Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 23/1/2014)

In the spring of 1861, Johnnie Gray (Buster Keaton) rolls into Marietta, Georgia at the footplate of his beloved Western and Atlantic Flyer. He is followed by a couple of boys who regard him as a hero for driving a splendid locomotive like The General and he has to chase them away in order to court his sweetheart, Annabelle Lee (Marion Mack). They are interrupted by her brother (Frank Barnes) bringing the news that Fort Sumter has been fired upon and that the southern Confederacy is now at war with the northern Union. As her father (Charles Henry Smith) joins her sibling in rushing to the recruiting office, Annabelle tells Johnnie that she cannot love him unless he has a uniform and he speeds into town to get to the front of the queue. On presenting himself to the general in charge (Frederick Vroom), however, Johnnie is told that he is more valuable as an engineer than a soldier. But Annabelle thinks he is a coward for failing to enlist and disowns him.

One year later, Captain Anderson (Glen Cavender) approaches General Thatcher (Jim Farley) at Union headquarters at Chattanooga with a plan to steal a Confederate train and sabotage the track before reconnoitring with the advancing northern forces. Typically, Anderson chooses The General, which just happens to be carrying Annabelle on a mercy mission to her wounded father. Desperate to retrieve his engine, Johnnie gives chases on a handcar and a rickety bicycle before commandeering another train, The Texas, which is pulling a large cannon. Having inexpertly managed to fire the gun, Johnnie has to deal with an abandoned boxcar on the track. However, this fortuitously disappears in time for him to hurl a large log at a wooden sleeper that had been placed on the line.

Speeding along in hot pursuit, Johnnie is sent careering along the wrong track by some switched points. Undaunted, however, he doubles back and is so preoccupied with a flaming truck that he fails to notice the Confederate forces in full retreat behind him. When he finally realises he is behind enemy lines, Johnnie dons the top hat and frock coat he found in the cab toolbox and dashes into the woods (where he has an amusing encounter with a hat-thieving tree branch). Staggering through the brush, Johnnie finds a large house and breaks in hoping to find some food. However, he has stumbled into Thatcher's command post and has to take cover under a large table, where he overhears plans for a surprise attack at the Rock River bridge.

Through a hole in the tablecloth, Johnnie also sees Annabelle being brought in for questioning and, stealing a dark blue uniform, he sets about rescuing her and The General in time to warn the southern brass of the Union advance. She is delighted to see her beau and wonders if he is a hero after all. But there is no time for canoodling, especially they both manage to ensnare themselves in a bear trap in the woods before finally locating the locomotive at first light. Depositing Annabelle in the baggage car in a gunnysack, Johnnie knocks out Thatcher on the footplate and fires up the engine. In a parting gesture, he brings down a telegraph wire to disrupt communications and heads back home.

Meanwhile, Annabelle has uncoupled the rear trucks and Johnnie is impressed by her initiative. He brings her to the cab and places her at the controls while he takes an axe to the wooden wall in an effort to get some more fuel. He also clunks the reviving Thatcher before soaking Annabelle with the hose from a trackside tower when he stops to take on water. Seeing how close The Texas is getting, he leaves the spout running to douse Anderson and his cohorts. Needing more wood, Johnnie urges Annabelle to help him and throttles her in mock frustration when she starts sweeping and picks up tiny slivers to tosw into the boiler. They make good steam, however, and pull further away when Johnnie uncouples the baggage car, which causes The Texas to collide with a following supply engine, The Columbia.

On reaching some points leading to a branch line, Johnnie jumps down and bends the switch. However, Annabelle foolishly sets The General in motion and he has to speed down a hill to try and catch up with her. By the time he arrives, Annabelle has thrown the engine into reverse and Johnnie only just manages to prevent it falling into his own trap. Aware that Union troops are on the march, Johnnie builds a pyre of logs under the Rock River bridge and has to leap over the conflagration to get back aboard his train. Unfortunately, he misjudges the jump and lands in the river, but he is able to clamber back beside Annabelle and don a Confederate uniform in time to alert the generals to the imminent attack.

Despite having trouble with his sword belt, Johnnie reaches the bridge just as General Parker (Al St John) orders Anderson to take The Texas across. Still enraged at having been cooped up in the branch line, Anderson tells Parker that the bridge has been too badly damaged to take the weight of a locomotive. But he is sent forward anyway and promptly plummets into the river below. Confederate artillery opens fire on the Union cavalry and Johnnie becomes an accidental hero when his broken sword accounts for the last man standing in a decimated cannon crew. Returning to The General, Johnnie finds Thatcher coming round in the cab and is given a commission as a lieutenant for saving the day. Annabelle is so proud of him that she insists on kissing him as he is trying to take the salute from a parade in his honour.

