Still prevented from working in his native Iran, Abbas Kiarostami looks like remaining a peripatetic exile for a while longer. So, the odds must be quite short that his next project will be set in the Americas or Australasia, as he has already covered the other continents with the documentary ABC of Africa (2001) and the fictional features Certified Copy (2010) and Like Someone in Love, which are respectively set in Italy and Japan. Taking its title from a 1957 Ella Fitzegerald cover of a Jimmy Van Heusen song that was introduced by Dinah Shore, this is a teasing amalgam of classic Kiarostami concerns and stylistic tics and deft homages to Yasujiro Ozu, Kenji Mizoguchi and, would you believe, Alfred Hitchcock. Yet, for all its many pleasures, this is very much a minor work that will frustrate as many as it delights.

Struggling to pay her way through college, twentysomething Rin Takanishi places cards in a number of phone boxes around Tokyo advertising her services as a `paid date'. Her red-haired friend, Reiko Mori, thinks she has made a mistake by dressing as a schoolgirl and introduces her to Denden, a `protector' who finds her clients without the risk of meeting complete strangers. However, mechanic boyfriend Ryo Kase knows nothing about Takanishi's double life and the opening scene has her sitting in a busy restaurant trying to reassure him over the phone that she is not up to anything disreputable, while the camera fixes firmly on the unimpressed Mori.

Denden arranges for Takanishi to meet a special gentleman and she is reluctant to go, as she should be revising for an examination and keeps ignoring calls from her concerned grandmother, Kaneko Kubota, who wants to come and see her. He insists it is a worthwhile call and that she will be well treated and paid. So, Takanishi crosses the city to meet with Tadashi Okuno, a retired sociology professor who is more interested in companionship than anything more carnal. He has prepared dinner and engages Takanishi in conversation about a painting on his wall, as she bears a passing resemblance to its subject. Such is her inexperience that Takanishi feels unable to get to the business end of the evening and eventually makes her excuses to go into Okuno's bedroom. However, another phone call distracts Takanishi and, having undressed, she falls asleep on the old man's bed.

The following morning, Okuno assures Takanishi that he had a lovely time (although it isn't revealed if anything physical did occur between them) and offers to drive her to college so she isn't late for her exam. As she arrives, however, she sees Kase waiting for her and she introduces Okuno as her grandfather to stop him from becoming jealous. While she goes takes her paper, Okuno and Kase are left chatting outside and the latter detects a fault in the former's engine and suggests he brings it into his workshop for a repair. Much to his surprise, Okuno is recognised by one of his former students, who went on to become a policeman. They chat as Kase tinkers with the car and itches to get back to the subject of how much he adores Takanishi and how he should go about persuading her to marry him.

Bidding Kase a somewhat relieved farewell, Okuno returns to the campus and agrees to give Takanishi a lift to a nearby bookshop. She frets that she has made a mess of the exam and he tries to console her. A few hours later, Okuno gets a call from the distressed Takashini asking if he will pick her up. She has a cut on her face and he goes to fetch some first aid supplies, while she tries to evade the prying questions of a neighbour. However, no sooner has Okuno returned and begun tending to the wound than the irate Kase shows up. He has learnt the truth about Takashini's moonlighting and is furious that Okuno won't let him inside. After ranting and threatening, the frustrated Kases smashes a window.

Ozu aficionados will probably recognise the allusions to Woman of Tokyo (1933) and Tokyo Story (1953) in Takashini's decision to prostitute herself to fund her education and in her careless attitude to a doting relative. Others might spot the Vertigo (1958) reference in the discussion of the painting in Okuno's home. But the focus on a young woman compromising her virtue in order to survive in a patriarchal society recalls several Kenji Mizoguchi melodramas from the 1930s and also casts fascinating light on the contrasts between the freedoms `enjoyed' by females in Japan and Iran. Kiarostami had tackled this theme before in Through the Olive Trees (1994), in which actress Tahereh Ladanian is plagued by unworthy suitor Hossein Rezai. However, he is keen to point out that while Takanishi may seem more emancipated than her counterparts in the Islamic Republic, her fate is every bit as much dictated by the men in her life as it would be under the ayatollahs.

