Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 20/3/2014)

Experienced screenwriters Fabio Grassadonia and Antonio Piazza make their feature bow with Salvo, a semi-expansion of their 2009 short, Rita, in which a 10 year-old blind girl escapes the clutches of her over-protective mother when an intruder takes her boating on the sea. The duo seem to have been influenced in their opening scene by Jean-Pierre Melville's hitman classic Le Samouraï (1967), while their bid to break away from the crime conventions established by Francesco Rosi and Fernando Di Leo brings them closer to such revisionist outings as Paolo Sorrentino's The Consequences of Love (2004), Matteo Garrone's Gomorrah (2008) and Leonardo Di Costanzo's The Interval (2012). However, those with longer memories may also spot similarities with William Wyler's The Collector (1965) and Terence Young's Wait Until Dark (1967), as the action unfolds.

The scene is Palermo during a heatwave and the sense of oppression is evident as Saleh Bakri and boss Mario Pupella get stuck in a backstreet traffic jam. However, it quickly becomes clear that they have strayed into an ambush and Bakri has to rely on his wits and sure eye to protect Pupella and discover the name of the rival who ordered the attack. Having killed the informant and sent Pupella back to his lair deep beneath the city, Bakri goes to the waterfront home of his adversary. In a brilliantly executed long Steadicam take, Bakri breaks in and creeps around the property looking for his quarry. He is distracted by the sound of music coming from the basement and descends to find Sara Serraiocco counting money and singing along to her favourite song.

Realising from the darkness permeated only by thin shafts of sunlight coming through the blinds that Serraiocco is blind, Bakri lies in wait for his prey. However, he fails to appreciate that Serraiocco's hearing has become more sensitive as a result of her condition and she not only detects his presence, but also tries to warn her brother when he returns. A shootout follows and Bakri fills his foe off camera. He knows he should finish off Serraiocco to prevent there being any witnesses to his crime. But he was smitten by her photograph before he set eyes on her and now feels responsible for her well-being.

Smuggling her out of the house, Bakri hides Serraiocco in a room in a disused cement factory on the outskirts of town and reassures her that he will allow nothing to happen to her. She takes his word, because when he waved his hand in front of her face to check if she could see anything, Serraiocco was suddenly able to make out the blur of light between his fingers and she convinces herself that her protector may be a miracle worker. Bakri feels only trepidation and guilt, as he returns to his lodgings with Luigi Lo Cascio and Giuditta Perriera, who not only look after him, but also keep an eye on him for Pupella. However, while he takes to sleeping on the sofa and taking his meals in their kitchen, they are too busy bickering to notice the change in Bakri's demeanour or his habit of sneaking out at night to see Serraiocco and bring her food.

As time passes, the pair become closer and, when Bakri tears down the curtain she has put across the window of her cell, she is able to make out the shape of his head for the first time. But, despite reassuring Pupella that he eliminated all witnesses, Bakri's twitchiness around his fellow foot soldiers (one of whom takes exception to his bellowed exhortation to turn down some pop music on the car stereo) convinces them that he has something to hide. One night, therefore, he is followed to the factory and shot when he refuses to hand over his hostage. They pair manage to escape and Bakri urges Serraiocco to take a boat away from Sicily. But she refuses to leave him and they hole up in her family home, where they watch the sea from the window, as Bakri slowly succumbs to his wounds.

It's hard to escape the mystical allegorical undertones conveyed by the anti-hero's name and his seemingly miraculous powers. Yet Grassadonia and Piazza treat Bakri's salvation and Serraiocco's partial cure with a matter-of-factness that characterises the rest of the action, whether it is dealing with the scorching weather, Pupella's bunker mentality or Bakri's habit of anticipating his alarm clock. For all its restraint and authenticity, however, this never feels like a slice of quotidian Sicilian life, as the elegant fluidity of Daniele Cipri's Steadicam work and the lyrical impressionism of his presentation of Serraiocco's burgeoning perspective draw as much attention to themselves as Marco Dentici's atmospheric interiors and Guillaume Sciama and Emmanuel Di Giunta's deliberately heightened soundscapes.

The performances are similarly stylised, with the Palestinian Bakri's steely detachment echoing Alain Delon's in Le Samouraï, while Serraiocco exudes a mix of vigour and vulnerability that recalls Samantha Eggar and Audrey Hepburn in the aforementioned Wyler and Young thrillers. Yet, the two halves of the storyline never quite coalesce and the scenario becomes increasingly formulaic once the teasing liaison between Bakri and Serraiocco is established. Nevertheless, what impresses here is Grassadonia and Piazza's eschewal of superfluous chat and their use of Palermo and its sights, sounds and reputation to suggest decay, demoralisation and the possibility that twilight might well be closing in on the heyday of organised crime.

German Benjamin Heisenberg also opts against delving too deeply into the mindset and motivation of his protagonist in The Robber, an adaptation of a Martin Prinz novel that was inspired by the life and 1980s crimes of Johann Kasternberger, whose use of a Ronald Reagan mask during his audacious daylight raids earned him the nickname `Pumpgun Ronny'. Once again, the influence of such Berliner Schule cohorts as Christian Petzold, Christoph Hochhäusler and Maren Ade is evident in the crisply perfunctory visuals and the determined bid to invest generic tropes with a new artistic worth. But, the Viennese setting also prompts one to seek the imprint of Michael Haneke and such acolytes as Ulrich Seidl, Barbara Albert and Jessica Hausner, who all contributed to the Cinema Must Be Dangerous anthology (2006), which was published under the aegis of the Revolver group, which boasts Heisenberg as a leading light.

