Last summer, John Boorman embarked on what may prove to be his final film production. The location was the garden of his big house in Ireland. The cast were the towering trees that stand around it. During the 11-minute span of Tree Poems, Boorman tells us about the sycamore, the willow and the monkey puzzle he used to drape with Christmas lights every year. The director comes shuffling up the gravel drive, leaning on his stick, an old man among giants. When he turns back towards home, he vanishes from the frame.
Death, he admits, has been on his mind lately. Dead friends and forgotten films; successes and regrets. He turned 87 a few weeks ago,