But Kiarostami is in playful mood here, with even the title being something of a tease, as nobody within the scenario is really in love with anybody else. What's more, none of the characters appear to have much of an understanding of their own personalities, let alone their desires. Okuno may seem to be sophisticated, but he still contacted Denden to book a young lady for the night and would, in all probability, have slept with her if she hadn't passed out. Takanishi herself knows she is letting down Kubota and her family back in the countryside, but cannot think of any other way of funding a course she is evidently flunking through a mix of inability and lack of application. At least, Kase has a trade and is committed to his relationship. But he is driven more by possessiveness than amourousness and is only capable of lashing out when his temper boils.

Yet, despite the resistibility of the principals, this is an engaging and often amusing picture. In some respects, it's a companion piece to Certified Copy, which similarly sought to fathom the authenticity of the feelings developing between antique dealer Juliette Binoche and writer William Shimell. But much less happens here, as Kiarostami experiments with ambience, morality and notions of role playing. He is superbly served by cinematographer Katsumi Yanagijima, production designer Toshihiro Isomi and sound editor Reza Narimazadeh in creating misleading audiovisual juxtapositions, while editor son Bahman Kiarostami deftly judges the pace of proceedings in linking the lengthy takes.

The performances are also splendid, although the most mesmerising scene simply has Takanishi sitting in the back of a cab checking her phone messages as the neon lights of the city intrude through the windows.  Indeed, as one might expect from Kiarostami, a number of incidents take place within vehicles. But while several anecdotes, jokes and fibs are told in transit, the action captures a real sense of the bustling capital and the deceptions and compromises that are essential to surviving in it. Nevertheless, one expects something a little more challenging from this remarkable director than a variation on the Pretty Woman theme of a tart with a heart finding a romantic john who treats her with the respect she deserves.

Another platonic relationship lies at the heart of Andrea Segre's Shun Li and the Poet, which also takes pleasure in luring the viewer into making assumptions about images that are not always what they seem. Indeed, the opening shot appears to show lanterns bobbing on a Chinese river as part of an ancient ceremony to liberate the spirit of the 3rd-century poet Qu Yuan. But, even though it transpires that the paper flowers are actually floating in a bathtub somewhere in central Italy, they lose none of their charm or sincerity and such delicate details make this so endearing, even though it has surprisingly little to say about the immigrant experience, considering that Segre's documentaries The Green Blood (2010) and Closed Sea (2012) respectively centred on the exploitation of African labourers in Calabria and the perilous voyage of some Somalis and Ethiopians on a rickety boat across the Mediterranean.

Thirtysomething divorcée Zhao Tao works in a textile factory on the outskirts of Rome. She owes money to the `snakeheads' who arranged her passage from China and saves what little spare cash she has to purchase a plane ticket for her eight year-old son. However, the gang masters control every aspect of her life and keep her moving around to prevent her from getting too settled or from forming any attachments with her workmates or the few locals she happens to meet. Thus, Zhao is transferred to a bar job in Chioggia, a fishing port on the Venetian lagoon whose buildings are rundown and often flooded or enveloped in mists.

She shares a room with Wang Yuan, who warns her against fraternising with the customers and urges her to trust no one but herself. Among the regulars at the Osteria Paradiso are local-born fishermen Roberto Citran, Marco Paolini and Giordano Bacci, as well as sexagenarian Slav Rade Sherbedgia, who is still considered something of an outsider, even though he moved from Yugoslavia three decades before and has a son living nearby. They have nicknamed him `the poet' and he gets on well with everyone apart from Giuseppe Battiston, a two-fisted bigot whose pals are always looking for trouble and are quite prepared to stir it up when there is none readily to hand. They take exception to the fact that Sherbedgia tries to overcome the age difference and the language barrier and chat to Zhao and she is scolded in turn by both Wang and their boss, Guo Qiang Xu, for not sticking to her own kind.

Despite the warnings, a shared love of verse brings Zhao and Sherbedgia closer together and he feels desperately sorry that she is so far away from her child. He is also keenly aware that she wants him to propose, but he knows that restrictions exist to prevent such marriages of convenience. However, when Guo informs Zhao that she will be fined (and her debt level will be increased) if she persists in defying him, she realises that she has to toe the line. Fearful that she will never see her son again, she is almost relieved to be relocated to another garment factory after Sherbedgia gets into a fight with Battiston outside the taverna.