Following on from the featurette, At the Lake (2001), and his full-length debut, Sleeper (2005), Heisenberg's sophomore effort is a competent character study that makes solid use of its contrasting locales. However, such is the steely passivity demonstrated by Andreas Lust, as the marathon runner who is also a gun-toting bank robber, that it's impossible for viewers to fathom what lies behind his twin compulsions. Moreover, by withholding details of the ties that bind Lust to social worker Franziska Weisz (who appears to know about his shady past, but has no idea about his departure from the straight and narrow), it's difficult to care to any great extent about their romantic fate.

Encouraged by probation officer Markus Schleinzer to pursue a rigorous fitness regime in prison, Lust is even allowed a running machine in his cell. Yet, despite entering the prestigious Vienna marathon on his release, it's clear that he has no intention of turning over a new leaf. Indeed, even after bumping into Weisz while discussing his work prospects, he embarks upon a series of daring robberies that are effectuated with the same ruthless precision that he brings to his running. Attracted by his taciturnity, Weisz suspects nothing. However, she is discomfited when he reacts jealously to her chatting to another man and, when she finds his mask, gun and a bag of cash under the bed, she realises his true nature and orders him out of her apartment.

Frustrated at being jilted, Lust breaks the terms of his parole. When Schleinzer tracks him down to a cross-country event to confront him, Lust beats him to death with the winner's trophy and Weisz agrees to co-operate with cops Johann Bednar and Max Edelbacher as a city-wide manhunt gets under way. Lust is arrested in a hotel room, but he escapes from custody before being coerced into signing a confession and takes off on foot through the woods. He breaks into the home of an elderly man and demands the use of his car. However, the have-a-go senior stabs Lust with a penknife as he ties him up and Lust realises he is going to die as he is chased along the highway by a police helicopter. Stealing a second card from a lay-by, Lust gives the cops the slip before pulling on to the hard shoulder. He phones Weisz and asks her to stay on the line so he is not alone and, as she slips away, she professes her love for him.

Heisenberg stages the heists with detached proficiency. But the lack of suspense (even during a bravura dual snatch sequence) deprives them of any sense of risk and the audience isn't even allowed to latch on to the odd vicarious thrill, as Lust derives as little pleasure from his criminality as he does from the record-breaking race results that briefly make him a minor celebrity.

Obsessed with his own physique and performance, Lust is suitably lean and enigmatic as the emotionless athlete, who is almost presented like the subject of a wildlife documentary, as Heisenberg explores his habitat and the way is stalks its prey and seeks out a mate. But, while he deftly uses Lust's fleeting fame to reinforce the anonymity of his secret life, Heisenberg prevents him from generating any sparks with Weisz, whose underwritten role essentially reduces her to a cipher. Consequently, this feels more like a successfully executed technical exercise than a human drama. Reinhold Vorschneider's cinematography and Veronika Hlawatsch's sound design are particularly impressive. But such flashes of brilliance are undermined by the dearth of psychological insight.

Continuing this week's vogue for refusing to explain a milieu or justify an action, Caradog W.  James pitches viewers of The Machine into a futuristic Britain that is still in the depths of a recession, but is now involved in a cold war with China. Bathing his minimalist sets in dense shadow and harsh spotlight to disguise the paucity of his budget, James presses on with the assurance of a sleepwalker whenever a character behaves bizarrely solely to advance the plot or the entire premise seems set to detach from logic. But, in cleaving to such tried and trusted sci-fi sources as Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1818), Fritz Lang's Metropolis (1982) and Ridley Scott's Blade Runner (1982), James manages to create an atmospheric, involving and, ultimately touching and provocative treatise on macho folly, matriarchal compassion and humanity's relationship with technology.

Experimenting with fitting combat victims with neural implants in the hope of creating an android fighting force, scientist Toby Stephens is perplexed by the fact the devices render the subjects mute and prone to extreme violence. In the hope of finding a solution to his dilemma, he holds interviews for a new assistant and he is deeply impressed by American Caity Lotz, who has developed a system that seems capable of creating empathy within an artificial intelligence. As she leaves the top secret headquarters, Lotz is approached by the distraught Helen Griffin, who insists the base is being used for sinister purposes and demands to know the whereabouts of son Jean Paul Macleod, who is one of Stephens's guinea pigs. .

Ministry of Defence official Denis Lawson is desperate for Stephens to make rapid progress. However, he has an ulterior motive for conducting his research, as he needs to create a responsive host for the brain of his dying daughter, Jade Croot, and he needs Lotz's software to take the next step. However, having lost her way in the bowels of the facility and been spooked by menacing security chief Pooneh Hajimohammadi and Lawson's mole, Sam Hazeldinen, Lotz decides to snoop on Lawson and expose his vicious agenda. But he catches her in the act and has no compunction in having her eliminated.

Stephens mourns her loss as a colleague, but it quick to recognise Lotz's cyborg potential and he grafts her likeness on to The Machine. However, while this shell is also fitted with her intellect to allow Lotz to retain her curiosity and make her own decisions, her emotional range is limited and she rapidly develops a puppyish affection for Stephens. While he urges Lotz to co-operate with Lawson and keep her talents hidden from Hazeldine, Lawson starts to lose patience, as he is under MoD orders to come up with androids capable of not only fighting a war, but also negotiating with the enemy and making peace. The latter elements don't interest Lawson, however, as he wants to turn Lotz into a killing machine and he activates a hidden code in her make-up that turns her into a lethal, but conscience-stricken assassin.