At the very top of his game, Keaton plays his favoured role of a decent citizen who is wrongly branded a failure only to bounces back to triumph over adversity and misjudgement. Indeed, Johnnie Gray's odyssey is firmly at the centre of this rousing blend of slapstick, thrills and romance, which cleverly reverses the action of the first half in the second, as the pursuer becomes the pursued. But, as ever, Keaton relies heavily on a giant prop to bring out his resilience and resourcefulness. Yet, while the train virtually becomes the physical manifestation of Gray's all-action approach to life, Keaton also occasionally reduces Annabelle to the status of comic object, as Johnnie tries to master his predicament. That said, she is one of the feistier silent heroines and Gray certainly couldn't have held sway without her.

As the majority of the comedy stems from character and situation, Keaton kept his camera in a state of almost perpetual motion, although he resorted to a stately long shot as The Texas plunged off the bridge (a $42,000 shot that ranked among the most expensive of the entire silent era). But Keaton timed each gag to perfection, so that nothing was overplayed or extended, and it was this directorial efficiency that gave the picture an elegance to match its pace and precision. Sadly, however, contemporary critics and audiences failed to appreciate these eight reels of genius and Keaton's confidence was still teetering from the box-office setback when talkies arrived and he had to accept the loss of his creative freedom in signing a restrictive contract with MGM.

Ironically, as Keaton went into decline, his back catalogue became increasingly revered and this impeccable amalgam of comic inspiration and logistical exactitude was recognised as a masterwork. It will be interesting to see how it goes down with audiences accustomed to bland CGI spectacle, but even the most intransigent monochromophobe will surely be swayed by the authenticity and audacity of visuals which, thanks to Fred Gabourie's production design and Bert Haines and Devereaux Jennings's camerawork could frequently be mistaken for Matthew Brady photographs.

It should come as no surprise that a film about sperm donation should have spawned so many remakes. Following the success of his French-Canadian comedy Starbuck (2011), director Ken Scott roped Vince Vaughn into the Hollywood version, Delivery Man, which is currently getting a critical mauling and doing less than brisk business at the UK box office. Meanwhile, notwithstanding the existence of the Québécois original, Isabelle Doval felt that France needed its own take on the tale and, so, she has starred husband José Garcia in Fonzy, which is showing exclusively this week at the Ciné Lumière in London.

Life has scarcely improved for José Garcia in the quarter century since his 22 year-old self struggled to make his first deposit at the Vallee Fertility Clinic. Working as a delivery driver for the fish business Spanish father Gérard Hernandez runs on the outskirts of Paris with sons Laurent Mouton and Vérino, Garcia knows he has little chance of finding the €50,000 he owes to some Asian mobsters. Moreover, he suspects girlfriend Audrey Fleurot is right in thinking she would be better off raising the child alone when she announces she is pregnant. Yet, as he pours out his woes to lawyer pal and single father of four Lucien Jean-Baptiste, Garcia feels he has it in him to be a good dad and that he could turn his life around if he just catch a break.

Unfortunately, when lawyer Arnaud Tsamère shows up out of the blue, he proves to be the bearer of more bad news, as Garcia's 693 donations to the Vallee clinic have resulted in 533 children aged between 17-22 and 142 of them have joined forces to bring a class action to learn the identify of their genitor. Tsamère reassures Garcia that everything will be done to maintain his anonymity. But he also leaves an envelope containing profiles of the litigants, which Garica shows to Jean-Baptiste in the hope that he will be able to guide him through the looming crisis.

However, on discovering that one of his offspring is famous footballer Marvin Martin (the Lille star playing himself), Garcia becomes curious about some of the others. Thus, while Jean-Baptiste tries to convince him to sue Vallee for negligence, Garcia goes in search of tour guide Hugo Dessioux and goth musician Solal Forte. He also poses as a pizza delivery boy to meet Alice Belaïdi, whom he has to rush to hospital after she collapses from a drink-and-drugs cocktail. She persuades him that she was merely upset at being dumped and doesn't need to go into rehab, as it will spoil her chances of landing a prestigious internship. Mistaken for her father by the medics, Garcia has her signed into his care and he forms an equally strong bond with the severely disabled François Deblock when he visits his hostel.

Having taken sky-diving lessons in a wind tunnel from another `son', Garcia tracks down a street entertainer dressed as Superman, a beautician, a meter maid and café barman François Civil, who gets a part in a play after Garcia offers to take his shift so he can attend an audition. Feeling good about himself and the fine young people he has helped create, Garcia tells Jean-Baptiste that he intends being their guardian angel. Yet he hides the truth from Fleurot when he accompanies her for her first scan and cheers her up in a park playground by promising to be with her every step of the way. But he is also still deep in debt and pleads for more time to find the cash after throwing away the cannabis he had been growing in the hope of scoring some quick bucks.

