful, and compassionate, though certainly willing to forsake solemnity to entertain and be well-liked. In the scene where he is drilled by an irate Irish prosecutor while on trial for "acts of indecency and sodomy," he gives a very poignant, compelling speech that (paraphrased) while there can be no morality or immorality in thought, in truth it is not pleasure, not happiness, but one's true nature that must govern a life. Gilbert's Wilde seems willing to accept his, though he does appear somewhat shy and befuddled by it.
As any diligent neophyte of the School of Wilde, (circa 2002, junior year English class, The Importance of Being Earnest) I vividly recall the romantic tugs of Oscar's "Not happiness! Above all, not happiness. Pleasure!" The memory has me contemplating the frustrating dualities of such a seemingly simple concept: we all want to feel good, but there is a hairline border between evil Vice and acceptable Indulgence. And we humans are exceptionally prone to crossing the border.
Hedonism was hardly a foreign concept in my formative years: those who enjoyed themselves (or, lived for enjoying themselves) were usually the brunt of many-a off-the-cuff morality tale delivered if I was too entertained by a movie, or singing too soulfully with the radio. It became a challenge to even read a novel without someone accusing you of enjoying yourself too much. In the world of Wasps, you are trained to value suffering, to savor the right to complain about what you've endured, how many things you don't get to do; pleasure nullifies one's claim to a good sob story. And what would a Wasp do without her soap box?
Equally as important in my household were the Others, or, Those Who Made Us Feel Good About Ourselves Because They Are Not Whole And Pure Like We. (A.K.A, Democrats and Aggies.) As far as I knew, attending A&M meant you didn't know how to screw in light bulbs and voting blue was on par with petty theft. I remember a classmate parroting their parent's Clinton vote on election day and staring, mouth hung, as though he had just announced that he was, in fact, a voluntary Eunuch. And liked it.
As when, for the first time, I met intelligent Aggies and kind people unabashedly proclaiming themselves Democrats, I was agog when I heard my friend Ariel's parents shrug at a price tag for a family cruise to Bermuda (in the middle of the school year!): "Money is made for spending," her father said. It blew my mind.
So I did a quick thesaurus search for "hedonism" and discovered that "lotus eater" is a Macbook approved synonym. Otherwise known as lotophagi, this tribe consists of the pleasure-seekers from the Odyssey who lazed about doped up on lotuses.
(Above, Odysseus removes his men from these indolent pleasure-junkies.)
"Pleasure" certainly has it's negative connotations (which brings to mind that Mean Girls scene when the high school coach says, "Have sex and you WILL get chlamydia and you WILL die." Never mind he spelled it "Klamidia," he speaks the truth!) But what I've always struggled with is how the general school of thought, as distinguished by dear Oscar, seems to be that one can pursue pleasure OR happiness. But what about pleasures that beget happiness? Like travel, reading, bubble baths, or a really really good piece of cheesecake. Is it because I enjoyed it I can't possibly feel real happiness?
I'm just not buying it. To completely re-contextualize a Bill Maher quote for my own purposes:
"And it really is outdated in some ways - the "Life sucks, and then you die" philosophy was useful when Buddha came up with it around 500 B.C., because back then life pretty much sucked, and then you died - but now we have medicine, and plenty of food, and iPhones, and James Cameron movies - our life isn't all about suffering anymore. And when we do suffer, instead of accepting it we try to alleviate it." **
I mean, I'm down for a life with brunch, Amazon.com, cocktails and Netflix. Who's to say that these "simple pleasures" aren't actually little pieces of real Happiness? How is anyone who's ever found a 90% off flight to Hawaii, or completed a full marathon, or even just had a really solid, productive day, going to deny that the calm, quiet feeling nestled in the wake of accomplishment isn't an unalloyed bid for the Big H?
Whatever the case, Oscar's presence in Pleasure's corner just got me thinking about the complexities of definition, and the inevitable rupture of ensuing schools of thought. As usual, I tend to not choose a platform, but rather swallow the big gray pill with relish; to me, it is the mark of measured thinking to at least straddle the fence for a good long while before throwing a hat on a donkey or elephant (for example). Likewise, Wilde himself is not a compelling enough mascot for me to completely throw myself behind. Even if he did wear lush purple waistcoats and stand trial for something he (and I) believe in.
But I can throw myself behind hardback books, and french press coffee makers. And red wine and letters, runner's euphoria and yoga. Because, while happiness is certainly a concept worth scratching the head about, pleasure, dear, is not so difficult.
*This was a point that somewhat disappointed me, as I've taken a rather strong interest in the habits and schedules of writers. Annie Dillard's A Writing Life is a good source for anyone else interested in the exercise habits of Chekhov or the sleeping patterns of Octavio Paz.