However, a few weeks after she starts her new job, she is amazed when son Federico Hu appears out of the blue and she learns that an anonymous benefactor has cleared her debts and paid the boy's passage. Knowing immediately that it has to be Sherbedgia, Zhao returns to Chioggia to find he has disappeared. She tracks down Wang, who tells her that he has passed away and bequeathed her his fishing hut in his will. Sad to have lost her friend before she could thank him for his charity, Zhao honours him in the best way she can by setting light to his shack in the hope of freeing his poet's soul in the time-honoured tradition of Qu Yuan.

Beautifully played by Zhao Tao and Rade Sherbedgia, this is an elusive mix of chaste romance, socio-political diatribe and low-key travelogue. Cinematographer Luca Bigazzi (who also shot Certified Copy for Kiarostami) expertly captures the look and feel of Chioggia, whose warren of fetid canals, slippery walkways and dilapidated edifices is made to seem all the shabbier by the ever-present sight of the architectural majesty of Venice on the horizon. However, while he perhaps stresses too overtly the idea of destiny being carried along on the tide, Segre wisely resists overplaying the notion that better things are always tantalisingly out of reach. Instead, he concentrates on the small moments of human warmth that alleviate what, for the majority, is the daily struggle. A drink and a chat is about as good as it gets for Sherbedgia and his fellow fishermen and their willingness to accept their lot contrasts starkly with Zhao's determination to better herself and share her new fortune with her boy.

François Couturier's elegiac score occasionally feels a touch manipulative, while Segre and co-scenarist Marco Pettenello don't entirely succeed in excluding cloying pathos from what should have been a poignant denouement. Moreover, they seem reluctant to accuse the rather stereotypical Italian community of outright prejudice while appearing readier to denounce the Chinese traffickers who are merely satisfying a need generated by the indigenous economy. This lack of thematic and intellectual rigour leaves the picture feeling a little lightweight. But the naturalism of the visual style and the performances gives this a kinship with the likes of  Luchino Visconti's La terra trema (1948) and Pasquale Scimeca's Malavoglia (2010), which reworked Giovanni Verga's 19th-century verismo novel, The House By the Medlar Tree, which had inspired the neo-realist classic about the tiny fishing port of Aci Trezza on the eastern coast of postwar Sicily.

A very different form of indentured servitude is explored in Paul Hyett's The Seasoning House, a debut feature that is set in a backwoods brothel in the years following the various civil wars that ripped apart the former Yugoslavia in the mid-1990s. Yet, while the early scenes make a passable pretence of cleaving to social realism, this quickly comes to rely on the kind of generic thrills for which Hyett has long been producing special effects. Thus, while it is more than competently made and reeks of the sourest atmosphere generated by any British horror in recent times, this winds up being yet another exposé of macho bestiality and female exploitation that culminates in a desperate chase and a twist ending.

As she wanders through the narrow corridors of the `seasoning house' that is both her home and prison, deaf-mute teenager Rosie Day thinks back to the moment she was captured by a militia unit led by the sadistic Sean Pertwee. She had looked on helplessly as mother Anna Walton was gunned down in trying to protect her younger sister before being bundled into a truck and brought to the woodland brothel run by Kevin Howarth. He had taken a shine to Day and taught her how to clean the girls chained to their beds and give them doses of heroin to placate them for their customers. He even promises her that he will take her away from all this when the time is right and even entrusts her with a key that supposedly opens every door in the place. But he has no idea that Day can slip through the ventilation grille in her room and scurry through the eaves and crawlspaces between the walls to keep an eye on everything that happens in this godforsaken cathouse.

One night, while making her rounds, Day is delighted to discover that newcomer Jemma Powell knows sign language and she returns to her room after hours to bring her a piece of chocolate and chat about life on the outside. She even starts sleeping on Powell's bed and uses her acute sensitivity to vibration to know when Howarth and hulking sidekick David Lemberg are making their rounds. Powell smiles sadly as Day cooks her latest fix and reassures her that it helps numb the pain. But her next client is a cruel brute who leaves her with a broken pelvis and such severe facial bruising that local doctor Philip Anthony pleads with Howarth to take better care of his `stock'.

Dismayed by the treatment meted out to her friend, Day gives her the angel necklace that her mother had assured her would always keep her safe. But her fate is sealed when Pertwee pays Howarth a visit and the Neanderthal Ryan Oliva uses his forearm to choke her during intercourse. Watching from the vent shaft, Day slips into the room and repeatedly stabs Oliva with a syringe. Despite spewing blood, he makes another attempt to grab Day (after she discovers that Powell is dead with her necklace gripped between her fingers) and she kills him during an assault so frenzied that she only just manages to escape before a cursing Pertwee demands retribution.