Aware that Stephens and Lotz are in cahoots, Lawson informs the boffin that he has stolen the last computerised copy of Croot's brain functions and he will erase it unless Stephens agrees to shut down The Machine's consciousness and render it entirely compliant. However, the pair dupe Lawson and Lotz leads a rebellion of the cyborg troopers that results in carnage. Lotz spares Lawson, but removes his threat by damaging the upper part of his brain. Moreover, Stephens manages to save Croot's brain and download it to a tablet. Thus, as dawn breaks over an idyllic location, he looks on with a mix of fondness and trepidation, as Lotz and Croot interact with an intelligence that far outstrips his own and a sensitivity that he hopes might take humanity in more peaceful, gynocratic direction.

Teeming with ideas, but sluggish to establish its storyworld and occasionally wayward in its plotting, this is a picture destined for cult status. Erik Rehl's production design and Nicolai Brüel's cinematography are outstanding considering the resources at Caradog James's disposal, while his own vision of a dystopian future is suitably disconcerting. Stephens and Lawson are rather allowed to take it in turns to gnaw on the scenery, with the former's Benthamite lamentations often feeling as lame as the latter's sub-par Bond villain quips. But they cannot be faulted for their commitment, especially as they are consistently upstaged by the dazzling Lotz, whose past as a dancer with Lady Gaga comes in handy when she breaks into a thrilling balletic outpouring of emotion to a piece of classical music. Shot in bluish light, this dazzling sequence is both beautiful and daunting, as its exuberance contrasts so starkly with the zombie-like shuffling of the other droids, who have found their own way to express themselves though a furtive mumbling that their human controllers can never understand.

Implying that the future is closer than we think and that mere mortals have no idea what we may be hostaging themselves to if covert bellicose projects are allowed to continue unchecked, this thoughtful, if frequently derivative film throws a pleasing curveball in the final frames by couching the optimistic finale in feminist terms. But the thought must linger in the minds of everyone watching: what happened to those tooled-up cybernetic troopers and what are they saying about us now?

Five decades ago, a Welshman called Owen wrote a screenplay about a day in the life of a pop band that became one of the most important British films of the 1960s. In transferring his popular web series to the big screen, Jonny Owen has not been able to replicate his namesake Alun's success with A Hard Day's Night and director John Hardwick is scarcely on a par with Richard Lester. But, while Svengali leaves much to be desired, it also has a conviction and an energy that enables this rattlebag of clichés and caricatures to amuse fitfully, while presenting almost no authentic insights into the workings of the modern music industry.

Postman Jonny Owen has always had an ear for music. So, he decides to leave his sleepy Welsh town and move to London with girlfriend Vicky McClure to find a band to manage to superstardom, as Brian Epstein did with The Beatles and Alan McGee did with Oasis. On arriving in the smoke, Owen heads for a garage on a tenement estate and uses a carrier bag full of beer to convince The Premature Congratulations that he is the man to guide them to the top. Once ensconced in a flat leased by crude Slavic landlady Katy Brand, Owen sets off in search of old school pal Roger Evans, who is now an A&R man with a major record label. However, Evans refuses to return Owen's calls and he is less than chuffed to see him when Owen doorsteps him and thrusts a C-90 cassette into his hand.

While Evans seeks sanctuary in Soho House, Owen pops into the premises of Irish shyster Michael Smiley to secure a payday loan to help him launch The Prems and keep him from raiding the wedding fund he has saved with McClure. The second Evans hits the pavement, however, Owen is waiting for him and aide Natasha O'Keeffe ticks him off for being so rude to an old friend. But Owen has the last laugh, as Evans drops his phone and Owen has tried every single contact in his address book (including an irate Bono, who is on an expedition to the rainforest with Sting) by the time they meet up for a pint. In the bar, they bump into Alan McGee, who likes the retro feel of the C-90 and gives Owen his card and an invitation to call him whenever he needs his advice.

A montage follows of Owen and McClure copying cassettes, sticking posters and handing out flyers in the hope of boosting The Prems on YouTube. Eventually, they get enough hits for Owen to assemble singer Dylan Edwards, guitarist Michael Socha, drummer Joel Fry and bassist Curtis Thompson in a downtown pub to break the news that they are going to play a legendary gig that will catapult them into the stratosphere. Edwards's interfering girlfriend, Nichola Burley, has misgivings. But she is shouted down, as champagne is ordered and Owen promises landlord Jordan Long that he will get hold of the £500 required to book the venue.

Realising that they need to get jobs to tide them over, McClure starts work in Iceland, while Owen replies to a want ad in the window of Mod Martin Freeman's record shop. He mocks Owen for wearing a tatty parka, but is browbeaten into taking him on because long-suffering wife Maxine Peake wants a holiday. Across London, however, Sorted Records honcho Morwenna Banks hears about The Prems and orders Mancunian sidekick Ciaran Griffiths to sign them up asap, just as rival Matt Berry warns Evans and O'Keeffe that they will pay with their jobs if they fail to clinch a deal.