As Jean-Baptiste brushes up on the finer points of the law in preparation for pleading that his client was mentally unstable when he made so many deposits, Garcia goes to a meeting of the 142 to see what he is up against. Several of those he has already met recognise him and he convinces them he is Deblock's adoptive father. The eccentric Forte has his doubts, however, and follows Garcia home, where he threatens to expose him unless he is allowed to stay. Tired of being picked on for being different, Forte wants to know which character traits he inherited from his genitor. But he quickly alienates Garcia, especially when he gets selected for his football teams and promptly picks up the ball and runs into the goal to score a try.

Yet, when Garcia takes Fleurot to meet his family for Sunday lunch, his past in an 80s punk band emerges, as does the fact that he paid for a second honeymoon in Venice just before his mother died. As they leave, Fleurot wonders if she has misjudged Garcia and hopes he is not hiding any bigger secrets from her. But Forte is furious with him for going behind his back and forces him to go to a picnic with the 142 the following weekend and Garcia has such a wonderful time as they play games, eat and cover themselves in multi-coloured powder paints that he drives off to fetch Deblock so that everyone can be together for the first time.

Despite Jean-Baptiste cautioning him to be more circumspect when the picnic makes the papers, Garcia is keen to reveal himself as Fonzy (the alias he took from the ultra-cool character played by Henry Winkler in the 50s pastiche sitcom, Happy Days). However, he changes his mind when he hears some of the kid calling the donor a pervert on a radio talk show and he is equally taken aback when Fleurot denounces Fonzy as an oddball. But he finally comes clean when Hernandez is held underwater by the Asians demanding their dough and he accepts his share in the fish business from his doting father to pay them off.

Recognising that being a parent is going to be expensive, Garcia instructs Jean-Baptiste to sue Vallee for malpractice and his case runs simultaneously with the 142 claim in a neighbouring courtroom. In a dual victory, the judges uphold his right to anonymity and award him €200,000 in damages. But Garcia is so touched by the reaction of his brood outside the courthouse at simply wanting to meet and thank him for making their lives possible that, even though he knows he will lose his payout, he sends culpability emails to everyone in the group.

With perfect timing, Fleurot goes into labour and Garcia is overjoyed to have a son. Hernandez calls him to come to the front of the hospital, where he finds dozens of kids waiting to say hello. Garcia introduces them all to his father and brothers and goes inside to own up to Fleurot. She is miffed that he uses a marriage proposal to soften the blow, but accepts him and his extended clan, as it means they will never be short of babysitters. As the film ends in a freeze frame, Garcia lines everyone up for a photograph for the family album.

Bearing similarities to Jerry Rothwell's 2010 documentary, Donor Unknown, Ken Scott's Starbuck centred on Polish immigrant Patrick Huard working for his butcher father in Montreal, while Delivery Man saw Vince Vaughn sticking to the same trade in New York. It's not as though Dorval and co-scenarists Garcia and Karine de Demo are trying to pull the wool over anyone's eyes, as they credit Scott and Martin Petit's original script. But they add too little new material to make this seem an entirely necessary exercise. Indeed, it seems astonishing that a woman director could let Fonzy off the hook with the mother of his new child so easily.

But the moral consequences of the prolific donation and rash institutional utilisation of sperm is almost of secondary concern here, as Dorval keeps things remorselessly upbeat, as Garcia learns the true meaning of fatherhood from Hernandez, Jean-Baptiste and his own guardian angelling. Garcia certainly makes an affable anti-hero and the support playing is solid. Moreover, Dorval avoids mawkishness even in potentially tricky scenes such as the first meeting with the wheelchair-bound Deblock and the nocturnal tête-à-tête with Hernandez. But, while this may be superior to the Hollywood knock-off, it lacks the coarse charm of the Huard version and is nowhere near as funny.

Artificial insemination was not even a twinkle in a scientist's eye for much of the period under discussion in Matt Wolf's documentary, Teenage. But parenting has virtually been airbrushed out of this slick, engaging, but disappointingly superficial adaptation of Jon Savage's epic tome, Teenage: The Creation of Youth 1875-1945. Apparently, the book emerged from the research Savage undertook for a mooted television series and it's a shame this format was not adopted here, as this 77-minute feature feels like an elongated trailer for an in-depth look at adolescence around the world. As it is, the focus falls solely on America, Britain and Germany, with the bulk of the material being drawn from the period between the 1918 Armistice and the 1945 edition of the New York Times that contained Elliot E. Cohen's manifesto, `A Teen-Age Bill of Rights'. What's here is fascinating, but so much more is missing and this sense of insufficiency undermines the entire project.

