The pink thesps are revolting. The other week or so I reported Rupert Everett’s view that his sexuality had limited his earning capacity. Now Stephen Fry wonders aloud in the Radio Times why heterosexual male stars are hailed as "brave" when they kiss other men on screen. He adds: “No one says to a gay actor who plays a heterosexual person: ‘How brave of you to kiss that woman, that must have been very difficult for you.’” Fry would be quite happy to kiss a frog, if required, let alone a woman or another man. But I think it unlikely he would kiss a frog with any sexual conviction, at least not without drawing concern from the RSPCA.
Fry makes a general point – a good one – but it doesn’t apply to him in my opinion. He thinks the fact he’s famously gay makes it difficult for him to have a convincing relationship with a woman on screen. But to me Fry carries the marvellous aura of a priest, or someone who long ago took a vow of celibacy and treads this incarnation alone. This is the impression he gives. His Oscar Wilde was near-perfection because he did not embarrass us with a dripping, sweating, leaking Bosie love affair: there was nothing to stain the adventure of a literary life. Fry struck theatrical poses and arranged his countenance in such a way as to suggest inner turmoil and idealistic passion, but at no stage did the ill-fated relationship strike me as having a pulse. Very realistic, I thought, as a cosy exhibition of cultural artefacts.
Fry was the ultimate Jeeves – a presumably asexual adjunct to another man – just as his solicitor Kingdom in the ITV1 series of that name is a singleton married to his career. None of this has anything to do with sexual nature, or even with actual life. Fry is a monument of warm stone – the very idea that he should kiss or be kissed by man, woman or frog is ridiculous.