Caravaggio feels like the sort of thing only Derek Jarman could get away with: take a violent old master, throw in electric bulbs, pocket calculators and motorbikes, and somehow make it feel less like a gimmick than a correction. On paper it sounds mental. On screen it just works.
Nigel Terry plays him on his deathbed, looking back over the tavern punch-ups, the rough trade, and the messy triangle with Sean Bean’s Ranuccio and Tilda Swinton’s Lena. Bean brings the swagger; Swinton, in her first film, already has that eerie certainty of someone who knows the camera belongs to her.
Jarman turns obvious limitations into style. Every frame looks lit from inside the paintings themselves: deep shadow, bruised gold, faces emerging from the dark. Less a biopic than a chain of living tableaux with a pulse. Gorgeous, faintly ridiculous, and unlike anything else.