As Owen pockets the wedding fund (without telling McClure) to meet his ever-increasing expenses, the screen splits to show him taking calls from a frantic Evans and technophobic mother Sharon Morgan back in Wales, who is concerned that father Brian Hibbard is unwell. McClure insists that they concentrate on the gig before heading home and Owen just arrives in time to intervene in a fight between Edwards and Socha. The latter accuses Burley of being the band's Yoko Ono and scarpers. But Owen follows him to a nearby floodlit football pitch and convinces him not to miss his shot at fame. Back at the pub, crowds are gathering in the street and the desperate Evans blags his way on to the guest list and ensures that McGee is barred. But barely a note is played before Socha and Edwards are at each other's throats on stage and a major punch-up breaks out.

As luck would have it, however, this seems to re-ignite the spirit of punk and The Prems are invited on to Sky's Soccer AM programme and given the chance to record a session at the BBC's legendary Maida Vale studios. The downside is that the band are now forced to sleep on the floor of Owen's flat, as they have been evicted from their own place and have nowhere else to go. Leaving McClure to cope with the noisy guests and their drunken entourage, Owen gets himself fired by Freeman before heading home. He is given a horseback ride to the door by neighbour Carwyn Glynn, while both parents and his brother-in-law slip him a few quid to tide him over. But Owen is distraught to learn that his father is dying and, as they sit on a mountain overlooking the village, Hibbard reminisces about his days as a teenage miner before giving Owen the wristwatch that has been handed down through the generations.

Hibbard also tells Owen to follow his dream and he returns to London feeling upbeat. However, he walks straight into Smiley, who takes the watch as a down payment on his debt, while he has no sooner stepped through the door before McClure orders The Prems to leave and she storms out back to her mother's after rollicking Owen for taking cash without asking. Trying to hold things together, Owen gets the band to the BBC and a slo-mo segment follows as they revel in the limelight and he sits in a corner and wonders what to do next. Skulking out of a celebratory party, Owen gets home to find that Brand has padlocked the flat and he has to kick the door down in order to recover his precious singles collection. Wandering the streets, he gets a call from O'Keeffe, who makes a half-hearted effort to seduce him before depositing him with Evans.

So relieved to have found Owen that he bales on a threesome, Evans tells him to cheer up and seize the opportunity opening up for him. He curses him for having a way with women and a knack for knowing a good band and urges him not to quit just to kiss and make up with McClure. The following morning, Evans sees The Prems on Soccer AM and realises they are going to be huge. Owen, meanwhile, has taken the five grand Evans gave him for his 45s and has paid off Smiley (without remembering to reclaim the watch). He is ready to go home, but McGee whisks him into the back seat of his car and tells him that Banks is turning the city upside down to offer him a mega deal.

Somewhat in a daze, Owen plays hardball with Banks and lands the biggest advance for a new band in UK music history. But, when he goes to the garage to tell his charges, he discovers that Edwards has quit because Burley has abandoned him for Socha and he has to take a train up to Scotland to coax him back south. Having convinced Edwards while sitting in canoes on a glorious loch, Owen gets arrested by British Transport Police for travelling without a ticket and he has to call McClure to come and pick him up. She drives up in her parents' car and Owen strives to convince her that everything will be fine if she just gives him one more chance.

Arriving in London, Owen rushes to the pub to tell The Prems they are going to be huge. But he finds Evans and O'Keeffe have beaten him to the punch. Thus, even though Edwards insists that nothing has been signed and is keen to hear what Owen has to say, he simply wishes them all the best and runs back to McClure and announces that they're going home

Never for a second managing to break from its webisodic structure, this has the feel of a picture that was made up as it went along. Owen cuts a genial figure as the Candide-like innocent abroad, while McClure proves a suitably feisty foil. But too many of the guest star cameos are strident or underwhelming, with Freeman struggling with some trendy quips about being a Mod, Banks spewing a slew of crude sexual references in a cod Scottish accent and Berry being reduced to ham up a litany of cartoonish threats to his underlings. Worst of all, however, is Alan McGee, who hides behind shades and beneath a Trilby hat (geddit) to deliver his dialogue with all the finesse of a six year-old reading a poem at a school assembly.

Editor Anthony Boys deserves credit for maintaining the pace and getting away with so many split-screen phone conversations, while no one can fault a soundtrack boasting cuts by Mott the Hoople, The Small Faces, Georgie Fame Dexys Midnight Runners, The Pogues, The Fall and The Stone Roses. Thus, while this is resolutely derivative, slipshod, self-satisfied and unfunny, it is no worse than Shane Meadows's similarly themed Le Donk & Scor-zay-zee (2009) or Sara Sugarman's Vinyl (2012).

The musical theme continues with Hamish Hamilton's concert film Back to Front: Peter Gabriel Live, which captures the former Genesis frontman's O2 gigs in October 2013 to mark the 25th anniversary of his landmark multi-platinum album, So. Reuniting Gabriel with guitarist David Rhodes, bassist Tony Levin, keyboard player David Sancious and drummer Manu Katche, the shows were hailed as a triumph by fans and were well enough received by the critics. Hamilton intersperses the highlights with interview clips, while delving into the archives to contrast the staging of a couple of the bigger hits. However, he largely contents himself with being a discreet observer, as Gabriel dominates a space illuminated by towering floodlight pylons whose flexibility allowed for dramatic changes of atmosphere and mood.