Mixing archive footage with archly composed reconstructions, Wolf and Savage decide that the gulf between childhood and adulthood was first bridged by a third stage of existence in 1904, when child labour laws were changed and young people no longer had to spend their days toiling in factories, mines and other arduous places of exploitative employment. When not in school, a growing number of juveniles got up to mischief in their crowded urban neighbourhoods (no attempt is made to examine rural affairs) and the authorities were at a loss to reverse rising crime rates.

One solution came from Britain, where Robert Baden Powell founded the Boy Scouts in 1910 in order to encourage young men to enjoy the outdoor life and learn fidelity to their faith, monarch and country. However, as one cynic put it (in an uncredited extract), the Scouts also prepared lads for the Great War, when millions volunteered and perished for a cause they scarcely understood in the hope of tasting glory. As stalemate left the Allies facing the Central Powers in trenches scarring the continent, the United States entered the conflict in 1917 and the Doughboys brought with them a glimpse of a fresh, vibrant society that stood in stark contrast to the decaying traditions of Europe.

As if to reinforce how drastically the world changed in the decade following the Treaty of Versailles, Wolf cross-cuts between veterans suffering from shellshock and young folks doing such modern dances as the Charleston. The flappers of the American Jazz Age found their counterparts in the Bright Young Things of London's upper echelons and a home movie clip shows Oswald Mosley putting on a skit with Cecil Beaton and Stephen Tennant. But not all of the fun was so innocent and Wolf and Savage include the scandalous case of aristocratic addict Brenda Dean Paul (Leah Hennessey) as a cautionary tale.

While Paul was succumbing to stimulants during country house weekends en route to spending time in Holloway Prison, the financiers on Wall Street were heading towards the crash that sparked the Depression and brought about the New Deal in the United States and the Third Reich in Germany. Yet, while American kids once more found themselves working to keep the wheels of industry rolling, their German counterparts were learning that tomorrow belonged to them in the Hitler Youth. Melita Maschmann (Ivy Blackshire) was among those idealists who unquestioningly embraced the movement before realising too late its true import. Unattributed passages are quoted from her 1963 memoir, Account Rendered, which are set against the experiences of Tommie Scheel (Ben Rosenfield), a boy from Hamburg who had becomes so obsessed with imported Swing music that he was prepared to endure punishment in a detention camp `to tell these dumb bastards that we were different'.

As one might expect of the director of Wild Combination: A Portrait of Arthur Russell (2008), Wolf ably captures the excitement that Swing caused on both sides of the Atlantic. Yet, he also pauses to highlight how average African-Americans like Warren Wall (Malik Peters) felt about the true extent of socio-cultural interaction under Franklin Delano Roosevelt. As the voice-over states, white folks were happy to have black soldiers fighting for them overseas, but they didn't want them on their buses, in their schools or at their lunch counters. But, having stated that the Armed Forces were one of the few areas where integration was tolerated and having touched upon the infamous Zoot Suit Riots (in about as much detail as they discuss the Edelweiss Pirates), Wolf and Savage decide against delving more deeply and opt to end their survey in Year Zero with a flash-cut montage of instances of teenage rebellion that would characterise the ensuing seven decades.

Given the centrality of teenagers to the seismic cultural, consumerist and communication booms of the last half century, it's tantalising to think of a time when youth was an irrelevant inconvenience envied only by the elderly. The story of its evolution demands more time and space than Wolf and Savage have at their disposal and it's a shame that so many nations are ignored and that the the chosen exemplars appear to have been selected so randomly. It is also frustrating that the insights supplied off-camera by Jena Malone, Ben Whishaw, Alden Ehrenreich, Jessie Usher, Daniela Leder and Julia Hummer are uncaptioned and embellished by faux recollections whose modern idioms are ruinously anachronistic. The insertion of Super 8 clips to pad out the monochrome vintage footage is less egregious, although cinematographer Nick Bentgen's lighting and texturing are never as deft as Joe Beshenkovsky's editing.

The score by Bradford Cox also has its jarring moments. But it's the refusal to provide any worthwhile context or analyse the sociological aspects in any depth that proves most irksome, as though Wolf and Savage were hoping to snag an attention-deficit adolescent audience by sticking to snippets and sound bites. The almost capricious overlooking of the impact made by cinema and Hollywood's prototype teen, Andy Hardy (who was played by Mickey Rooney in 15 MGM programmers between 1937-46) is also regrettable. Technically and stylistically, this patchwork blurring of fact and fiction is highly astute. But the result is a snapshot when wha't needed is a boxed set.

