To the Finish of the World by Rupert Everett evaluate – a pleasant author on fashionable fame | Autobiography and memoir

THere, for a simple and obvious reason, some writers who promote the worship of heroes who always tell more about the worshipers than do the heroes. Charles Dickens’ aspirations often tend to share his well-known powers and intellect, or even show off a little. Girls who love Sylvia Plath ignore her fun poems about family fun and just look at the angry, sad parts of her career. The evils of Oscar Wilde go one step further: they don’t just understand Wilde – and Wilde, they have all the wisdom and the tragedy this package includes. Stephen Fry crossed the Wilde section, and Rupert Everett has been through it for some time.

This has helped the audience more than Everett: she was a winner on stage like Wilde in The Judas Kiss in 2012, and The Happy Prince, a 2018 film she wrote, directed and directed in Wilde’s last days, is the best. Wilde’s most vivid image however, the movie is far from the Everett gym could have been.

This, however, is a miracle, judging from this reminder about the time to come and the combination of making a video. “I’m Oscar Wilde,” Everett wrote after a long absence, which led her to go somewhere Wilde visited. A quick encounter – meeting Wilde’s granddaughter, after hearing that her aunt is in touch with Wilde’s son – is considered by Everett to be very important, as these things happen when a person has an unrequited love affair.

Yet it’s hard to write consciously, not even for fun, when you’re in the midst of manopic mania; Wilde himself simply removed it with De Profundis. Considering Everett’s self-indulgence in this book, she destroys what her colleague Philip Prowse correctly described as “all-powerful” by sending Wilde and Lord Alfred Douglas (“It’s all boring, dear. I know you love them but sincerely …”), they end up very well Everett’s excitement as a writer is always unmistakable, especially about herself; one of the fans’ needs is to lose all sense of direction.As sleepers, these two situations are as difficult as Wilde and Douglas.

Busy to join the BBC’s The Musketeers, he thinks: ‘It’s not a public transport service’

Everett is probably best known now for her writing as she does, a comment she would take as an insult, a judgment and the euphoria she has made these days by seeing her glass filled well like dry bone. “My work has come to the point where ‘where is he now,'” he writes, with a glance at his IMDB-filled page. But the most recent jobs feel like retiring: when he gets on a bus to the BBC’s The Musketeers, he thinks: “It’s not a public transport system.”

In any case, Everett has become one of the most influential writers of modern literature. His memories of the past, the Red Red Carpets and Other Banana Skins, followed by the End of the Century, were meaningless, irrational and crazy, as one would expect. The most amazing thing was how it was written beautifully, sadly but with emphasis the beauty faded away rather than just being heard. Here is a new book on travel entertainment: “When I sit on a railroad and the old is left behind, I have a sense of humor, a love of the world, which looks better than a train. Even human problems can be beautiful.”

Everett (left) and Colin Firth Abroad (1984).Everett (left) and Colin Firth Abroad (1984). Photo: Ronald Grant

Either Everett remembers a drunken stupor talking to Thierry Henry (“What team do you play for? Arsehole? The best answer…”), or whether you remember Lychee, a sex partner who lived with him many years ago in Paris (“At one point he just looked at a motorcycle and after six years of playing with another toy “), with the person you want to interact with. She has a deceptive style like her youthful beauty.

In 2007 she thought of Wilde’s writings: “If the only part I was allowed to do was a gay friend, then I just came back.” At first, they all look reliable and Hollywood producer Scott Rudin wants to make his own script, with the great and the late Philip Seymour Hoffman playing Wilde. By resorting to self-deception that will definitely be Wildean, Everett insists that he can play Wildean. And that’s why the project fell through.

But Everett stays alive, for the next decade, with the help of her most tormented torment, and with the help of loyal friends who agree to watch her, eventually go, without pay. One time, he would go to Colin Firth’s house and ask her in tears to be part of the movie – he was arguing – and Firth is desperate to agree. Once they appeared together, Everett reflected on how things have changed since she starred in the Universe, 35 years ago: “Then I was a rising star who was on a window sill. Now I’m a lifter and I’m a water whale on a dead bed. “

It’s ridiculous for the nonsense of making movies (“I just made Colin, but my heart isn’t in it. It doesn’t matter. It’s amazing what one can do with a Guinness bottle”), and the pride of his self-deprecation. They don’t have the same ideas on his commitment to Wilde or this movie. “Is this a dubious final trip or divine intervention?” they wonder, and do not solve this (some may have their own opinion).

Even readers read of Everett and Wilde’s strained relationship may depend on their tolerance of heroic worship. Mine is a little low, but every sentence Everett wears a ring with her personality, and it’s a personality that’s always been unresolved. And hell, the movie is good, so maybe it was worth it in the end. Sometimes, it can be fun for someone to take part in Everett’s Wilde – Firth, says, who shows interest in each other during the best photo shoot: “Are you all right?” He asks. “You look like you’ve done a little bit.” “I’m working!” Everett returns to Firth, and then I add a side note to the readers: ‘You have to take action … as everything goes well.’ Wilde agreed.

• Towards the End of the World: A Walk with Oscar Wilde is published by Little, Brown (£ 20). To order your copy go to guardianbookshop.com. Shipping costs may be used.

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