Already angry with Howarth because he has heard rumours that he is going to turn him in to the peacetime authorities, Pertwee orders younger brother Alec Utgoff and underlings Daniel Vivian and James Bartlett to capture Day. However, she knows her terrain too well and causes Bartlett to fall to his death when he tries to reach her lofty perch. Eager to protect Day when Pertwee smoke bombs the air vents, Howarth dispatches Vivian with a gunshot and charges out into the forest when Day manages to find a gap in the window defences (having found out that the key Howarth had given her opens nothing at all).

Aghast at stumbling across the rotting corpses of her former charges in a clearing, Day finds herself at the centre of a Mexican stand-off involving Howarth, Pertwee and Utgoff that culminates in Day fleeing while Pertwee mourns the death of his brother and exacts his pitiless revenge. Day seeks sanctuary with blonde Abigail Hamilton, who tends her wounds and leaves the girl to sleep. However, on waking, Day realises that Hamilton is Oliva's wife and she has to kill her in order to make her getaway. She stumbles into a remote factory and Pertwee orders the workers to leave so he can punish Day once and for all. But she lures him into the pipes leading off from a dormant  furnace and, when he gets stuck, she covers his eyelids with make-up (as had been her duty with her other sacrificial victims) and slips out on to the roof before seeming to find safety in the arms of Dr Anthony's shocked wife.

Cannily designed by Caroline Story to turn RAF Uxbridge into a Balkan hellhole, this is  technically proficient on almost every level. Adam Etherington's moody lighting of the labyrinthine corridors and cramped wriggle spaces is complemented by his sinuous camerawork, which is deftly cut to the pounding rhythms of Paul E. Francis's score by editor Agnieszka Liggett. And, as one might expect given Hyett's background, the make-up and other effects are retchingly convincing, particularly when Day finds the maggot-riddled cadavers in the woods. But, while Hyett and co-scenarists Conal Palmer and Adrian Rigelsford make compelling use of actual case studies to establish the setting and the Sadean monstrosity of Howarth and his clients, the action becomes increasingly formulaic once Pertwee starts stalking the elusive Day.

The 18 year-old debutant gives an excellent account of herself as the deaf-mute waif and the way in which she conveys emotion through expression and gesture suggests better things lie ahead. Indeed, the subtlety of her performance contrasts starkly with the more cartoonish antics of Howarth and Pertwee, whose Eastern European accents are far from consistent or convincing. Nevertheless, they make solid contributions to a disturbing tale that may have been more effectve had Hyett stuck closer to the influence of Hideo Nakata and Jaume Balaguero than Wes Craven and Eli Roth in presenting a treatise on the dehumanising depravity of conflict rather than just another slice of chauvinist schlock.

That said, actor-director Katie Aselton seems determined to demonstrate that women are just as capable of making dubious artistic decisions in the horror cause with Black Rock, a cliché-strewn survivalist chiller that was scripted by husband Mark Duplass from her original story. Considering that Duplass and his brother Jay (who shares an executive producer credit) were pivotal players in the emergence of Mumblecore, this represents a disappointing capitulation to crass commercialism and not even a cumbersome post-traumatic stress subtext can dress this up as anything other than humdrum exploitation.

Best friends Kate Bosworth and Lake Bell are returning to their childhood home to camp on the Maine island where they once had so many innocent adventures. Much to Bell's displeasure, they are met at the dock by Katie Aselton, the last member of their once-inseparable triumvirate, who has not spoken to Bell since she slept with the man she was hoping to marry six years earlier. Desperate to coax her pals into forgiving and forgetting, Bosworth dramatically announces she has cancer and, having admitted she lied, nonetheless shames them into spending the weekend together.

Arriving on Black Rock, Bosworth gives Bell and Aselton hand-drawn maps and compasses and challenges them to locate their former den and the place in which they once buried a time capsule. Neither Aselton nor Bell is in the mood for a treasure hunt and they soon start bickering in the woods about the latter's selfish act of betrayal. Back at the beach, Bosworth persuades Bell to apologise for her mistake and she is about to have a heart to heart with Aselton when they spot three armed figure prowling on a brow above them.

