Parky at the Pictures (In Cinemas 15/5/2014)

By contrast, the Sixth Generation pictures that started to appear in the late 1990s had a rougher, readier edge and more directly reflected the enormous changes affecting every aspect of Chinese society. Among the newcomers to challenge the cinematic status quo were Wang Xiaoshuai, Zhang Yuan and Lou Ye. But the most prominent figure was Jia Zhang-ke, who cast a sombrely sardonic eye over the shifting scene in the Shanxi trilogy of Xiao Wu (1997), Platform (2000) and Unknown Pleasures (2002), which were branded `underground' outings by the censor, as they were made outside the official film industry. However, Jia was granted state approval for The World (2004) and his stock rose further when he won the Golden Lion at Venice for Still Life (2006). But, rather than exploiting his new status to produce more crowd-pleasing fare, Jia started making documentaries and shorts, and based his next feature, 24 City (2008), around a factory's perspective of the seismic shifts that had transformed China over the previous five decades.

Despite such narrative ambition, Jia had continued to employ a minimalist style that best conveyed his authentic vision of the alienation and disillusion that have affected millions of ordinary citizens given no say in their country's radical realignment. But such steely restraint is less in evidence in Jia's most ambitious picture to date, A Touch of Sin, which seems set to divide those who will laud him for taking a generic approach to stories ripped from the headlines and those who will fear that he has missed his step in seeking to connect with a wider audience. What is not in doubt, however, is that Jia is furious with the corruption, neglect, exploitation, avarice, violence and ethical abnegation that have accompanied the supposed economic miracle.

Dismayed by the asset stripping of the Shanxi province coal mine that provided plentiful work when it was run by the state, Jiang Wu decides to take a stand. Having dealt with a man he witnessed beating a horse, he thrashes the henchmen employed by the crooked village chief and arms himself with a rifle to punish the man he holds most responsible for destroying a once-thriving community. Meanwhile, in the south-western city of Chongqing, close to the Three Gorges Dam whose construction was so crucial to Still Life, itinerant worker Wang Baoqiang returns home to celebrate his mother's 70th birthday. Nobody seems particularly pleased to see him as he dismounts his motorbike. Indeed, his son bursts into tears when he chucks his cheeks, while both his wife and mother look right through him. The following day, however, Wang makes sure he is noticed, as he heads downtown and stalks and murders a couple who have just withdrawn a large sum of money from the bank.

Across the country, in Hubei province, Zhao Tao works as a receptionist in a sauna. She is having an affair with a married man and gives him an ultimatum. But all he gives her in return is a knife, which proves no use when she is attacked by her lover's wife and has to take shelter in a sideshow featuring a woman performing with some supposedly holy snakes. However, when a wealthy patron tries to assault Zhao, she escapes after a single slash of her blade. As she goes on the run, former factory worker Lou Lanshan lands a job as a waiter in The Golden Age, a high-class Guangdong brothel in which the prostitutes dress in a variety of uniforms, including the People's Liberation Army. He falls for one of the girls, but becomes so distraught at witnessing the treatment to which she is nightly subjected that he throws himself off the balcony of his hostel.

Having been released from prison, Zhao travels to Shanxi, where she applies for a job with the company whose boss had been dispatched by Jiang in the first vignette. She wanders into the square, where an opera is being performed by a traditional theatre troupe. As she watches, the narrator asks the onlookers if they know the nature of their sin.

There's no escaping the rage that fuels this brutal snapshot of a country falling apart. Indeed, Jia is so apoplectic at the state of the nation that he occasionally allows his feelings to cloud his artistic judgement in striving to follow the lead taken by King Hu in his 1971 masterpiece, A Touch of Zen, and reclaim the political soul of the wuxia or martial arts genre. Curiously, however, Jia's resort to excess reinforces the linking theme of lost control, as he proves as culpable as his protagonists of being driven to act out of character by his despair at witnessing China's moral bankruptcy.

