Caught up in regrets and tangled in nets

Chris Newby, The Old Man of the Sea (1989):

Newby's equivalent initially seems harmless, a bed-ridden old man swathed in white satin sheets, but his languid, erotic and sometimes violent fantasies are vividly realised through poetic analogy. A splayed, almost naked male body reclines, starfish-like, on a rock, surrounded by dried salt and damp bladderwrack. A set of fish bones seems to have become detached from the plastic components of a model ship. Waves retreat in reverse motion, leaving a perfectly-arranged line-up of shells in their wake. Gravestones, their texts long eroded by time and the sea, still harbour beating hearts, while monumental religious architecture has much in common with that of shells and tiny sea creatures, especially when heat haze makes the buildings appear to tremble as though alive. In an appropriately Protean act of transmogrification, pages from Dickens are refashioned into a sail, a large starfish becomes the ship's wheel, a church spire its prow, a statue its figurehead and rumpled bedsheets the sea.

I need to find this film.