In the hierarchy of British film renaissance of the 80’s, there appeared its
greatest poet, and the most important saint protector of its sexually
marginalized individuals.

Technically innovative and esthetically radical, Derek Jarman appeared in the
hierarchy of British film renaissance of the 80’s as its greatest poet, and the
most important saint protector of its sexually marginalized individuals. And
while the traditional British cinematography could not free itself from its
literary elements, Jarman stubbornly relied on visual effects. And when his
contemporaries began to rely more often on prose, he was carried away by poetry.
Jarman's love for moving pictures is not accidental, for he began his artistic
career as a painter in the unrestrained atmosphere of the swinging London. But,
even in his beginnings he flirted with visual eclecticism – in his stylized
scenes history constantly clashes with the present time, and that characteristic
will soon become his stylistic trade-mark. So, in Sebastiane the Roman
soldiers, in a break between a visit to sauna and an orgy, amuse themselves by
playing Frisbee on a sandy beach just like the sun tanned Californian surfers
from Bruce Weber’s photographs. In Caravaggio, in the painter’s atelier
handsome male models watch a football game on television. In his adaptation of
Shakespeare’s The Tempest, set outside of its time period, Prospero lives
in a shabby 18th century palace, Caliban is the Edwardian butler, Miranda wears
Victorian dresses, and Ariel wears a tail-coat like a cabaret entertainer from
the 30’s. In the film Edward II there is a parade of gay activists, while
the dress of his muse, Tilda Swinton, evokes the spirits of some old collection
by Dior.

But, in most of Jarman’s films there are two dominant themes: radical treatment
of homosexual yearning and obsession with Christianity, which in Sebastiane
is embodied in the masochistic figure of a Christian saint martyr. At that
author’s gay sensibility functions as a refined combination of esthetic
pedantry, impertinent self-irony, humor, camp, theatrical elements and
remoteness. Therefore, in that context understanding can be found for the
author’s statement that he would never make movies if he didn’t believe that
they can change people. That theory is evident in his subversive works from the
‘70s (code: Jubilee), which nowadays seem like nostalgic celluloid
fairy-tales of some long lost time, but also as authentic film documents about
beginnings of punk.

Right after the premiere of Caravaggio, Jarman became very ill and moved
to a secluded hut situated in the post-nuclear ambience of Dungeness, dominated
by the monstrous nuclear power plant, where he later situated the action of his
depressive film The Garden, imbued with dark allusions to the author’s
near death. And even though many viewers described this poetic and surreal
portrait of two men and their emotional cavalry through the world poisoned by
hatred based on religion, as author’s celluloid testament, his creative swing
grew stronger. During that time he made the intimate study Blue in which
he noted history of his own illness, bravely showing that even in his last
moments of life, he never gave up on radical film experiments. (Dragan Rubesa)