behind I see the film, Quentin Crisp was only a name. eccentric, bizarre, a kind of Oscar Wilde, with the basic differences , of XX century. the film change everything. not only the perception about the lead character, because it is more than a portrait. not the manner to see a community. but the way to discover a period, in its fundamental traits. it is difficult to define the brilliant work of John Hurt. sure, it is amazing, touching, spectacular, magnificent. he becomes, scene by scene, Quentin Crisp. but his great contribution , his impressive performance, are not reduced at a good acting. but at subtle, precise explanation of an option, its consequences and the way to fight and win against the time. a film like a huge open window. maybe, to yourself.

Quentin Crispe was one of the most important people of the second half of the twentieth century. If he had heard me say that, he would have laughed as uproariously as it was possible for him to do, by which I mean give a severe chuckle. What do I mean by saying it? I mean that he was an individual to the furthest and truest extent, in a world made dull by a stifling mass conformity. In addition, he was brilliantly witty and extraordinarily intelligent and wise. He always claimed to be a homosexual, but my wife and I always suspected that he may have died a virgin, as he was sublimely asexual in person and the idea that he might ever have been physical with anyone seemed frankly inconceivable. Quentin was above all a narcissist, and proud of it. He was driven into narcissism by the sameness of the human environment, and I believe that if he had been an animal (assuming that he had been allowed to be also articulate), he would have been much happier, because animals do not all look alike, whereas humans deceive one another by all having two arms, two legs, faces, etc., so that they have the illusion that they all somehow have something to do with one another, which they do not. We were fortunate to know Quentin in both his London and New York environments, though we saw him rarely. People who missed his amazing one-man show in a large London theatre years ago can never know what they missed, because it was one of the most scintillating live performances possible to see anywhere at any time. It was all on the theme of 'personal style', a subject which was a favourite for me to discuss with him. (He was somewhat jealous that I had known Tallulah, the one person in the world he most wished he had met, and we often recurred to the subject of Tallulah as the Queen of Style). John Hurt has done a wonderful service to posterity in capturing Quentin on film almost to perfection. He has mastered every detail of his mannerisms, his movements, his walk, the turn of his head, his gestures, his manner of speaking, and his facial expressions. (The only thing missing is the purple tint which Quentin added to his hair.) It was so eerie seeing John sitting there in that lower Manhattan diner. I could just see Quentin eating his melted cheese on toast (he loved boring 'school food'). This is one of the greatest acting achievements of our time, in terms of portraying a real life character. My wife and I hosted a dinner party many years ago for both John and Quentin, who did not see that much of each other, and it was so intriguing listening to them bantering back and forth, which they did somewhat shyly. The photos of them were marvellous, with them reflecting each other's glow and their arms around one another. John Hurt has never had as many opportunities to be the lead actor in films as he should have had. That is because, except in SINFUL DAVEY in his youth perhaps, he was never a natural 'romantic lead'. The inevitable nature of popular story lines generally condemns many actors and actresses to supporting roles, no matter how brilliant they are. And so it is that John has made something like 150 films because everybody wants him, but has never been Brad Pitt (for which I am sure he is eternally grateful), though to judge from his attraction to women, you would imagine that John might secretly have been Brad Pitt after all in ways best left to the imagination. Drollery has always been a specialty of John's, and that is remarkably attractive as a trait. And so we come to the film. Trying to write a script like that is no easy task, and the writer has done a good job without being particularly brilliant. The lighting was not that good at times, and the direction was good without being brilliant either. The trouble with falling short in the production itself is that a subject like Quentin demands the best. However, we must be grateful for what we got. The film features a spectacularly good performance by Jonathan Tucker, who was so brilliant in THE DEEP END (2001; see my review). He plays the young gay artist Patrick Angus, whom Quentin befriended, with great sensitivity and intensity. Denis O'Hare is admirable as Quentin's friend Phillip Steele. Rather too much is made in the film of Quentin's unfortunate flip remark about AIDS being a fad, which landed him in a lot of trouble. There is no doubt that Quentin was the victim of hysteria and was excessively criticised for a mere passing witticism (or what was intended as such, however stupid it may have been). But one very touching scene of a huge butch gay man attacking Quentin for it in the street and then sobbing uncontrollably about his dying boyfriend really brings home to us the mass grief associated with this terrible disease, and how wrong a stray remark can be when it wounds those who are suffering deeply. After all, who of us has not lost a friend to AIDS? One reason why this film is not as exciting a film as one would have wished is that Quentin was a quiet and subdued person. Despite his carefully designed gauche appearance, Quentin was remarkably demure. Perhaps we are all a bit too jaded and expect too many thrills in movies. One thrill which I wish everyone had had the opportunity to enjoy was to know Quentin Crispe. This film goes some way towards filling that gap, and we must be grateful to it, and to John Hurt for his magnificent efforts to bring Quentin to life as vividly as if he were really there in front of the camera.