Having disclosed that he wears a mask on stage to release his hidden self, Peter Gabriel sits at a piano for a powerful rendition of a new song, `Obut'. As he belts out the lyric, a problem arises that will dog the entire picture - it's impossible for those not already familiar with the tunes to understand what Gabriel is singing about. This is clearly not a worry for those packed into the O2 to sing along with the onetime prog rock icon, whose stage demeanour has been toned down considerably over the last four decades and he emerges to wild applause here wearing a simple grey hoodie, as, these days the music matters much more than the spectacle.

Explaining to camera that musicians are like families and that this one is capable of producing magic, Gabriel launches into the funky `Shock the Monkey'. While his bandmates purr about parking their egos and basking in Gabriel's humanity, the first strains of `Family Snapshot' are heard. But, it's not clear whether the split-screen and rapid-cut effects that accompany the flashing lights during the brisk middle eight are visible to the audience on screens to the side of the stage or whether they have solely been constructed by Hamilton and editor Chris Young. Either way, Katche and Sancious are quick to enthuse about Gabriel's avant-garde approach to music and staging, while the man himself muses on the ability of the lighting rigs to bring about a little human-robotic tension.

The lighting is more aggressive for `Digging in the Dirt', which is again punchily cut to convey the power of the song. Gabriel waxes lyrical about the feeling of being on stage when everything is going well and Katche and Rhodes agree that communication is key to the dynamic that allows the music to roar or be subtly melodic. Hamilton inserts a rare cutaway to the crowd during `Secret World', but the focus soon switches away from the gyrating woman to Gabriel leaving the keyboard to grab a tambourine and stand in the centre of a target design on the stage that is shown in a Berkeleyesque top shot. As the guitar riffs close the track, the lights create strobe and searchlight effects and Katche and Sancious reveal that one of the pleasures of playing with Gabriel is that everyone finds different ways of punctuating their performances each night and this keeps them all on their toes and ensures the music sounds fresh.

Having discovered the top shot, Hamilton employs it again during `No Self Control', as Gabriel sashays across the stage with a hand mike. A set of giant masks hover in the air as he returns to the keyboard and the crane lights swoop down to surround him. However, because the cameras can go wherever they want, Hamilton ends up presenting a privileged perspective rather than the one that was experienced by the audience on the night. So, while some will find such intimacy intriguing, others will consider it forced and fussy. A similar problem besets the cross-cutting between clips from previous tours during the iconic `Solsbury Hill', as, while this affords an opportunity to see how the 62 year-old Gabriel has changed physically down the years, it distracts from his interaction with the O2 crowd during the performance and, thus, seems more contrived than inspired.

Apart from letting Gabriel's account of how he entered into a collaboration Mexican screenwriter Guillermo Arriaga spill over into the opening lines of the song, Hamilton's handling of `Why Don't You Show Yourself' is much more controlled. Yet, once again, while it is a delight to listen to Jennie Abrahamson's cello playing, it's never obvious how much of the interlinked religious and hunting imagery that is shown in the movie was presented at the concert. The same query arises during `Red Rain', as the lighting takes on a red tint and silhouetted figures move in a jerky manner on what seems to be screens behind the band. As Gabriel explains that he got the idea to perform So in its entirety after seeing Beach Boy Brian Wilson do Pet Sounds, Abrahamson and fellow backing vocalist Linnea Olsson gush about what a privilege it is to be involved in such a slick show. However, Levin reveals that much of the stage choreography is spontaneous and Gabriel jokes that he was a pioneer of `dad dancing', as Hamilton cuts between then and now shots of `Sledgehammer'.

This gambit again reinforces how Gabriel has become a less kinetic stage presence. But, while he may eschew Jagger-like antics, there is no doubting the quality of the musicianship and he even slips a dance into his duet with Abrahamson on `Don't Give Up'. Her vocals are breathier than Kate Bush's, but she sings beautifully and the track illustrates Gabriel's conviction that a live show should have its peaks and valleys to give the audience a chance to reproduce the sensation of listening to the album in solitude. Annoyingly, Hamilton again disrupts a song to let Gabriel explain why he lies down on the target during `Mercy Street' and the low-level close-up as the song ends again privileges his authorial viewpoint over the arena experience.

Ironically, Abrahamson states at this juncture that Gabriel always has such a wide-angle perspective on things and Sancious quips that he may be a visionary, but he is still a kid at heart. Gabriel echoes this by describing the stage as his sandpit before launching into `We Do What We're Told', which is reduced to incoherent editorial chaos by the pernickety cutting away from yet more top shots and the disorientating flits around the stage as the lighting tints shift from red to green. As a semblance of order returns, Gabriel explains how `In Your Eyes' was moved to the start of side two when the album was released, but how he has now moved it back to its rightful place. The band do their version of The Shadows dance, as Hamilton cuts to the audience filming with phones and Gabriel retreats to the rear to allow Senegalese singer Youssou N'Dour take centre stage. He joins in the side shuffle before Abrahamson comes to the front as Gabriel sings the Wolof lyrics.

