I lasted through about 12 minutes---I came back to IMDb---I read the reviews.Do you have to major in Critical Thinking, Women's Studies, or some other new lefty claptrap to write reviews for IMDb---or maybe just to watch such astoundingly useless incoherent trash as this.Margaret Thatcher was very popular with MANY people in Great Britain. She was elected over and over. She rescued Great Britain from a nightmare of lefty Labour socialist dreams---just as Degaulle rescued France a decade or so previous.The dreams of the left have lead, over and over and over to , at best, stagnation, hopelessness, and despair; and at worst to the murder of millions of people (read The Black Book of Communism, or Harvest of Sorrow).Calling something art does not make it art.

"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.

This film seems to be a bizarre hybrid of David Lynch at his most weirdest and Jim Jarmush on an acid trip. There is no linear progression or any character development. Or any real characters when I think about it. Or story. Just a very strange mixture of disgusting visuals and gay imagery.For the first half of the movie we linger on a bunch of hobos in a demolished wasteland. We can't really tell if they are just living in an old factory or if the world has been destroyed by nuclear apocalypse. These scenes are tinted (or flooded) by either red, green or blue. The guys just walk around and stuff. Nothing special. I don't know why I didn't walk out of this movie. Obviously some part of it held my attention. I don't know what though. What's even stranger is that I WOULD recommend this film to others. If you like movies it's a good idea to see a few bizarre ones. If you don't like it that's fine. But I bet you can't fully explain WHY you don't like it. I can't explain why I even sat thru it.It's good to see. Even though it doesn't have the normal things associated with movies. IE script, producer and well…I dunno. Not much dialogue either.

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.