One would think that anyone embarking upon a followup to the groundbreaking Naked Civil Servant of 30-plus years ago would at the very least try to honor the original with some kind of inspired vision, but no. Here we have a sort of biopic of one of the most stylish people of the late 20th century that itself boasts no style whatsoever. True, the filmmakers have assembled some outstanding actors - and handed them a chipped mug of drab gruel to work with. Everything in the infrastructure of this film is wrong, starting with the script, which is another one of those TV-movie condensations of great lives wherein every other line is a "famous quote" by the subject and every other scene is an in-your-face introduction to the next pivotal character in the subject's life. We get Swoozie Kurtz as a PR maven who promotes Crisp as a stateside entertainer; Denis O'Hare as the editor of a gay periodical who hires Crisp as film reviewer, becomes somewhat alienated from him when he appears indifferent to the passions of 80's AIDS activists, and then returns to the fold as a compassionate friend of the dying octogenarian; Jonathan Tucker (in a fine performance) as a shy, insecure painter of gay-themed canvases who is befriended by Crisp; and finally Cynthia Nixon as performance artist and Woman-About-Bohemia Penny Arcade who, intrigued by Crisp's persona, offers him a spot in her traveling cabaret act. Nixon is a persuasive and gifted performer but is given no chance by the script to embody the down-to-earth and streetwise Arcade. Crisp spent the last 20 years of his life in a one-room flat in an old tenement building in Manhattan's East Village. He famously said that he never cleaned because "after a few years the dust doesn't get any worse," or something like that. But looking at the depiction of that flat in this film you'd never get the flavor of that dustiness. He frequented a local coffee shop on a busy avenue and would be seen pretty much each day of the week sipping tea and watching the world go by. In this film we get a diner that looks like something on 12th Avenue by the Hudson River. Most of the "streets of New York" scenes have a sterile, unreal look with no sense of the period. The soul of this film is the great John Hurt in the title role. After nearly 35 years he can still grasp the essence of this peculiar post-Edwardian Englishman and put it across to third millennarians. His every line, every gesture is exquisite. In the later scenes he even modulates his vocal projection to suit that of a person whose life is winding down toward death. Crisp wrote shortly before he left this realm that when one grows very, very old one's skin takes on the character of a smelly overcoat that cannot be removed and one longs for death. One senses that feeling in Hurt's performance. So, for him and him alone this film is worth a look.

I saw this last night at the Tribeca Film Fest and holy god was it bad.. From the script to the editing to the acting to the cinematography-- none of it worked. Not to mention the set design/costumes were so distractingly wrong for the time period (it spans the years from the late 70s up until 2006 or so). Even John Hurt, who's usually an amazing actor, was so over-the- top ridiculous. Granted, Quinten Crisp is an over-the-top guy to begin with, but Hurt was given nothing to work with here. I don't know much else to say except the audience I saw it with absolutely loved it.. so maybe it's just me. But audiences love anything at film festivals when they're sitting next to the director and all the actors. It's not a very accurate test of how good the movie is or how well it will play. Personally, I thought this movie was terrible. On the other hand, it was so terrible that it was hilarious. Get drunk and give it a shot when it's on HBO in 2 years, if it ever makes it that far.