Yet, violence is not the sin that Jia is seeking to expose. It's not even greed or injustice, corruption or decadence. What has provoked him is the silence that prevents these issues from being addressed and he clearly means to shock when he avers that bloodletting is the only option open to those ground down by their legitimate grievances. This is why, when it erupts, the violence is as well integrated into the action as a song or dance routine in a musical. There is no room here for the kind of comic-book or designer mayhem beloved of Quentin Tarantino and his acolytes (even though this was originally influenced by the swordplay and `heroic bloodshed' movies that had been made in Hong Kong in the 1980s).

As always, Jia roots his drama in real locations and cinematographer Yu Lik-wai keeps picking up key details in Liu Weixin's mise-en-scène, so that we see the empty fields and crumbling buildings, as well as the full windows in the stores that have replaced the Buddhist temples as the new places of worship. He also wants us to notice the comparisons between the forlorn statue of Mao Zedong and the mine owner's flashy car and between Wu's shabby green army greatcoat and the kinky variations worn by the hookers, as though China has actually become one more exhibit in the theme park that Jia had highlighted in The World. Thus, Matthieu Laclau and Lin Xudong's editing is as vital to pricking consciences as the screenplay that won an award at Cannes last spring.

Even the casting of established stars alongside wife and muse Zhao Tao confirms Jia's desire to suggest that the elite is indistinguishable from the masses. Some may question why it takes a star to depict dehumanisation, but the performances are exceptional, with Wu particularly impressing as he rants at the passers-by who laugh nervously at his antics rather than engage with problems that concern them, too. Perhaps this is why the Community Party of China has decided against censoring Jia, as they hope that his howl of anguish has been unleashed in a vaccum.

Yasujiro Ozu was only 60 when his remarkable career closed An Autumn Afternoon (1962), a typically subtle, but shrewd study of family obligation and the relentless advance of time. Making only his second film in colour, Ozu keeps his camera still and at its customarily low angle, giving the viewer the freedom to explore the meticulously composed frame, while also concentrating on Chishû Ryû's touching performance, as the widowed book-keeper who reluctantly convinces 24 year-old daughter Shima Iwashita that it's her duty to marry and leave him to the companionship of his drinking buddies. Suffused with genial humanity, this warm, wise tale is both pure cinema and a sheer delight..

Having served as a naval captain during the war, Ryû resigned himself to the salaryman routine in order to be a good father to Iwashita and her brothers Keiji Sada and Shinichirô Mikami. Now, even though Sada is married to Mariko Okada and has a decent job, Ryû still helps him out with a loan to buy a refrigerator (despite the fact he has just splashed out on some golf clubs) and indulges Mikami's every whim. But it's only when old friend Nobuo Nakamura urges him to let Iwashita marry before she becomes too old that he thinks of her as anything other than his doting companion.

He has a further change of heart after attending a school reunion with Nakamura and remarried academic Ryuji Kita when he helps drunken teacher Eijirô Tôno get home and feels so sorry for his spinster daughter Haruko Sugimura that he agrees to introduce Iwashita to a 29 year-old medical assistant in Nakamura's firm. However, she hints that she has a crush on Sada's workmate Teruo Yoshida and Sada sounds him out. Unfortunately, even though he once had feelings for Iwashita, he grew tired of waiting and is now engaged to another woman.

Fighting her disappointment, Iwashita consents to an arranged match and, on the day of her wedding, Ryû drowns his sorrows with Nakamura and Ryuji. On his way home, he drops into a bar. Hostess Kyoko Kishida reminds him of his late wife, while the patriotic march being sung by some of her patrons brings back memories of his time in uniform. But, rather than feeling maudlin, he reasons that if he can survive defeat, then he can cope with the loss of his daughter and he heads back to his empty home.

Made shortly after the death of Ozu's beloved mother, this already poignant drama acquired additional resonance by virtue of the fact that it proved to be his swan song. Co-scripted by Kogo Noda, the scenario is nostalgic and optimistic without being mawkish. Moreover, it also depicts a nation finally reconciled to its peacetime fate, as while Ryû and former sailor Daisuke Kato lament the increase in Western influences as they speculate about how things might have turned out had Japan had triumphed in 1945, neither is particularly dissatisfied with their lot.

