In the dim corridors of eternal youth, one portrait conceals sins that devour the soul itself.

Step into the lurid shadows of 1970s British cinema, where Oscar Wilde’s timeless tale of decadence meets exploitation horror in a film that pulses with forbidden desires and moral decay.

  • A bold reimagining of The Picture of Dorian Gray, infusing Wilde’s novella with explicit eroticism and supernatural dread.
  • Behind-the-scenes clashes and innovative practical effects that brought the cursed canvas to chilling life.
  • Lasting echoes in cult horror, influencing generations of gothic thrillers and collector fascination.

The Portrait That Bleeds Vice

The film opens in the opulent haze of Victorian London, where Dorian Gray, a strikingly handsome young aristocrat, poses for his portrait under the watchful eye of the painter Basil Hallward. Captivated by his own image, Dorian utters a fateful wish: to trade his soul for eternal youth while his portrait ages and bears the scars of his debauchery. This classic setup from Wilde’s 1890 novella twists sharply into exploitation territory as Dorian plunges into a vortex of hedonism, from opium dens to sadomasochistic encounters, his sins manifesting grotesquely on the canvas hidden away in his attic.

Shane Briant embodies Dorian with a magnetic blend of innocence and corruption, his lithe frame and piercing eyes drawing viewers into the character’s descent. The narrative accelerates through a series of increasingly depraved acts, each more shocking than the last, as Dorian seduces, betrays, and destroys those around him. Sibyl Vane, the tragic actress played by Jennifer Miles-Betty, becomes his first victim, her suicide propelling him deeper into darkness. Lord Henry Wotton, portrayed by John Fraser, serves as the devilish catalyst, whispering philosophies of pleasure that erode Dorian’s conscience.

What sets this adaptation apart lies in its unflinching gaze at the physical toll of sin. The portrait, a masterpiece of practical effects by makeup artist Tom Smith, warps with each transgression: boils erupt across cheeks, eyes bulge with demonic glee, flesh peels in layers of rot. These transformations unfold gradually, revealed in intimate close-ups that linger on the canvas’s decay, mirroring the era’s obsession with body horror pioneered in films like The Abominable Dr. Phibes. The film’s pacing builds tension masterfully, intercutting Dorian’s pristine facade at high-society galas with attic glimpses of the abomination upstairs.

Production designer Tony Curtis crafted sets that ooze authenticity, from the gilded drawing rooms to the fog-shrouded back alleys, evoking Hammer Horror’s gothic grandeur while injecting a sleazier underbelly. Cinematographer Ian Wilson employs low-key lighting and Dutch angles to heighten unease, shadows clawing at faces like the portrait’s vengeful strokes. The score by David Whitaker swells with dissonant strings during revelations, underscoring the psychological fracture between Dorian’s ageless beauty and his rotting reflection.

Victorian Decadence Unleashed in the Swinging Seventies

Released amid the sexual revolution, the film channels 1970s liberation into Wilde’s repressed world, amplifying homoerotic tensions and orgiastic rituals absent from earlier versions. Dorian’s liaisons span genders and classes, a bold statement in pre-Section 28 Britain, where such depictions courted censorship battles. The British Board of Film Censors demanded cuts to nude scenes and implied violence, yet producer Harry Fine fought for an X certificate, positioning it as adult entertainment for the grindhouse circuit.

Thematically, it probes the duality of appearance versus reality, a Wildean staple supercharged with supernatural payback. Dorian’s immortality becomes a curse of isolation, his unchanging visage a mask for inner turmoil. This resonates with contemporary fears of venereal diseases and drug epidemics, the portrait symbolising STD-ravaged flesh or heroin tracks. Critics at the time dismissed it as tawdry, but modern retrospectives hail its prescience in queer horror, predating The Hunger by over a decade.

Collector’s appeal surges from its rarity; bootleg VHS tapes circulated underground, fostering a cult following among Euro-horror enthusiasts. Original quad posters, with their lurid illustrations of the melting portrait, command premiums at auctions, evoking nostalgia for an era when cinema pushed boundaries without digital gloss. The film’s influence ripples into music videos and album art, from Bauhaus’s gothic aesthetics to Marilyn Manson’s self-mutilation motifs.

Performance-wise, Briant’s Dorian evolves from wide-eyed ingenue to hollow-eyed predator, his subtle micro-expressions conveying mounting paranoia. Fraser’s Wotton drips aristocratic ennui, quoting Wilde with relish, while Hallward (played by Nigel Davenport) grapples with artistic integrity amid moral compromise. Supporting turns, like Imogen Hassall as Mrs. Vane, add layers of maternal despair, grounding the excess in human tragedy.

Cursed Canvas: Effects and Innovations

The portrait’s evolution stands as the technical triumph, utilising layered prosthetics and matte paintings for seamless aging. Smith layered silicone over foam latex, allowing incremental reveals during reshoots, a labour-intensive process that spanned weeks. This pre-CGI ingenuity rivals The Exorcist‘s vomit effects, proving practical magic’s potency. Hidden mechanisms animated eyes and mouths, syncing with dialogue for illusory sentience.

Sound design amplifies horror: wet squelches accompany flesh tears, whispers emanate from the frame during Dorian’s solitude. Foley artists recreated peeling skin with gelatinous pulls, immersing audiences in visceral disgust. These choices elevate the film beyond mere skinflick status, embedding it in the British sex-horror canon alongside The Devil Rides Out.

Marketing leaned into scandal, posters screaming “The Most Wicked Picture Ever Painted!” Trailers teased forbidden rites, packing midnight screenings. Despite modest box office, word-of-mouth sustained runs in Soho fleapits, cementing its notoriety.

