![]() ![]() View image in fullscreen Mya Taylor in Tangerine. Each of Jarman’s films operates as an individual facet of a single, brilliant artistic persona, so it’s hardly fair to pick one out over another but Caravaggio, for me, is the one for the ages. Jarman’s approach was to fuse the mechanics of the painter’s art with a fleshly lament for the artist’s brutal, hedonistic life: the sight of Nigel Terry shoving coins into Bean’s mouth is still an amazingly lascivious scene. His films since the mid-70s had dominated British experimental cinema – and my favourite of his films is still the first one I saw in the cinema: his mid-80s fever-dream vision of baroque painter Caravaggio, with a cast that looks even more jaw-dropping in retrospect (Tilda Swinton! Dexter Fletcher!! Sean Bean!!!). Although lionised by the New Queer Cinema movement in the early 90s – then the cuttingest edge of the cutting edge – Derek Jarman in those heady days was hardly a new phenomenon in fact (sad to say), by then he was approaching his personal endgame.
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