There's a slyly Ozuesque aura about Lynn Shelton's Touchy Feely, as another dutiful daughter suppresses her own ambitions to help a father whose dedication to his profession has largely gone unrewarded. Fittingly, the Japanese spiritual practice of reiki plays a key part in proceedings. But, while Ozu paid precise attention to detail in his tautly scripted pictures, Shelton allows too much to drift and go unexplained in a dramedy that moves away from her mumblecore origins without markedly improving upon either Humpday (2009) or Your Sister's Sister (2012).

Seattle massage therapist Rosemarie DeWitt leaves a session with friend Alison Janney feeling energised and good about herself. She meets up for supper with bicycle mechanic boyfriend Scoot McNairy at the childhood home that is now occupied by dentist brother Josh Pais and his twentysomething daughter-cum-assistant, Ellen Page. As they chat about DeWitt needing to find a new apartment, McNairy suggests that she moves in with him and she surprises herself by choosing this option over Pais's offer to come home until she has sorted herself out. Indeed, as she confides to Janney, DeWitt had only ever considered McNairy to be a rebound fling and she wonders if she is doing the right thing, as she prevaricates over packing up her belongings.

Meanwhile, her brother is going through a crisis of his own. Hesitant in his manner and highly conventional in his approach to both dentistry and parenting, Pais has started losing patients and Page and receptionist Shannon Kipp are so worried that the practice might have to close that they try to persuade Pais to advertise for new clients. However, things take an unexpected turn for the better when Page invites barista Tomo Nakayama for a free cleaning and Pais relieves his long-term temporomandibular joint disorder. Amusingly, word of mouth sees the waiting-room suddenly fill up and Kipp tearfully hands Pais gifts and cards from grateful patients and he is embarrassed by the sudden change in his fortunes and keeps telling newcomers that he is no miracle worker and can only do his best.

As Pais discovers a healing touch, DeWitt develops an aversion to skin after catching sight of her own kneecap while on the toilet. She cancels her appointments, as she tries to reason why she can no longer stand to touch or be touched and even alienates McNairy after she asks him to kiss her in the backroom of his shop and flees before he can lay a finger on her. Even Janney is at a loss to explain her problem and suggests that DeWitt might like to try MDMA to relieve her tension. However, McNairy is appalled by the notion that she needs ecstasy to be comfortable with him and, when the plastic bag containing the tabs falls out of DeWitt's bag over supper, Pais and Page become concerned that she is going off the rails.

When Pais confronts DeWitt about her issues, she counters that he is stifling Page by preventing her from going to university and finding her own career rather than one he has imposed upon her. But Page has other things to worry about, as she has developed a crush on McNairy and bakes him a calzone, which he accepts with the same awkward grace that she shows Nakayama when he gives her a mixtape and tickets for a gig, as Pais's miraculous ministrations mean that he can sing again.

While delighted to be helping so many people, Pais is at a loss to explain his new gifts and visits Janney to find out the secrets of reiki. Their first session is hamstrung by his gaucheness and her tactful mirth. But they establish a connection and their burgeoning relationship is chronicled in a mock-comic montage that contrasts with the dejection being experienced by DeWitt, Page and McNairy. However, just as Pais has managed to build up his confidence and clientele, bruiser Hans Altwies (who had earlier proclaimed him a genius) storms into the surgery and accuses Pais of making his TMJ worse than ever. He has a fit, as Pais tries to calm him down, and he handles the situation so badly that his waiting-room has emptied by the time he emerges from accidentally cutting the gums of elderly regular Donald Deans.

Page is so upset by these developments that she runs away and persuades McNairy to accompany her to Nakayama's gig. She asks him to kiss her, but he pleads devotion to DeWitt. She, meanwhile, has taken an ecstasy tablet and is wandering around the city in a state of confused fascination when she bumps into old flame Ron Livingston, who has returned to sell his late mother's home and invites her to revisit the room in which she was deflowered. Across town, Pais is so distraught at upsetting Page that he decides to take the second tab and goes dancing at a grungy nightclub before paying a nocturnal visit to Janney, who kisses him on the doorstep and invites him inside.