They recognise Will Bouvier as the brother of a classmate Bell had once had a crush on and he introduces Jay Paulson and Anselm Richardson as his buddies. Aselton invites them to share their rations and, slightly the worse for wear, she starts flirting with Bouvier as they sit around the campfire. She goes in search of firewood and uses her torch to beckon Bouvier into following her, leaving Paulson and Richardson to explain that they have just been dishonourably discharged from the military after Bouvier used unconventional methods to rescue his unit from an ambush in Hellmand Province.

Aselton is unaware of this darker side, however, as she starts teasing Bouvier, who responds to her sudden misgivings by trying to rape her. She lashes at his skull with a rock and, on coming to see what the commotion is about, Paulson flips and vows vengeance for his fallen comrade. The women try to run away, but they are easily captured and wake battered and bruised the next morning to find themselves tied together, as Richardson tries to dissuade Paulson from doing anything foolish. Noticing that the trio are awake, Paulson stands over them with his rifle. But he becomes riled when Aselton taunts him for not being man enough to take her on in a fist fight and allows them to escape by cutting the rope.

Rushing through the woods in different directions, the women take cover as they try to catch their breath. Bosworth looks down in terror, as Paulson and Richardson pass beneath the tree in which she is hiding. But all three find their way to their former den and agree to lay low until darkness falls when they will make a dash for their boat. However, the plan backfires and Bosworth is shot and killed, leaving Aselton and Bell to make a getaway through the low tide while Paulson checks on Richardson, who has damaged his leg in a fall.

Stripping out of their wet clothes, the pair cling together after Aselton slaps Bell across the face to stop her from hyperventilating. Still naked, they go in search of the time capsule and finally reconcile as they use penknives to sharpen branches into spears, with Aselton admitting that she had allowed herself to blame Bell for the fact that she had made such a mess of her life. Friends again, the duo return to the beach the next morning and Aselton plucks up the courage to attack the wounded Richardson, as he lies defencelessly on a mat. However, he manages to call out to Paulson before being dispatched with his own rifle and the women dash back into the woods intent on leading Paulson to his doom.

That they succeed in doing so after a knife fight on a rocky slope is never in doubt and this already lacklustre picture ends on a resoundingly downbeat note, as Aselton and the bleeding Bell steer the vanquished trio's boat alongside the fishing jetty on the mainland. The implication is that they also now have darkness in their hearts as they emerge from their own private war zone. But any claims that this is a feminist tract are fatally undermined by the gratuitous nudity, the sketchiness of the characterisation, the inconsequence of the moral dilemma dividing the threesome and the sheer lack of conviction in the depiction of any of the violence committed against or by the imperilled women. Indeed, in rehashing so clumsily ideas gleaned from Irving Pichel's The Most Dangerous Game (1933) and John Boorman's Deliverance (1972), this is more likely to provoke sniggers than indignation

The performances are dreadful, although the female leads are not helped by the dismal conversations Duplass has concocted for them. Their male counterparts are even more poorly served, with Bouvier being required to switch from bashful boy to rapacious monster at the flick of a switch in his clearly badly wired brain, while Richardson is briefly permitted to play the African-American voice of reason before the unhinged Paulson is left to rant unchecked. But even the most battle-scarred warriors would still be more than a match for this pampered trio of city gals, especially as they do everything they can to give away their position by talking loudly and at length at every opportunity and rustling or cracking each piece of undergrowth the pass over while creeping and wriggling their way into striking range.

Laudably attempting something different after debuting with the improvised marital romcom, The Freebie (2010), in which she also co-starred, Aselton struggles to prevent the action sequences from seeming like bloody outtakes from the 1970s TV version of Charlie's Angels. Moreover, she cannot resist giving herself an excess of flattering close-ups. But her biggest failing is the reluctance to explore in any depth the very real fears and dangers facing modern women in urban and rural situations alike, while the pounding songs by The Kills on the soundtrack come dangerously close to glamourising the whole sorry tale. 

Amidst all the cheap theorising about the value of human life in this week's decidedly mixed bag of new releases, only Emma Davie and Morag McKinnon's documentary I Am Breathing conveys the true feeling of what it is like to be alive and suddenly confronted with the shocking inevitability of death. Filmed during the last few weeks of 34 year-old Neil Platt's battle with Motor Neurone Disease, this follows the example of Peter Friedman and Tom Joslin's landmark actuality Silverlake Life (1993) in recording the courage of both the victim and their carers, while also providing a quiet celebration of an extinguishing existence. But, what is most noteworthy in this humbling and genuinely moving memoir is the affection and unaffectedness that all manage to sustain at this most distressing of times.