The growing popularity of sport was one of the by-products of the increased leisure time available to adolescents and motor racing found a niche among the wealthier classes from the 1920s onwards. Speed was always the name of the game. Indeed, as Paul Crowder and narrator Michael Fassbender reveal in 1 - Life On the Limit, such was the emphasis on the reckless courage required to take the chequered flag that safety was never a priority for either the drivers or the event organisers and, as a consequence, many died needlessly on the track. Richard Heap did a decent job of exposing the sport's technical and administrative shortcomings in Grand Prix: The Killer Years (2011), which was shown on the BBC. Yet, while Crowder covers much the same ground with many of the same talking heads, his experience as an editor on Stacy Peralta's skateboarding and surfing documentaries Dogtown and Z-Boys (2001) and Riding Giants (2004) ensures that this is a much slicker account, even if it can't quite match the mastery of Asif Kapadia's Senna (2010).

On 10 March 1996, Martin Brundle survived an horrific crash during the Australian Grand Prix in Melbourne. Indeed, such was the sturdiness of the Jordan that Brundle barrel rolled that he was able to run along the track to find chief medic Sid Watkins in order to get his clearance to resume the race in a replacement car. It is unthinkable that anything similar could have happened during the previous 50 years of the sport's tragedy-strewn history and Crowder opens this grittily nostalgic account with a montage of classic footage to take motor sport from its first meets to the postwar era when drivers replaced fighter pilots as the heroes of schoolboys everywhere.

Nigel Mansell, Damon Hill and John Watson recall the legendary rivalry between Juan Manuel Fangio and Stirling Moss, with Emerson Fittipaldi and Michael Schumacher averring that the Argentine (who won the world title five times) was the greatest driver of them all. But he retired in 1958, just as a new breed of supercar was being introduced by Colin Chapman at Lotus. Mario Andretti and John Surtees agree that this cavalier engineer changed the sport forever and their contention is supported by son Clive Chapman, designer John Bernard and Brazilian ace Fittipaldi, who insists that Chapman was the kind of maverick team boss for whom it was a pleasure to race.

Jim Clark was Lotus's star driver in the 1960s and fellow Scot Jackie Stewart declares him the smoothest and canniest competitor he ever faced. Clark enjoyed a fierce, but friendly rivalry with Graham Hill and girlfriend Sally Swart recalls how the drivers were essentially a band of brothers who partied and holidayed together with their partners, who often acted as unofficial time-keepers and formed their own cabal, the Doghouse Club. The favourite Grand Prix during this period was Monaco and Damon Hill, Jody Scheckter, Jenson Button and Lewis Hamilton all concur that downtown Monte Carlo remains the tightest, trickiest and most exciting circuit. Mechanic Jo Ramirez proclaims Ayrton Senna the master of the streets, as his peerless powers of concentration enabled him to win the race on six occasions, one more than Graham Hill, whose skill and charm are lauded by Grace Kelly in a clip that follows a thrilling cockpit point-of-view sequence that is accompanied by the driving sound of the Focus instrumental, `Hocus Pocus'.

In 1967, however, Lorenzo Bandini died in a fiery crash that prompted drivers to demand changes to the way racing was run. Each of the 23 cars on the grid now had lighter chassis and more powerful engines and yet the tracks and their perimeters remained the same. Drivers wanted some of the money being raised by selling sponsorship space on their vehicles and uniforms to be reinvested in safety precautions. But, as Max Mosley (who was then driving in Formula Two) recalls, nothing was done and, as a result, pin-up Jim Clark perished in an F2 race at Hockenheim on 7 April 1968 when a tyre deflated and he careered into trees on a part of the circuit that was unprotected by barriers. The shockwaves reverberated throughout the motor sport fraternity - as can be seen by Bruce McLaren's stunned reaction while being interviewed the next day by Peter Purves on Blue Peter. - as everyone realised that if someone of Clark's calibre could die, so could they.

A month after Clark's funeral, Graham Hill was back in harness at the Spanish Grand Prix, which he won on his way to becoming world champion. But another Britain was making his mark and Jackie Stewart's thrilling win at Monza in 1969 convinced Enzo Ferrari to redouble his efforts to regain the constructors' championship he had last won five years earlier. Surtees remembers the passion of the Italian fans with great fondness and Schumacher admits that it took him a while to realise the special relationship that Ferrari drivers have with their supporters.

Back in the 1970s, however, Ferrari's commandatore was playing catch-up with Colin Chapman, who had added wings to his Lotus cars to increase their aerodynamic downforce. There were slight teething problems, with the wings collapsing on Graham Hill and Austrian Jochen Rindt on only their second outing at Montjuich, outside Barcelona, in 1969. Engineer Eddie Dennis and driver John Miles reckon that this incident shook the unpredictable Rindt's faith in Chapman and he became more difficult to handle than ever. Orphaned at 15 months and buying fast cars with his inheritance at 18, Rindt was not used to taking orders and manager Bernie Ecclestone ensured that his opinions were heard. Nevertheless, Chapman continued to experiment with modifications, with the wings being perfected almost on an ad hoc basis as the season progressed.

