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Johnny Depp as The Libertine

Johnny Depp, as John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester, opens The

Libertine with a prologue stating, "You will not like me... You will

not like me now and you will like me a good deal less as we go on...I

am John Wilmot, Second Earl of Rochester and I do not want you to like

me." In deed, it is near impossible to like John Wilmot, especially as

depicted in Stephen Jeffrey's screenplay.

Darling of the Restoration court of Charles II, Wilmot embraced

atheism, alcohol, and any woman in arm's reach. Commanded by King

Charles to write a play in praise of Charles' reign, Rochester

composes a grand, pornographic homage to himself. Before his death

from syphlis, Rochester enters the House of Lords, finally proclaiming

his true homage to his king, helping to defeat an act of Parliament

that would have disinherited Charles' son.

Wilmot is no hero; he is hardly an anti-hero. In fact, Rochester's

ability to engender repugnance really begs the question why Hollywood

felt the need for a biopic of one of the world's most loathsome human

beings. There is one uplifting character in the movie, Wilmot's wife

Elizabeth Malet. Even knowing about all of her husband's daliances,

she still loves him. Rosamund Pike's loving portrayal of Malet's anger

confrontation with her husband and then tenderly nursing him in his

last days is an ode to love worthy of a romantic poet.

Depp's nuanced performance is another in a long line of dark and

mysterious character studies. In the last couple of years, Depp has

portrayed a pirate, a CIA agent, JM Barrie, and Willy Wonka, and the

voice of a lovesick Victorian. Each was a unique character come alive

with at least a dash of macbre creepiness that only Depp can provide.

The reason Wilomt has been remembered down through the years is his

poetry. It was his writing that finally made him the darling of

society after his early demise. Unfortunately, The Libertine never

deals with the poetry but only with the pornography. Wilmot is

considered by some to be the last of the great metaphysical poets, but

others consider him to be a minor talent at best. I leave it for you

to decide.

To His Mistress

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why

Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny

The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?

Without thy light what light remains in me?

Thou art my life; my way, my light's in thee;

I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life-if thou but turn away

My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-

Without.thee, Love, I travel not but stray.

My light thou art-without thy glorious sight

My eyes are darken'd with eternal night.

My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.

Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.

Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I!

Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.

My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see:

To whom or whither should my darkness flee,

But to that light?-and who's that light but thee?

If I have lost my path, dear lover, say,

Shall I still wander in a doubtful way?

Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray?

My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray;

I cannot go, nor can I safely stay;

Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way?

And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me!

And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me!

Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me?

Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye,

The dead man's life. On thee my hopes rely:

If I but them remove, I surely die.

Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay!

See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray!

-O thou art my life, my light, my way!

Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee,

My reason shall obey, my wings shall be

Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!