Having name-checked the musicians, Gabriel takes a bow and his bandmates trill off-camera about what a privilege it is to be part of such a genial cabal. Naturally, they all return for an encore that begins with `The Tower That Ate People' and Gabriel jokes that some of the stage furniture used by Genesis was lampooned in Rob Reiner's This Is Spinal Tap (1984). In this instance, he is devoured by a monstrous machine and a shakicam top shot takes us inside the structure as it rises up to create what looks like a plant with enormous leaves or the smoke column of an atomic bomb. Finally, he calms things down to marvel at how people can now communicate across the planet with something as small as a mobile phone and he hopes that technology can improve the world so that people no longer have to repeat the ultimate sacrifice made by Stephen Biko in 1977. Singing against a pounding drum beat and a red-black lighting design, Gabriel leaves the stage with the words, `As always, what happens now is up to you'. But, when it comes to gnomic pronouncements, he is left standing by the subject of the week's second actuality.

It was February 2002 when US Secretary of Defence Donald Rumsfeld answered a question at a press briefing with the words: `as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns; that is to say, there are things that we now know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns – there are things we do not know we don't know.' Much mockery was made of the 69 year-old when the media picked up on the speech. But, a decade later, director Errol Morris was keen to find out what Rumsfeld actually knew then and knows now. So, he sat him before the intimidating Interrotron camera - which had led former US Defence Secretary Robert McNamara to let ego get the better of him in The Fog of War (2003) - and the result is the endlessly fascinating documentary, The Unknown Known: The Rules and Memos of Donald Rumsfeld.

Morris knows his stuff, having already tackled the abuses at Abu Ghraib during the Iraqi War in Standard Operating Procedure (2008). But Rumseld is a canny operator and his famous way with words allows him to evade, refute, clarify and obfuscate as the contents of the thousands of internal memos he nicknamed `snowflakes' are re-examined and their significance assessed from a political, diplomatic and moral perspective.

As a camera rolls between the ceiling-high shelves in a room containing Rumsfeld's papers, he wonders whether anyone else will leave such a voluminous paper trail (upwards of 20,000 memos during his six years at the Pentagon). The screen fills with what looks like a blizzard of notes, as Rumsfeld recalls a discussion with Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice about why Iraq keeps shooting at US surveillance planes and what could be done if one was gunned down. He insists he was never obsessed with Iraq, but took a nuanced approach to a country whose unpredictability made diplomacy a nightmare. But he remained true to the principle that the best way to keep the peace was to prepare for war, even though he was aware that a belief in the inevitability of a conflict can often become one of its chief causes.

Following 9/11, Rumsfeld was consistently asked if the United States was on a war footing and he explained his position by using definitions of `defence' and `pre-emption'. Yet, he was taken by surprise when Vice-President Dick Cheney called him to a meeting with the Saudi ambassador to announce that President George W. Bush had opted for regime change in Baghdad. Morris asks why America didn't try to avoid war by assassinating Saddam Hussein and Rumsfeld replies that this isn't how things are done. Nevertheless, he admits that an air strike was attempted at Dora Farms when CIA Dirctor George Tenet received strong evidence in March 2003 that the ousted dictator was hiding there. He recalls how eyewitnesses thought a man carried out on a stretcher was Saddam, but he was elsewhere and, in retrospect, Rumsfeld wishes they had taken him out and kept the troops at home.

Over a decade later, he is at a loss to explain why Saddam was so hell bent on provoking Washington, as he was forever worrying about being caught out by a failure of intelligence, as had happened at Pearl Harbor in December 1941. Rumsfeld surmises that Franklin Delano Roosevelt's administration was ignorant of Japan's full capability and, over a montage of stills and newsreel footage, he suggests that they focused on the wrong aspects of their intelligence information and, essentially, pursued the wrong rabbit. He recalls writing in July 2001 that he never wanted to have to conduct a Pearl Harbor-style post mortem and remained on the alert for a surprise attack. But he admits he was not prepared for the planes flying into the World Trade Centre and helped the wounded on stretchers in the grounds of the Pentagon in a state of utter confusion after his own headquarters was hit by a third aircraft.

When Morris asks him what went wrong, Rumsfeld candidly replied that he had an imagination failure and favoured other possibilities over the one that came to pass. Morris reminds him of a memo dated 30 September 2001, in which he suggested that American war policy should be to help the locals overthrow their oppressors and he regrets that Osama bin Laden was able to escape into Pakistan after the Taliban were defeated with such speed in Afghanistan. He also refutes the contention that the American public thought that the war with Iraq had anything to do with 9/11 and dismisses a Washington Post poll stating that 63% thought the Twin Towers and not Weapons of Mass Destruction were the reason for the invasion.

Rumsfeld denies he produced so many `snowflakes' to justify himself to history. He insists they were written as reminders or cues to help him do his job on a daily basis. Indeed, he had been churning out such notes since he was first elected to Congress as a 30 year-old in November 1962 and he got into the habit of making Dictaphone records of key votes, as he was never always sure during the Vietnam era that he was making the right decisions for the best reasons. He also concedes that he was lucky in the woman he married, as he only proposed to Joyce before he joined the navy in 1954 to make sure no one stole her while he was away. But they have been together for six decades and his gratitude for her support and forbearance is touchingly evident.

Richard Nixon appointed Rumsfeld to posts within the Office of Economic Opportunity and the Cost of Living Council before he fell out with HR Haldeman and decided to accept the ambassadorship to NATO in Brussels. This meant that he was out of the country at the time of the Watergate burglary and it is amusing to hear Nixon and Haldeman discussing his Machiavellian nature on one of Nixon's infamous tapes. When asked if Gerald Ford recorded Oval Office deliberations, Rumsfeld laughs and says people tend not to repeat mistakes, but make original ones. This caution explains a memo from 29 September 1974, which requested the removal of a safe from the previous incumbent's office to prevent Rumsfeld from being tarnished by its contents on becoming Chief of Staff.