A few weeks after he and Scottish wife Louise had welcomed the arrival of their first son, Oscar, Neil Platt began noticing a loss of co-ordination. After undergoing tests, he was diagnosed with the same Motor Neurone Disease (or Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis or Lou Gehrig's Disease) that had killed his father David at the age of 50. Mother Lynne, brother Matthew and auntie Jill all knew what to expect. But the speed with which Neil lost control of his limbs surprised them all and he decided to purchase some voice recognition software in order to start producing a blog to share his experience with fellow sufferers and their families.

In an hilarious sequence, Neil has great difficulty in getting the programme to understand the phrase `at our end' in his Yorkshire accent and his frustration provides the first inkling that this is not going to be a sanitised study in saintly courage. Indeed, Neil is angry at being stricken and deprived of the opportunity to enjoy happy times with his wife and child. But he is also fully aware that he can do nothing to resist the onset of MND and that his duty lies in making things as easy as possible for the devoted Louise and in leaving some sort of testament so that Oscar can get to know his father in the years ahead.

Reliant on breathing and lifting apparatus to enable him to participate in family life, Neil often accepts assistance with tetchy resignation and his irritation spills over when he calls to cancel his telephone contract and is given a sales pitch by the person at the other end of the line, who singularly fails to appreciate the reason why Neil is making the call. Yet, even though he cannot understand why a cardboard coffin is more expensive than a wooden one, he discusses his funeral arrangements with much greater sang froid, as he wishes to spare Louise as much of the administrative side of his demise as possible. In return, she tries to ensure everything remains as normal as it can be and lets him sample Oscar's baby food and props him up in his armchair so he can see the toddler playing on his garden swing.

Anxious to leave Oscar with reference points, Neil begins looking through old photo albums with his mother. Louise is amused by a snap of him looking like Chuck Norris on his motorbike and we see home movie footage of Neil in more carefree times. Feeding him jelly babies, Louise tries to keep Neil up to date with his blog and reassures him that he has much to be proud of in his short life.

Narrating from his letter to Oscar, Neil reveals that he first encountered Louise in 1993 while studying architecture at the University of Edinburgh. She was playing pool, but he shied away from speaking to her and it wasn't until they met again at a party in 2003 that he realised this was his soulmate. The feeling is evidently mutual and the pained expression on Louise's face as she watches Neil enduring his treatment is as heart-rending as her throwaway remark to Oscar as he watches a horse in the field abutting the garden that he had better not get too attached to the house, as she won't be able to afford to stay there once she is alone.

Just a few weeks after footage was taken of the family strolling in the grounds of Greenwich Observatory, Neil began having walking difficulties and started using a stick. The damning diagnosis came soon afterwards and he worried that he might not live to see Oscar's first Christmas. But, while he got to savour the youngster's excitement at seeing all his presents, Neil was surprised by how quickly he lost the ability to do the most basic things. Within six months, he could no longer use his hands and had to quit his job. Just three months later, he had to accept that he was unable to walk and soon became dependent upon a ventilator to help him breathe. Yet, while his motor skills declined, he retained the majority of his other bodily sensations and explains how infuriating it is to have an itch you simply cannot scratch.

Neil can only look on, therefore, as Louise and his friend Rick play Wii tennis. But his mind remains sharp and he compiles a list of tasks for Oscar's uncles to undertake in his absence. Moreover, there is often an edge to his banter and his remarks while watching The X Factor over a fish supper are cutting in the extreme. Yet, while she is occasionally stung, Louise always makes allowances and the shot of her absent-mindedly playing with the hairs on his wrists as he drinks while gazing at the television is utterly charming. She proves just as attentive the next morning, when she relieves Rick, who has been sleeping in the cot beside Neil's bed in case he needed anything in the night. Having changed his oxygen mask, she gets his arms out from under the duvet and brings Oscar to see him and he is evidently relieved that his boy will be in good hands.

Neil reveals the extent to which his outlook was shaped by his father's innate sense of decency and decides to prepare a box of mementoes that will allow Oscar to gauge his personality. Needing to work quickly before losing the power of speech, he includes a teddy bear, a tie pin from work and his leather jacket among the treasures and, over footage of his younger self playing the guitar, Neil also tells Oscar about the sheer joy of making music. The child clearly adores being around him and sits opposite his father in his high chair, as Neil wonders whether being stung in the eye by a bee while out on his motorbike exacerbated his condition. He laments that the illness is beginning to define him and contemplates the meaning of life and the swift passage of time on his blog. He no longer wears a watch, but a projection clock beams the time on to the ceiling above his bed and, when the display turns red, he declares it to be his personal countdown.

