Wilde on Quaaludes—and It Works
Massimo Dallamano’s Dorian Gray (a.k.a. The Secret of Dorian Gray, a.k.a. The Sins of Dorian Gray, a.k.a. The One Where Dorian Gets Really, Really Naked) isn’t your high school English teacher’s Oscar Wilde adaptation. No, this is a disco ball dipped in absinthe, rolled through a sex club, and projected onto a velvet curtain—one that hides a rotting masterpiece and maybe a gimp mask.
It’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, yes, but reimagined through the kaleidoscope of 1970s London: a place where everyone looks hungover, fashion is criminally overstated, and sexual liberation is less a subplot and more of a lighting fixture.
And somehow, God help us—it works.
Helmut Berger: The Prettiest Sin Since Lucifer Got Lip Gloss
Let’s begin with Helmut Berger, whose cheekbones deserve separate billing. His Dorian isn’t just beautiful; he’s weaponized. You half expect him to seduce the camera lens itself, and the camera seems entirely complicit. He prowls from one immoral act to the next with the poise of a lion raised on cologne commercials.
Berger’s performance is as committed as it is unbothered. You watch in awe as Dorian transforms from innocent flower child to opium-drenched sociopath—and never once does he muss a hair. He gaslights, blackmails, humiliates, and ruins lives like he’s swiping through Tinder on an absinthe bender. By the end, you’re not rooting for redemption—you’re just hoping he gets his deposit back on the yacht.
“I’d Sell My Soul for Eternal Youth.”
1970s London: “Done. And we’ll throw in a leather jacket.”
The genius of this adaptation lies in its transposition of Wilde’s decadence into the shag-carpeted ennui of post–Swinging Sixties London. Dorian goes from Victorian drawing rooms to strip clubs, sleazy studios, and adult film sets—all filmed with a hazy dreamlike quality, as if the camera itself might be on a tab of something illicit.
Instead of lounging on a divan quoting Latin, Dorian cruises Soho, attends orgies, and sleeps with married women, married men, and probably a tax accountant named Jeremy. The portrait, meanwhile, ages and twists and oozes moral decay like a Halloween prop designed by Salvador Dalí after a rough weekend.
This isn’t a film about repression—it’s about excess, indulgence, and how good it looks in a plunging V-neck.
The Supporting Cast: Aging, Agonizing, and Occasionally Shouting
Richard Todd’s Basil is our moral compass—meaning he’s boring and doomed. Herbert Lom as Henry Wotton gets most of Wilde’s quips but delivers them with the vibe of a man who’s lost his cocktail somewhere under a hookah. Everyone else exists to orbit Dorian’s gravitational pull of hotness and havoc.
Poor Sybil Vane (Marie Liljedahl) gets reduced from tragic ingénue to roadkill, but at least she dies dramatically—stepping into traffic like Juliet in bell bottoms. Alan, the haunted scientist, winds up blackmailed and spiritually gutted, which is honestly one of the better fates in this movie.
Even the dog doesn’t make it.
The Sex, The Sin, The Suede
Make no mistake: this film lives for its sensuality. Every sex scene is shot like a shampoo commercial directed by a voyeur with a poetry degree. People writhe, moan, and pose with the commitment of unpaid models in an artsy calendar shoot. It’s tasteful in the way a tiger-print waterbed might be considered tasteful: all show, no shame, and weirdly effective.
The soundtrack? Equal parts sleazy lounge and “funeral for a disco ball.” The costume department clearly raided both a Milanese fashion house and a used record store. Every character is dressed like they’re late for a decadent meltdown—and by God, they deliver.
Stabbing for Closure: The Big Finish
Unlike Wilde’s original ending—where Dorian slices the painting and the curse rebounds—this version has Dorian calmly pick up a knife and stab himself like he’s finally decided to RSVP “no” to the orgy of immortality. The painting reverts to its pristine state, and his corpse crumples into the kind of withered raisin that reminds us: never skip sunscreen.
It’s poetic. It’s bleak. And it’s honestly satisfying, because watching this guy dodge consequences for 90 minutes makes you want to leap into the screen and hand him the knife yourself.
Final Verdict: ★★★★☆
“Think Caligula meets Oscar Wilde, with a touch of cologne, cocaine, and cursed canvases.”
