As the film loaded, to give me a bit of context, Clyde explained that Clark was an iconoclast of the eighties British dance world who mashed together ballet traditions with punk and gay subculture. The film was largely set at an old warehouse-turned-dance-studio in east London, called Chisenhale, and began with Clark waking up in the studio as if he lived there full time. In one corner of a large loft-like room with wooden floors and factory windows was Clark’s “bedroom” — a queen-sized bed, a clothing rack, piles of records and magazines, and a large poster of Elvis on the wall. Clark was something of a poster boy himself, a delectable imp with a bleached-blond mohawk, button chin, pouting lips, and a boyish face. He wore a sleeveless white T-shirt emblazoned with the words Beat Me, Bite Me, Whip Me, Fuck Me. He rolled out of bed and of course began to dance, moving about the space with grace and abandon. Gradually, other members of the company arrived until they were in a full-fledged warmup-cum-dance sequence.

“Oh my god, it’s you!” I shouted as young Giacomo, a skinny little fox with a shaved head and a metal safety pin through his left ear, entered the frame.

“Can you believe it?” he murmured, shaking his head and taking a sip of wine. “Makes me want to cry.”

“Come on, you weren’t that beautiful. Look at me!” shouted Clyde, bursting into his wheeze as he appeared onscreen. Young Clyde looked pretty much exactly like Old Clyde, except lithe and with better skin.

About ten minutes into the film a reporter dropped by to interview Clark as the other dancers lounged about, flirting and smoking. The company seemed to live by the axiom “working hard and hardly working.” Clark answered the reporter’s questions with nods, demure smiles, and shrugs — the recalcitrance of indulgent, bad-boy celebrity.

Clark’s dance pieces were filled with unabashed bravado and perversity. With their screeching punk vocals, spastic movement, and bare asses pointed towards the audience, they were resounding “fuck yous” to Margaret Thatcher, the calcified world of classical ballet, and the British bourgeoisie. But most memorable of all were the outrageous costumes and makeup — genderqueer marching band uniforms with drooping fabric breasts, police-style caps, platform heels, ass-less leotards, deconstructed clown makeup, red polka dot body paint, and all variety of wigs — designed by the then-reigning queen of the London underground, Leigh Bowery.