De Profundis

De Profundis is the strikingly powerful, eloquent and moving letter written by Oscar Wilde from his prison cell to the object of his affection, Bosie (Lord Alfred Douglas, son of the Marquess of Queensbury). Wilde is at his lowest, ill, shamed and broken yet finally able to see the damage wrought on him by the relationship, society and his own foolishness.

The letter, written over a three-month period in 1897, is, as Wilde says, an explanation to Bosie of the way their relationship had been, what Wilde had become and how Wilde planned to be after his release. The early part, a short history of their relationship, gives a damning insight into the nature of Bosie and his father and relates tales of almost unbelievable selfishness and conceit. For me, the middle of the letter, which describes how the trial and prison has affected Wilde, is the most moving as he manages to convey the despair and shame without recourse to the actual hardship (such as a year's hard labour) that he was suffering. The final part, an exposition of his own brilliance, analysis of his place in society and acceptance of his fate, is pure Wilde; parts could appear on t-shirts but to break them from the whole would be to diminish them.

The stage setting for this production is somewhat mixed. A square on the floor representing the cell and a window, like a floating Magritte painting of a perfect blue sky, as the only backdrop. Corin Redgrave sits on a chair, stage centre, like a cellist who has lost his instrument, and speaks the letter as a monologue out to the audience, moving only once throughout the 60 odd minutes of the show. Prison sounds interject from time to time, as much I suspect to give the actor cause to break as to provide any sense of place. Some lovely music (played on the missing cello?) plays, rather too loudly, over the final part of the piece.

This mixture of realism and representation detracts from, rather than adds to the presentation. Could the cell not have been just a pool of light? Why have clinking chain and slamming door effects (and a warder whistling) to take our minds outside the space? Was this Wilde in a cell mulling over a letter or a presentation to audience?

Perhaps the work lends itself more readily to being read than being listened to. Perhaps the presence of an actor and a set is too distracting for this sort of piece, or perhaps this is more suited to small, intimate spaces rather than traditional stages. For whatever reasons - and it clearly isn't a lack of skill, work and presentation on behalf of Redgrave nor any fault of the text - this piece does not hold the audience. I think I'd prefer to listen to the charity CD version in a darkened room with a glass of champagne.

- Robert Iles (reviewed at the Oxford Playhouse)