The Last of England - Verlorene Utopien

Derek Jarman has drawn his title and theme from the Ford Maddox-Brown pre-rafaelite masterpiece "The Last of England" painted in 1855.

The film is a blast of fury against Thatcherism and all its crypto moralistic tripe. Jarman is angry - REALLY angry about the state his country has been reduced to by the conservatives and all their works. This is an amplified echo of the painting, where the English couple and their baby set off on a ship and leave England for the last time. They are resigned to their fate. Jarman it seems, is resigned to his, but he isn't going quietly.

The Last of England is a mess. A disjointed ugly collection of impressions. A nasty kaleidoscope which is difficult to enjoy. However, when one moves away from searching for a narrative it gets easier.

The things we recognise are soon twisted and used against us and it's unsettling. This is all deliberately arranged to elicit a response in the viewer. Some will be appalled, but some won't get it. This encapsulates Jarman's view of England in 1987 and it's not pretty.

As the film closes out we see Jarman return the story to its source and we sense a final regret that there is no going back.

Jarmen manages to create a world stinging from Thatcherite policies, with viscious imagery burning on the screen. If you want an indictment of the eighties without irony loaded sentimentality or crass stereotypes, then experience The Last of England.

"On a green hill, mourners stand and weep for the last of England," intones Nigel Terry at the start of this arresting mission statement from art-house infant* terrible Jarman. The film is a barrage of striking imagery, mixing old Super 8 footage of a child playing in the back garden with shots of a teenage punk shooting up in a garage, and the middle-aged Jarman, apparently chronicling vanishing species of plant in some kind of futuristic warehouse. Then there's clips from news reports, audio of Hitler, some staged stuff about paramilitaries and - of course - a naked yuppie having sex with a soldier on a massive Union Jack. An air of paralysing despair permeates this one-of-a-kind movie, which takes on state-sponsored violence, the Thatcher government, misguided building projects, the trashing of the environment and American cultural imperialism - all in the opening half hour. Not all of it hits the target, and some of it may only make sense to Jarman, but for every piece of self-mythologising pretentiousness there's a pithily employed phrase (courtesy of T.S. Eliot or Allen Ginsberg) or thought-provoking juxtaposition. Like the sounds of a Nazi rally segueing into a vicious sideswipe at military discipline, then military pageantry. Or widow Tilda Swinton ripping her wedding dress to shreds - even as she wears it - on a nuclear beach. The Last of England plays like the forlorn, obscene illegitimate child of Humphrey Jennings' hymn to the nation - Listen to Britain. I liked it. Great soundtrack too, put together by Simon Fisher-Turner, and containing Elgar, Marianne Faithful and a spot-on pastiche of '30s musical numbers called Broadway Boy.

*Yeah, I know this should have an 'e'. IMDb isn't so sure.

Reading the comments on this film or others like it is a frustrating experience, because so many people don't seem to be clear on the concept. Let me put it very simply:

This. Is. Not. A. Narrative. Film.

If you're going to complain about lack of a plot, character development, or other features of narrative films, don't go see a non-narrative film! It's an entirely different experience, and that's the whole idea. Judging an experimental montage of images and music and voice by the standards of a conventional narrative film is ridiculous -- like complaining about a drama because it wasn't funny. It's not SUPPOSED to be. If you don't like films that don't have a conventional narrative, don't see them.

So, for those who DO actually like experimental, non-narrative film, I'd highly recommend this one -- it's one of my all-time favourite films of any sort, even though know the majority of the population probably couldn't sit through it. I found it incredibly powerful, evocative and visually stunning, and even 15 years after seeing it, some images from it are still burned into my mind. I'm a big fan of Jarman's work in general, but if I had to pin down one single favourite from his work, I think this would be it.

This is the sort of movie which is usually defended with a phrase such as 'Oh you clearly didn't understand' or 'It's narrative is too unorthodox'. The sad fact is the film's limited distribution is due to its own wretched pretensions rather than its intelligence. A barrage of depressing images (man shoots up, man humps portrait of woman and so on) and an endless meandering dialogue is not enough to make a film involving. Jarman's intention is clear, Thatcher's Britain was every bit as horrible as it is shown to be here but surely there were better ways to articulate that. His work remains infuriating rather than involving and for that reason alone this film must be judged a failure.