Susan Granger’s review of “The Libertine” (The Weinstein Company)
“I do not want you to like me,” Johnny Depp says, playing libidinous, self-destructive John Wilmont, the second Earl of Rochester. And as “The Libertine” unfolds, you definitely don’t.
Described as “the wildest and most fantastical odd man alive,” Wilmont redefined the concept of the debauched rogue back in 1670s London during the Restoration Era that was filled with startling new developments in science, religion and the arts. In the court of his free-thinking confidante, King Charles II (John Malkovich), Wilmont relished an unparalleled depravity that, eventually, led him down a degrading path of alcoholism to his lingering death from syphilis at age 33. But before he died, he was determined to make good on a wager that he, like Pygmalion, could transform a struggling, ambitious young actress, fiercely independent Lizzie Barry (Samantha Morton), into an acclaimed theatrical diva, much to the dismay of his elegant, long-suffering wife Elizabeth (Rosamund Pike), who was well aware of his sybaritic philandering.
Adapted by Stephen Jeffreys from his cynical, decadent play which was originally staged by John Malkovich at Chicago’s Steppenwolf Theater, it’s self-consciously directed by Laurence Dunmore and dimly photographed through a grainy, grimy lens by Alexander Melman. Oozing arrogance and self-loathing, Johnny Depp foppishly sneers throughout the raucous, bawdy, brutally realistic costume drama, evoking memories of Jim Morrison and Iggy Pop, for whom Depp used to open. On the Granger Movie Gauge of 1 to 10, “The Libertine” is a grotesque, repellent, macabre 2, despite its dedication to casting director Mary Selway, Marlon Brando and Hunter S. Thompson. If you want depravity, watch re-runs of the mini-series “Rome” on HBO.
