John Wilmot, the second Earl of Rochester, was a depraved Restoration poet whose pursuit of pleasure knew no boundaries. He was an alcoholic, a womaniser, a maverick, a dissident, an artist and a dazzling wit. His lewd works mocked the King and Wilmot was despised by ‘right’ thinking people everywhere. He was, in short, a party guy. Wilmot died of syphilis aged 33. 

The Libertine opens with Depp peering through a gloom of 17^th century  murk. He explains how unpleasant he is, how there’s no reason to like him and how he simply wants to be liked. It’s an unsettling introduction to what is an unsettling film. No Lasse Hallström chocolate-box period-piece this. Director Dunmore likes dirt, lots of it, and gives his England a choking reality. Depp may peer at us from the mud, rats and candle-lit disease, but we have to look even harder to find him. It’s a filthy world and revelling in it is one of the world’s filthiest people.

While seasoned hands may have overcome the bumpiness of newcomer Dunmore’s pacing and structure, the problems are quite forgivable; especially when he conjures Depp at his most despicable in a story so ferociously unusual. His is a winning performance destined to go largely unseen due the perceived unbankability of this film (it first screened in 2004). There’s something of a half-forgotten nightmare about The Libertine. Wilmot’s steely-eyed monster vilifies everyone – onscreen and off – with equal candour. He begs us to hate him. “Do you like me now?” he entreats. Not in the slightest, and is thus all the more delectable.

// COLIN FRASER