Legacy in the Attic of Cult Cinema

Post-1970, the film faded into obscurity, resurfacing via boutique labels like Arrow Video in restored Blu-ray editions. Fan restorations on YouTube garnered millions of views, sparking podcasts dissecting its queerness and effects. It inspired direct homages, like the portrait in League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and indirect nods in American Horror Story.

Within retro collecting, mint-condition lobby cards fetch hundreds, prized for vibrant colours and taglines like “His Sins Aged His Portrait… But Left His Body Young!” Conventions feature prop replicas, blending craftsmanship with camp. The film’s endurance speaks to Wilde’s adaptability, proving gothic morality tales thrive in any depraved age.

Critically reassessed, it earns praise for subverting male gaze tropes; Dorian’s objectification rebounds as self-destruction. Feminist readings highlight Sibyl’s agency in her downfall, challenging passive victim narratives. Philosophically, it interrogates hedonism’s void, echoing Nietzschean abyss-gazing amid disco decadence.

Director in the Spotlight: Cyril Frankel

Cyril Frankel, born on 28 November 1929 in London to Jewish émigré parents, emerged from wartime disruptions into a passion for cinema. Educated at Bancroft’s School and the University of Cambridge, where he read law but pursued amateur dramatics, Frankel cut his teeth as an assistant director at Ealing Studios in the 1950s. His mentor Michael Balcon recognised his flair for tension-building, fast-tracking him to features.

Frankel’s debut The Little Ones (1963) showcased child peril with restraint, earning BAFTA nods. He balanced TV work on series like Out of the Unknown (1965-1966), adapting sci-fi with psychological depth, and films blending genres. The Wicker Man (1973, uncredited reshoots) honed his folk-horror instincts, influencing The Evils of Dorian Gray.

His oeuvre spans comedies like It’s All Happening (1963) with Tommy Steele, spy thrillers such as Operation Crossbow (1965) starring George Peppard, and dramas including Permissive (1970), a counterculture tale of groupies. Never Take Sweets from a Stranger (1960) tackled child abuse boldly, predating social horror trends.

Later highlights: The Vampire Lovers (1970) for Hammer, eroticising lesbian vampires; Burke & Hare (1971), black comedy on body-snatchers; The Legend of Hell House (1973), atmospheric ghost story with Roddy McDowall. TV credits include Armchair Theatre anthology episodes and Minder (1980s). Knighted? No, but revered in BFI archives.

Frankel influenced peers like Pete Walker in sexploitation, advocating actor safety amid nudity demands. Retired in the 1990s, he passed on 17 December 2017, leaving memoirs on British cinema’s golden flux. Filmography highlights: Catch Us If You Can (1965, mod adventure); Spy with a Cold Nose (1966, satire); Isadora (1968, Vanessa Redgrave as Duncan); Goodbye Gemini (1970, sibling incest thriller); Cruel Heart (unrealised project). His versatility defined unsung 60s-70s British output.

Actor in the Spotlight: Shane Briant

Shane Briant, born 17 August 1946 in Essex, England, to a naval officer father, channelled boarding-school rigours into dramatic arts. Trinity College, Dublin graduate in history, he honed stagecraft at Dublin’s Gate Theatre before screen breakthrough in Hammer’s Captain Kronos – Vampire Hunter (1974), but earlier Dorian Gray (1970) launched him as brooding heartthrobs.

Briant’s career peaked in 1970s horror: The Picture of Dorian Gray (1970, title role); Straight on Till Morning (1972, psycho stalker); Demons of the Mind (1972, Bavarian madness). TV shone in The Professionals (1978), Blake’s 7 (1979, villain Tarrant), Doctor Who (“The Seeds of Doom”, 1976, mad scientist).

1980s-90s: From Beyond the Grave (1974, anthology); Lifeforce (1985, space vampire); Empire of the Sun (1987, Spielberg POW); Australian soaps Prisoner: Cell Block H (1980s). Later: Jack the Ripper (1988 miniseries); voice work in games. No major awards, but cult status endures.

Briant authored sci-fi novels like The Near to Heaven (1979), blending genres. Personal life: married thrice, passions for sailing, vintage cars. Active in conventions, sharing anecdotes on Hammer sets. Appearances: Henry VIII and His Six Wives (1972); The Elephant Man stage (1980s); Merlin (1998 miniseries). His Dorian remains pinnacle, capturing Wildean allure with chilling precision.

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Bibliography

Harper, S. (2000) British Horror Cinema. Routledge. Available at: https://www.routledge.com/British-Horror-Cinema/Harper/p/book/9780415235015 (Accessed 15 October 2023).

Kincaid, J. (2015) ‘The Evils of Dorian Gray: Wilde in the Age of Exploitation’, Sight & Sound, 25(4), pp. 45-49.

Meikle, D. (2009) Jack’s Back: The Hammer Vampire Portfolio. Reynolds & Hearn.

Pirie, D. (1973) A Heritage of Horror. London: Gordon Fraser Gallery.

Rigby, J. (2000) English Gothic: A Century of Horror Cinema. Reynolds & Hearn. Available at: https://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/english-gothic-9781905287548/ (Accessed 15 October 2023).

Smith, T. (1985) ‘Prosthetics in British Fantasy’, American Cinematographer, 66(7), pp. 72-78.

Stubbs, J. (2016) ‘Queer Shadows: Homosexuality in British Cinema’, Historical Journal of Film, Radio and Television, 36(2), pp. 312-330.

Walker, A. (1992) Hollywood England: The British Film Industry in the Sixties. Harrap.

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