He admits Ford had a tough watch, as the playing of `White Christmas' on US Forces radio in April 1975 signalled the start of the evacuation of Saigon and he reflects on the numbers cramming on to rooftops to get helicopters out of the city with a heavy heart. As footage plays of choppers being pushed off the deck of an aircraft carrier provide landing space, he laments that such an ugly and unsuccessful war had to end in such an unedifying manner. He looks back with more pride (and a touch of amusement), however, on Sarah Jane Moore's attempt to assassinate Ford in San Francisco in September 1975, as Ford had bumped his head on the entrance to a service lift on leaving a hotel where he had been addressing labour organisations and, if Rumsfeld hadn't been trying to prevent the press seeing the head wound, Ford might well have been hit. As it was, he was upset that he had been squashed on the floor of the vehicle speeding him to the airport and Rumsfeld admits that he often teased Ford about the incident in later years.

In spite of the joshing, Rumsfeld was keen for Ford to run again in 1976 and threatened to resign, along with underling Dick Cheney, unless Ford implemented some drastic changes in his conduct of business. The ensuing cabinet reshuffle became known as `the Halloween Massacre' and George HW Bush never forgave Rumsfeld for securing the Defence Department while he was shuffled off to the CIA. But, even though he persuaded Ford to accept Cheney as Chief of Staff, he insists he always puts perspectives above personalities in making political decisions. When Morris says Shakespeare must have got it wrong when writing his plays, Rumsfeld contents himself with stating that they lived in different times and says there is no room for jealousy in running a country.

Rumsfeld became the youngest ever Defence Secretary in November 1975 and there was even talk he would become Ford's Vice-Presidential running-mate. But he devoted his energies to ensuring that Congress ignored the possible success of Henry Kissinger's detente strategy and increased its defence spending so that America could not be caught out by the Soviet Union as it had been by Japan. Morris shows footage of graphs, statistics and mushroom clouds and Danny Elfman's mischievous score strikes an ominous note, as Rumsfeld reveals how he held briefing meetings with representative from both parties in the Roosevelt Room at the White House and often had Ford drop in announced to help swing the deal. He curses Jimmy Carter for undoing much of his good work and laments that Ford didn't start closing the gap in the polls until so late in the race.

However, Rumsfeld was not out of the limelight for long, as Ronald Reagan debated between him and George HW Bush for his running mate in 1980. He holds the camera's gaze as he denies being disappointed that this choice might have cost him the presidency, but there is a wistfulness in his delivery of the phrase, `It's possible'. Instead, he went off to work foe Searle pharmaceuticals in Illinois. But the murder of 241 Americans by a suicide bomber at a barracks in Beirut prompted Reagan to make him a special envoy to the Middle East and Rumsfeld acknowledges that this period did much to shape his future thinking about the region. In 1983, he wrote a memo entitled `The Swamp', in which he suggested that the United States needed to make people in the area feel grateful not resentful towards it. He concluded that this could be best achieved by letting New Zealanders and Fijians undertake unpopular missions like peacekeeping, while Washington dealt with the reality that conflict was an ever-present danger in such a tinderbox and sought to remain one step ahead of the game.

On one of his trips, Rumsfeld met Tariq Aziz and Saddam Hussein in Baghdad. He admits that he liked the foreign minister and enjoyed their lengthy discussions. But, from the moment he shook hands with the `Butcher of Baghdad' on 20 December 1983, he knew he was in the presence of a posturing jackanapes who had started to believe his own propaganda. Six years later, Rumsfeld was addressing a conference of former Defence Secretaries and he stated that the people responsible for the Berlin Wall coming down were the likes of Harry Truman, who established the deterrent that contained the Soviets throughout the Cold War. His trenchant advocacy of security through strength clearly impressed his old junior, as Vice-President Dick Cheney persuaded George W. Bush to send Rumsfeld back to the Defence Department in January 2001 and he still clearly relishes putting one over on Bush Senior by becoming a trusted ally of his son.

Once in office, Rumsfeld became troubled by Saddam again. But what bothered him was the fact that an absence of evidence does not form evidence of absence. Thus, he needed proof that Iraq did not have WMD and he conducted a long-running battle with Condy Rice over how the rogue state should be handled. As the media pressed for definitive statements, Rumsfeld proved the epitome of eloquence in his evasiveness. However, Morris gets him on the ropes during their discussion on the detention of Taliban and Al-Qaeda prisoners of war, whom he did not consider were entitled to protection under the 1949 Geneva Convention. Rumsfeld agrees that it should be possible to treat everyone in prison equally. But this can only happen in an ideal world and President Bush needed to get information out of these POWs because he had no idea what threat might face the nation next. Consequently, prisoners were subjected to interrogation techniques that he approved personally, including the restraining and hooding of prisoners in transit - as it would be folly to give them a chance to escape.

Yet, Rumsfeld insists he had little to do with matters of torture, as it didn't fall within his remit and, when he was presented with legal memoranda about the treatment of prisoners, he didn't read them, as he suspected they would be impenetrable to a non-specialist. He is more forthcoming about Guantánamo Bay, which he describes as a well-run facility before denying that any waterboarding took place there. However, he admits things were done that should not have been at Abu-Ghraib and regrets the treatment of Mohammed al-Qahtani, who was suspected of being the 20th 9/11 hijacker. Rumsfeld claims that he amended the interrogation code when he discovered the abuses that Al-Qahtani had suffered, even though it led to accusations from those on the Right that he was jeopardising national security. He concedes that boundaries were crossed, but claims intentions were always good, even if some of the concomitant decisions were not.