Having won triumphantly at Zandvoort in the Netherlands and opened up a huge lead on Jack Brabham in the championship race, Rindt decided to remove the wings at Monza. However, he lost control of the car and was killed at the age of just 28, leaving his widow Nina to collect the only posthumous title in the sport's history. What made his death more tragic was that the Grand Prix Drivers' Association had an ambulance at the circuit, but it was not used and the driver of the local vehicle took Rindt to the wrong hospital. Bruce McLaren and Piers Courage also lost their lives that season and, as Ecclestone and Mosley came to the forefront of those calling for root-and-branch reform, Andretti reveals that drivers were wondering why their cars were becoming so dangerous when rockets could land men on the Moon and bring them home in one piece.

As an 11 year-old boy, Koen Vergeer (who would go on to write the bestseller Formula One Fanatic) could see that Grand Prix racing was a perilous occupation and John Hogan, Maurice Hamilton and Paddy McNally recall how badly organised many events were. In some ways, the problems were rooted in a lack of funding, as television coverage of what was still essentially a minority sport was patchy at best. Things changed, however, when the rivalry between Jackie Stewart and Jacky Ickx intensified in the early 1970s. But this was much more than a clash of egos on the track, as Stewart wanted seat belts and other safety apparatus to become mandatory, while Ickx felt such measures depleted the sense of danger that was the sport's key selling point. When Ickx refused to join the GPDA, his opponents voted to cancel the Belgian's home race at Spa until their concerns were addressed and, with Ecclestone and Mosley now both team owners, they began to have a bigger say in how the sport operated.

The new drivers on the grid also made their views known, among them Jody Scheckter, Emerson Fittipaldi, John Watson, David Purley, Roger Williamson, Ronnie Peterson and François Cevert. But little changed in the short term, as 11 cars were retired at Silverstone in 1973 and the macho gladiatorial spirit that caused the largest pile-up meant that nobody but Purley stopped to assist Williamson when his car ignited at Zandvoort and the race continued to its conclusion. Stewart laments that the mindset of the time prioritised winning at all costs and recalls the Fédération Internationale de l'Automobile bringing in new fire and safety regulations, as the Doghouse Club started collecting for the families of lost colleagues.  

Yet there was still an element of amateurism in the sport, which was epitomised by 22 year-old Lord Hesketh setting up his own racing team, with its logo depicting a teddy bear in a Union Jack crash helmet. Eddie Jordan recalls how many insiders disapproved of toffs playing with fast cars. But the mood changed when James Hunt emerged as a serious contender for the title and girlfriend Jane Birbeck enthuses that he became an overnight icon, whose fast living made as many headlines as his speedy driving.

Indeed, the social side of motor racing was considered one of its perks, with the parties at Seneca Lodge during the weekend of the American Grand Prix at Watkins Glen being among the highlights. Jackie Stewart knew that the 1973 race would be his last at the circuit, as he planned to retire after his 100th outing. However, he withdrew out of respect when prodigy François Cevert was killed during qualifying and Stewart flinches as he recalls the horror of the injuries the playboy Frenchmen suffered. What made the accident so dismaying is that it could have been avoided if the barriers had been a fraction higher and Scheckter and Fittipaldi wonder how they managed to carry on when they knew their bosses set such little store by their safety.

John Watson remembers Bernie Ecclestone urging him to drive after Cevert's smash, as he had been doing what he loved right up until the second he died. But the calls for reform grew louder as Peter Revson (the heir to the Revlon cosmetics empire) and Austrian rookie Helmuth Koinigg were killed within weeks of each other in 1974. The following season, reigning champion Emerson Fittipaldi refused to race at Montjuich, as the barriers fell apart when he kicked them. Yet, when the intrepid Jacky Ickx took to the track regardless, the others couldn't resist the challenge and Fittipaldi lost a boycott vote and completed a single lap before retiring in protest. Mechanics from the various teams had been out repairing the crash barriers of the own volition. But they couldn't prevent four spectators from being killed when German Rolf Stommelen flew into the crowd on his 25th circuit.

According to Max Mosley and journalist Nigel Roebuck, this episode proved the last straw, as the authorities recognised that the drivers needed protecting from themselves. They were aided in their cause by an upsurge in public interest sparked by the burgeoning rivalry between James Hunt and Nikki Lauda. This has already inspired Matthew Whiteman's BBC film Hunt vs Lauda: F1's Greatest Racing Rivals, as well as Ron Howard's Rush, which starred Chris Hemsworth and Daniel Brühl. But Crowder rehashes the story of the 1976 season in excessive detail, as McLaren and Ferrari went all out for the crown, which seemed to be going to the Austrian after he won four of the first six races. However, Hunt bagged two of his own and would have chalked up a third, but for a demotion in Spain. But the turning point came during the German Grand Prix at the Nürburgring.