He wishes he had started the blog earlier and wonders if it is actually helping anybody. But, while he is feeling down about himself, he remains proud of Louise, especially when she appears on the local news to raise funds and awareness about MND. In his next post, Neil wonders whether the diseases has brought out the best in him and receives a boost when he garners some positive feedback. He marvels at how humans can adapt to anything and Louise opines that Neil's determination to keep going somehow make it easier for herself. But there are still moments of tension, such as when he blows bubbles in his drink while watching a Chuck Norris movie with Matthew and Louise wanders into the kitchen stressed by his childishness, but also aware that the situation is infinitely worse for him because his time is running out.

Davie and McKinnon cut to the couple's wedding day four years earlier, when Neil wore a kilt and they pulled faces at the altar in a bid to steady their nerves. He confides in his blog that he loves her strength more than ever and, as a result, opts to issue an advance directive that the ventilator is to be switched off after he loses the ability to speak, as he says that communication is the most potent freedom we possess and that he couldn't stand to become a clockwork brain.

Neil is shown having a bed bath and being fed a dunked biscuit, as the machines keeping him alive whirr in tandem with the sound of his measured breathing. At another point, he tries to focus on Oscar playing in the snow and Louise films everything so she can show him later. She jokes that the mush he is now eating is disgusting and, over footage of an idyllic holiday, she shares his wish that he could have been himself for a little bit longer. Neil continues this theme in his blog by urging people to make the most of every minute. But, suddenly, one morning, he finds it almost impossible to speak and Louise is upset that she cannot understand him. Davie and McKinnon capture close-ups of their lips as they try to make contact and, soon afterwards, Neil admits online that his growing inability to swallow is making life very difficult and he signs off with the message, `time at the bar, ladies and gentlemen'.

He now has an artificial night sky projected on to the ceiling and he gazes at it trying to remain upbeat, even though he knows his time is almost up. He insists that the cameras keep rolling, however, and Louise helps him with his 100th Plattitude blog. But he is aware that the strain of nursing him is getting too much and they have a final night together before he is transferred to a nearby hospice. She strokes his face and cries, as her husband struggles for words. He has been through a devastating and degrading experience, but never once tried to hide and the room seems huge without his bed and life-support machinery. Oscar wanders in, as though not really sure of the significance of the sudden space around him and the film ends poignantly with close-ups of the labelled items in the memory box that will bind him to his father forever.

When assessing a documentary with such powerful emotional content, it's often easy to overlook the technique employed in its making. In this case, however, the strategies employed by Emma Davie and Morag McKinnon (who knew Neil Platt at college) afford viewers unprecedented access to a dying man's last days, while also keeping them at a discreet distance that prevents them from feeling they are intruding voyeuristically upon private grief and allows them to reflect upon what they are watching from a personal perspective. This merging of the specific and the universal represents a remarkable achievement, as it not only reinforces the film's educational and artistic value, but also its philosophical and spiritual potency.

In collaboration with editor Peter Winther and senior editing consultant Janus Billeskov Jansen, Davie and McKinnon leaven the footage taken in Neil's sickroom with home movies, screen grabs, views of the changing seasons and point-of-view shots taken from a vehicle speeding along the country roads that used to give Neil such pleasure. Such a metaphor for the journey we are all on towards a destination we cannot envisage should seem corny. But it chimes in with the sincerity of Neil's desire to make the most of his ebbing time and his exhortation that we should do likewise makes this already affecting film truly inspirational.

As if to emphasise how quickly things change, it is worth noting that Louise has married Robin Oswald since Neil died in February 2009 and has embarked upon a new life in Edinburgh, where Oscar has now started school. She continues to campaign for MND charities and no one would begrudge her a chance of lasting happiness. But the fact that her story is continuing confirms the merit of Neil's decision to make this film, as this is never simply an intimate record of one man's fortitude. It's a reminder to us all of the fate that awaits us and we can but hope that we are afforded the opportunity to depart with such love surrounding us and with the knowledge that we have done everything possible to make the future easier for those left behind to mourn and move on.