The Libertine

I watched The Libertine yesterday. Gad, I’d forgotten what a depressing film it is. Brilliant, but depressing. It’s based on the play by Steven Jeffreys about the last few years of John Wilmot’s life (Wilmot being the second Earl of Rochester). I wanted to see it again because it takes place in 1675 and I’m trying to regain a sense of the period with a view to reviving my story of Margaret and King Charles. John Malkovich played a plausible Charles, but the show rightly belonged to Johnny Depp as Rochester.

I don’t remember what I thought the first time I saw it. I do know that I liked it, though I don’t remember why. The period appeals for obvious reasons, and I adore Johnny Depp. When I learned that he was playing the Earl, adding the film to my collection was a no-brainer. He did a fabulous job with the character. I really disliked the rogue … but in the end I felt truly sorry for him. He was a victim of his own intellect, so desensitized by reason that he lost his ability to feel anything except contempt for himself, for his contemporaries, and for life in general. Charles was fond of him, no doubt about it, but the boy was on self-destruct and when that happens, all one can do is step back and start grieving.

It made me reflect once more on the perils of a hyperactive mind. I’m the first to admit I dislike thinking too much. I’m much happier to be doing or dreaming. Thinking, er, well, I’m pretty good at it when I have to be, but when I feel myself sliding into the abyss of harsh judgment and self-doubt, I know I’ve thought too far.

I’ve started reading Antonia Fraser’s bio of Charles II in earnest – I’m at 1648 and counting down to his father’s beheading. History has done him a bit of a disservice by focusing so intently on his love life when his youth was spent being shuffled from place to place while trying to fight a war. How he emerged with grace and humour intact was a testament to something deeper and stronger in his character than a notable affection for women. Maybe if John Wilmot had endured a similarly harsh adolescence, he might have appreciated life a little more – or at least been less miserable in it.