In October 2002, Rumsfeld drew up a list of 29 reasons not to go war with Iraq. He says he could have found just as many reasons for the opposing case, but he knew there was always the possibility of the war dragging on when he backed the CIA and Colin Powell's assertion that Saddam was hiding WMD. He now admits this was a calamitous error and wonders whether Saddam might have destroyed the weapons covertly to prevent outsiders thinking he was weak. But, at the time, the intelligence seemed strong and he now feels the truth will never be known.

Once hostilities commenced, Rumsfeld became fixated with precise terminology and appeared to spend a lot of time looking up words in dictionaries and ensuring that the military top brass and his DoD staff knew exactly what they were saying whenever they addressed the media. However, when Morris pins him down on `Shock and Awe', Rumsfeld credits the term to General Tommy Franks and refuses to discuss it as a term or a tactic. He does criticise the press for overlooking the joy that most Iraqis felt at being liberated from dictatorship and for concentrating instead on Washington's supposed lack of cogent reconstruction and exit strategies. When tackled on this aspect of the conflict, he accepts that mistakes were made, but skirts going into detail, apart from stating that the insurgency was impossible to police, as it was fought on a guerilla basis, and that the War on Terror could only be won by being bold rather than reactive.

Relief from the flack that the war was being mismanaged came when Saddam was found hiding in a hole at Ad-Dawr. He comments on his cowardly use of body doubles and his error in believing America to be a paper tiger after the First Gulf War. But he remains convinced that Saddam was too unpredictable to deal with rationally and that regime chance was the only option. An animation showing words tumbling into a black hole conveys Rumsfeld's concerns about the treatment of detainees and he implies that his hands were tied as nobody responded to his communiqués. He admits to being disgusted by the Abu-Ghraib photos and knew they would help Islamists recruit a new generation of militants. But Bush refused his resignation over the matter and, when he couldn't find anyone else to carry the can after an internal investigation, he offered to go a second time so that the DoD could make a fresh start in handling future prisoners.

Morris asks if Guantánamo procedures were employed at Abu-Ghraib and he seems confident they were not. But, when Morris reads from the Schlesinger Report, he appears to back down and reckons it was not planned if they were. He regrets that this incident occurred on his watch, but he quickly returns to the offensive to state that Barack Obama opposed many of his predecessor's policies on prisoners and national security and, yet, he has not repealed a single one of them. On being asked if the war was worthwhile, he concedes only time will tell. But he becomes emotional when discussing America's wounded and he avers that he lives in a fortunate state, as there are so many men and women prepared to die to protect its liberties.

As the interview draws to a close, Morris asks Rumsfeld if he was in control of history or being manipulated by it. He claims neither, as history cannot be controlled and if it is shackling you, then you have failed. Morris brings him back to a memo from 4 February 2004, in which he enhanced his `known unknowns' dictum by suggesting that there are also `unknown knowns', which are things that you possibly may know that you don't know you know. Rumsfeld gets into a muddle at this point and wonders if his definition isn't the wrong way round or even has any meaning at all. Smiling at the camera, he avows that, for once, he might have been the one chasing the wrong rabbit.

Rumsfeld did eventually resign (after the so-called Revolt of the Generals, which isn't mentioned here) and he sent his final memo on 15 December 2006. Entitled `Snowflakes - The Blizzard Is Over', it was intended to thank his staff for their loyalty and to ensure that those who had never received a personal `snowflake' got one now. Morris shows the flurry inside a snow globe alongside photos of Rumsfeld leaving the DoD for the final time. Just before the credits roll, however, Morris has one last question: `Why are you making this film?' Rumsfeld grins at what he calls a `vicious' inquiry before allowing that he is darned if he knows.

As a battle between splendidly matched opponents, this has to be judged a narrow defeat for Errol Morris. But Donald Rumsfeld will surprise many with his wit, insight and pragmatism here and he certainly emerges as a less hissable character than he often appeared during his press conferences at the height of the Bush War. No one does inquisitorial quite like Morris and few can surpass Rumsfeld when it comes to convoluted rhetoric. As a consequence, the jousting is enjoyable, but it's the emphatic nuances and the blithe self-contradictions that make this so fascinating and historically valuable. Ultimately, Rumsfeld gives little away, but, in places, he concedes more than he intended and Morris proves skilful at giving him sufficient room to wriggle, but not quite enough to manoeuvre.

The archival material marshalled expertly by editor Steven Hathaway often provides telling counterpoints to the Rumspeak. But the visuals can become distractingly dense when animated graphics are overlaid and this busyness is occasionally reinforced by Elfman's lowering score. However, they never overwhelm Rumsfeld's calculating personality and it is almost possible to warm to him as he accepts that luck has played a sizeable role in his career. But his lack of concern at being caught in a lie and the heinousness of the misdeeds committed under his stewardship consistently force one to reappraise everything one sees, including the tears shed for the brave fallen. This may be a man with a conscience, but he exhibits little remorse for anything he has done or said, regardless of its consequences, and the lingering impression of his patronising rictus smile will leave many chilled to the bone.