Salome's Last Dance

Evening, gentlemen. And how are we this evening?

As close as two testicles, Chilvers.

People are beginning to talk.

There is only one thing worse than to be talked about,

and that is not to be talked about.

- I wish I had said that. - You will, Bosie, you will.

If you would like to go up, sir,

Mr. Taylor will be with you directly.

May I take the opportunity to thank for you the ticket

to "Lady Windermere's Fan", Mr. Wilde.

I enjoyed it immensely.

It's a regular triumph with the public, Sir.

Yes, the whole town is quite lit up.

I'm told that royalty is turned away nightly.

Isn't that line getting a little stale?

No line is ever stale that leads directly

to the box office, dear Bosie.

And where are you going?

Below stairs, obviously.

To polish up your repartee with a little bootblack?

I've rather taken a shine to him myself.

You'll see him shining as bright as gold tonight.

But don't be tempted to worship the golden calf

or you'll suffer my wrath.

No sermons, please, Bosie.

I'm not in the mood

for the missionary position just now.

- Oscar. - My dear Alfred.

Congratulations.

I've never been more flattered.

The moon rising in a jewel box of deepest night

could not be more exquisitely displayed.

But if you're going to redecorate every time a new play

of mine is published, I fear you'll soon be destitute.

I'm feeling disgustingly creative.

Oh, dear, you are not going to write another play

to scandalize the Lord Chamberlain

into banning it, my dear Oscar?

I don't think I could afford it.

What do you mean? What are you up to?

I know you are the most benign brothel keeper

in the whole of Westminster,

but surely you're not going to shut up shop, are you,

and send off all those boys and girls

to warm their pretty little bottoms

around a bonfire, huh?

- Where is everyone? - Putting on their makeup.

Well, that's nothing new, my dear.

Though, if I may so,

I think you overdone the mascara

just a little tonight.

Are you going to perform yourself?

You're getting warm.

They say that sex is the theater of the poor.

You're not going to stage "The Beggar's Opera," are you?

Stage? Yes, we have built a stage.

You're getting hotter.

You're almost there. Can't you guess?

I only play guessing games when I want

to be beastly to my darling children.

Oh, God, I promised them a firework display tonight.

I say, this isn't some elaborate charade

involving Guy Fawkes, is it?

Oh, nothing so mundane...

though the date is not without significance.

Guy Fawkes wanted to strike a spark for freedom,

and blow up the Parliament he considered oppressive.

You have done the same with your play, "Salome."

The Lord Chamberlain acting on behalf

of Parliament has banned it,

so a few kindred spirits have hatched a little plot

of their own.

In defiance of the law and in honor

of our greatest playwright, the premiere of "Salome"

will take place here tonight,

the 5th of November, 1892.

I'm touched, my dear Alfred, really I am.

But you must promise me one thing.

- Of course, if I can. - Promise me, you won't play Salome.

Much too energetic, my dear.

Here I am.

Evening, Mr. Wilde. Chilvers said you was here,

- so here I am. - Why, thank you.

Rose! How many times have I got tell you,

you should've been ready half an hour ago,

look at you.

Give Mr. Wilde his cigars and get out!

Sorry, Sir.

- Beg pardon, Sir. - Thank you, Rose.

Come on, Alfred,

she knows I only come here for the cigars.

Don't be hard on her.

You may be hard on me when you discover Salome

is being played by a skivvy.

Salome?

Does she rehearse the Dance of the Seven Veils

with her dusters?

She looks terribly undernourished, poor thing,

Will she have the strength to drop them?

She had better the little bitch or I will murder her.

Well, you can afford to these days

with servants to a penny.

How much have you spent on the rest of the cast?

We're all doing it for love, Oscar,

clients and courtesans alike.

Now take your ease

and imagine yourself on a moonlit terrace

in the palace of bad King Herod

on a balmy summer's night, some 20 years or so

after the birth of Jesus Christ.

And what our production lacks in stagecraft,

we hope to make up for in enthusiasm.

And any shortcomings in design,

I know will be compensated

for by your fertile imagination.

That sounds too much like hard work.

I came here to be entertained. Entertain me.

As always, I shall do my best.

Well, you've never failed me yet.

What's that delicious fragrance? What is it?

Sandalwood? Myrrh?

No, It's a blending of green carnations

and the pubic hair of virgins.

Of course, I should have guessed.

Let the play commence.

Bosie.

Well done, Kenneth.

As usual, you've captured the perfect moment,

the climatic one.

And hope to catch many more

before the night is out, Mr. Wilde.

While playing a part, I presume?

But did I really include a court photographer

in Herod's entourage?

Oh, no, we're playing a couple of foreign guests,

but I've taken the liberty

of combining business with pleasure.

As one would expect in a whorehouse, Kenneth,

and if you're acting is as grossly indecent

as your photographic studies,

we're in for an outrageous evening.

Merde!

Merde to you too, Mr. Wilde.

How beautiful Salome looks tonight.

Look at the moon How strange she looks,

like a woman rising from a grave,

she looks like a dead woman seeking out the dead.

She looks strange.

She looks like a princess in a yellow veil

with silver feet.

She looks like a princess who has feet

like little white doves.

She could be dance.

She is like a dead woman

and she moves very slowly.

What a din.

Who are those wild howling beasts?

The Jews. They're always like that.

They are discussing their religion.

Why are they discussing their religion?

I don't know, they're always at it.

The Pharisees say there are angels.

The Sadducees say they don't exist.

I think it's ridiculous to argue about such things.

How beautiful the princess Salome looks tonight.

You're always looking at her. You look at her too often.

You mustn't look at people like that,

something terrible could happen.

She is very beautiful tonight.

Tetrarch looks glum.

Yes, he is looking glum.

- He's looking at something. - He's looking at someone.

- Who's he looking at? - I don't know.

Yo-hoo!

How pale the princess is.

Never have I seen her so pale.

She looks like the reflection of a white rose

in a silver mirror.

You mustn't look at her. You look at her too much.

Herodias has poured the Tetrarch a drink.

Is Herodias the one with the red eyes,

the ruby lips, the ruby hips and the red rubies?

Yes, that's Herodias She's the wife of the Tetrarch.

The Tetrarch loves wine. He keeps three kinds...

One which comes from the island of Samothrace

is as purple as Caesar's cloak.

Caesar, I've never had the pleasure,

Another, from the city of Chipra,

is as yellow as gold.

Gold... I love gold.

And a third, which is a Sicilian wine,

that one is as red as blood.

The gods of my country love blood.

Twice a year, we sacrifice youths

and virgins to 'em...

50 youths and 100 virgins.

But it seems we never give 'em enough,

'cause they still persecute us.

In my country, there aren't any gods now.

The Romans chased them out.