In the 1960s, British painter Francis Bacon (1909-1992) surprises a burglar and invites him to share his bed. The burglar, a working class man named George Dyer, thirty years younger than Bacon, accepts. Bacon finds Dyer's amorality and innocence attractive, introducing him to his Soho pals. In their sex life, Dyer dominates, Bacon is the masochist. Dyer's bouts with depression, his drinking, pill popping, and his Satanic nightmares strain the relationship, as does his pain with Bacon's casual infidelities. Bacon paints, talks with wit, and, as Dyer spins out of control, begins to find him tiresome. Could Bacon care less?Written by
Like a bomb exploding in reverse. Thoughts, ideas... fragments of images. Shards of memory, like shrapnel, all come back to me, and are forced back out in a cruel pastiche of experience.
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A quite astonishingly pretentious piece of work. Exclusive and cliquey, it assumes a knowledge and/or understanding of Bacon's work, which to me - as a Bacon virgin - was entirely distracting and interruptive in the extreme. Overall; far too 'clever' for it's own good.
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