Built in the Weimar era (and not at the behest of Hitler, as is stated here), the track was 22km around and notorious for the 17 jumps that often sent cars airborne. Jackie Stewart describes it as  dangerous, but thrilling and Lauda was so concerned about the state of the circuit that he called for the race on 1 August to be abandoned. He lost by a single vote and, when he crashed on the second lap, he only avoided losing his life as well because Brett Lunger stopped to haul him out of his seat. Such were the extent of the burn injuries, however, that few expected him to survive and Lauda recalls sourly how his wife's tears on seeing how badly he had been hurt did little to raise his morale. Yet, five weeks later, he was back behind the wheel at Monza, where his fourth place finish was hailed as an act of supreme courage.

Moreover, Lauda remained three points ahead of Hunt in the championship, which turned the season finale in Japan into the decider. Such was the global interest in the race that it dawned on Ecclestone that Formula One was the next big TV sport and he bought the rights to all the races for $1 million. He offered the other nine team owners a share, but they turned him down and, as a consequence, he became ridiculously rich and motor racing's new kingpin. On 24 October 1976, however, he lacked the clout to force Lauda into competing when torrential rain reduced visibility at 180mph to 20%. Having experienced the horrors of a crash, Lauda was not prepared to put himself or his family through the trauma again and Hunt went on to finish third (in spite of tyre trouble) and win the championship by a single point.

Jo Martinez openly admits that he has never forgiven Lauda for being selfish that day and putting himself before his Ferrari teammates. But, when one considers the facial injuries that Lauda sustained, it is difficult to sympathise with Martinez's viewpoint. Ecclestone and Mosley certainly didn't agree, as they were keen to avoid drivers dying on live television. Yet, even though Sid Watkins was installed as the new medical supremo, he was prevented by the police from tending to Ronnie Peterson after James Hunt pulled him from his Lotus at Monza in September 1978. He died the following day from complications arising from the crushing of his legs and Watkins insisted on standardising medical response procedures and even persuaded Ecclestone that he should follow the first (and most dangerous) lap of every race in a safety car.

Only four more drivers were lost during testing and races over the next 16 years. But events at Imola in the spring of 1994 demonstrated once more how dangerous motor racing could be. The day after Brazilian Rubens Barrichello had survived a crash in practice, Austrian Roland Ratzenberger was killed in qualifying. But it was the death on 1 May of golden boy Ayrton Senna that most shocked the sport, as the three-time champion was a megastar whom many believed was the greatest driver of all time. Lewis Hamilton reflects on his nine year-old self crying at the loss of his hero and new FIA chief Max Mosley vowed to eradicate fatalities from F1. Sid Watkins was charged with analysing every facet of the sport to avert deaths and Martin Brundle's 1996 near miss seemed to confirm he had done an excellent job. Sebastian Vettel opines that it remains a crazy sport, but the fact that Robert Kubica and Mark Webber could walk away unscathed from horrendous crashes finally prompted Jacky Ickx to concede that Jackie Stewart might have been right all along in campaigning for safety.

Senna remains the last driver to die in a grand prix, but it remains a mystery why the authorities were so slow to react to the fact that 15 drivers died in the 1950s, 14 in the 1960s and 12 in the 1970s. It speaks volumes that only six have been lost since 1980 and Crowder denounces the faceless and unnamed officials responsible for the earlier carnage with cogency and power. As he showed in Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos (2006) and Amazing Journey: The Story of The Who (2007), which he co-directed with Murray Lerner, Crowder is an engaging storyteller, who marshals his archival and interview material with care and flair. He also proves more tactful than Richard Heap in presenting footage of the fatal accidents and has chosen some cracking rock tracks to counterpoint the action. But Crowder is also prone to factual inaccuracy and digression. He also lingers over-long on the Hunt-Lauda showdown and might have allowed some of the expert input to play over contemporary imagery instead of constantly depicting middle-aged men sitting against uninspiring backdrops. Yet, while petrolheads may grumble at the lack of fresh insights, newcomers will be grateful for this melancholic chronicle before it starts to resemble a fawning tribute to Messrs Mosley and Ecclestone.

Finally, this week, comes a welcome, if somewhat baffling reissue. Despite the fact that Marc Singer's documentary Dark Days was originally released in 2000, Dogwoof insists it is marking its 10th anniversary by returning it to cinemas prior to launching a double DVD. Matters of dating aside, this is a compelling portrait of the 75-strong indigent community living in the so-called Freedom Tunnel outside Manhattan's Penn Station in the late 1990s. However, the fact that so many of the questions it raises can only be answered by the extra features in the home entertainment package smacks of a cynicism one doesn't usually associate with an excellent company committed to actuality cinema. It is becoming increasingly common for films to be released for a week to garner nationwide reviews before being consigned to disc. But, on this occasion, it feels particularly frustrating, as Dark Days is such a significant piece of work and because those who pay to see it in theatres are being so obviously short-changed.

Having relocated from London, Marc Singer was so moved by the group of dispossessed, but dignified and determined people enduring a subterranean existence that he decided to make a film to help alleviate their plight. Despite having no experience, he spent the next two years filming on monochrome Kodak stock with a 16mm camera that was either handheld or fitted to makeshift Steadicam dollies. As time went by, his subjects became his crew. However, Amtrak decided to demolish the shanty, prompting Singer and photographer Margaret Morton to seek the assistance of the Coalition for the Homeless, who managed to secure vouchers from the Department of Housing and Urban Development that entitled the bearers to their own apartments. Yet, even though the majority were delighted to be stepping back on to the lower rungs of the social ladder, they felt a certain sadness at the break up of a community that had afforded them a modicum of security and stability, in some cases, for many years.

Opening with a shadowy sequence of a single figure walking through deserted night-time streets to an out-of-the-way entrance to the tunnels beneath midtown New York, Singer surveys the row of rickety billets that have been fashioned out of sheet plastic, plywood and scrap metal. Most are illegally connected to the electricity supply, while many have furniture and some even have carpeting, stoves and televisions. All are inhabited by folks who have come to mistrust the network of homeless shelters, as theft and disease are rife and rules are rigidly applied. Some 80% of the occupants are crack addicts, but Singer doesn't dwell on drugs, degradation or despair. Instead, he focuses on the indomitability of outcasts of all ages, races and creeds, who have come to form an unconventional family in the face of poverty, alienation and psychological frailty.

Several residents have tragic tales to tell. Still in his early 20s, Tommy fled an abusive home in South Carolina and is now grateful for the sanctuary the tunnel affords him to care for the dogs he keeps in a specially built pen. At the opposite end of the age range, Henry is a former railroad and construction worker who finds fulfilment in keeping his new friends hooked up to the mains. Among his satisfied customers is Ralph, a thoughtful fellow in his mid-40s who is unashamedly house proud and frets that his two dogs keep making a mess. However, he remains tormented by the fact that his five year-old daughter was raped and mutilated while he was in prison and fiftysomething Dee (who is one of the few woman in the cabal) still mourns the two children she lost in a fire when she was high on crack.

At one point, Dee's shack is destroyed by an arsonist. But Singer refuses to disclose the reasons for the attack. Similarly, he skirts issues such as sanitation and where the money to feed habits comes from. Lee raises cash by scavenging and selling whatever he can, whether it is CDs, book or magazines (gay porn sells particularly well) or cans and bottles for recyling. But it's clear that not everyone is as industrious and many viewers will want more information about more fleeting individuals like Brian, Bernard, José, Ronnie, Marayah, Mike, S. Henry, Esteban, Atoulio, Cathy, Joe, Tito, the Twins, Greg, Ozzy, Maria and Jasmine. Some address the camera, but others pass like spectres in the eerily lit cavern.

As they came to know Singer, some of the more gregarious started acting as unofficial crew members, as he sought to film the foraging vermin that scurried around the camp and occasionally came into direct competition with the occupants for food. But the nightmarish aspects of dwelling in the dank and dark are kept off camera. Singer also prefers flashes of grim wit to outbursts of violence and one does get the impression that his closeness to the community convinced him to spare them the humiliation of having their bleaker actions and opinions exposed. He also opts against conveying any sense of timescale. Consequently, things seem to move disconcertingly quickly after Amtrack decides to evict the squatters and Singer enlists the Coalition for the Homeless. It would be instructive to know what happened between the scenes of excited (if slightly regretful) derelicts taking sledgehammers to their refuges and Lee, Dee and Ralph settling into their new abodes.

A shortage of funds and a battle to retain artistic control meant that Singer struggled through the editing process with Melissa Neidich. But the resulting picture, which is evocatively scored by DJ Shadow, was hailed as a compassionate tribute to the denizens of the Freedom Tunnel. One suspects similar projects could easily have been mounted in numerous cities across the United States (or, for that matter, across the world) during the recession that followed the credit crunch. But, the passage of time has deprived this humanist record of its socio-historical context, with the result that few will realise the discarded people Singer encountered were hiding from Mayor Rudy Giuliani's campaign to clean up the city and those who didn't conform to his sense of civic propriety. Yet, society's attitude to those on its periphery has changed so little in the intervening two decades that content and title of Dark Days remains as depressingly pertinent as ever.