As the film ends, Nakayama joins Page, Pais, DeWitt and McNairy for dinner. But the camera keeps a discreet distance and views the scene through a window. Consequently, we never get to know how things stand between Pais and Janney or whether he discovers the source of his healing touch. We are similarly left to presume that DeWitt has regained her equilibrium after taking the plunge and moving in with McNairy. Working from a screenplay rather than encouraging improvisation (as in her earlier outings), Shelton clearly wants the audience to speculate about why Pais is alone, why Page has sublimated her own desires and why DeWitt has become so bashful about commitment and so repulsed by human flesh. But so much is left in the air that it's hard to care what happens next, especially as the characters are so resistibly self-contained.

Such is the haphazard nature of the scenario that it's also hard to take seriously the yin-yang fluctuations affecting siblings who have little in common and a dutiful rather than an affectionate bond. Page is equally morose, but McNairy and Livingston can hardly be said to be effusive. Indeed, only Janney seems to have any spark (or backstory, as we learn she is a widow), but it's not clear whether this is down to her emotional constitution or her mastery of reiki. Speaking of things Japanese, Shelton emulates Ozu by inserting numerous `pillow shots' that dwell on the wider world containing the narrative. But, while Ozu used these in a Zen manner to allow the audience to consider the previous scene and contemplate what might happen next, Shelton (who serves as her own editor) seems to employ them as a stylistic tic and makes the mistake of holding them so long that they become an irritant.

The performances are fine and Shelton means well with her message that people should be grateful for what they have, make the most of their opportunities and be nice to their nearest and dearest. But the soul searching is somewhat joyless and a similar problem besets the debuting Stacie Passon's Concussion. This also owes much to a cinematic master, as the plot bears a passing similarity to Luis Buñuel's Belle de Jour (1967). But, as in Touchy Feely, the sketchiness of the characterisation, the implausibility of several key plot developments and the detached tone of the performances conspire to keep the viewer at a distance.

Opening with the chatter of middle-aged women at a suburban New York gym, the action cuts to interior designer Robin Weigert being rushed to hospital by Julie Fain Lawrence after she is hit above the eye by a softball while playing in the park with the lesbian couple's children, Micah and Maren Shapiro. A high-powered divorce lawyer who tends to shirk the housework and child-rearing duties, Lawrence teases Weigert about getting a scar as they wait in the emergency room. But it's the accompanying bout of mild concussion that has the biggest effect on the 43 year-old, as she suddenly feels a reawakening of the libido that she has largely suppressed since Lawrence lost interest in the physical side of their relationship.

Unable to coax a response from her wife, Weigert books an appointment with call girl Kate Rogal and is stung by the expense of the privilege. However, she is also delighted when Rogal has an orgasm and suggests that Weigert tries her hand at escorting herself. Indeed, she is so affected by the experience that she confides her infidelity to contractor Johnathan Tchaikovsky, as they renovate a loft in downtown Manhattan. Fortuitously, he just happens to be dating Emily Kinney, who is paying her way through law school by running an agency for respectable clients, and Weigert agrees to start work once the decorating is complete. However, she insists on meeting the women in a coffee shop first to establish a rapport before they go to bed.

Meanwhile, Weigert continues to fold laundry, prepare meals, hoover while reading and meet up with other moms at the school gates. Journalist Janel Maloney has persuaded friends Funda Duval, Claudine Ohayon and Maggie Siff to participate in a survey she is doing about modern motherhood and she is disconcerted by the frankly Freudian nature of Weigert's dream about her son. But the exchange alerts Weigert to how careful she will have to be about her double life in order to avoid suburban gossip.

Reasonably pleased with the conversion, she asks Tchaikovsky to set up her first date and meets obese, virginal women's studies major Daria Feneis in a café near her pied-à-terre. Enjoying taking control, Weigert put Feneis at her ease and she soon becomes a regular, as does Laila Robins, a lonely middle-aged divorcée who is seeking validation after sacrificing her youth for a husband who didn't appreciate her. Uptight Tracee Chimo proves harder to seduce and she is on the verge of walking out before Weigert reassures her that their tryst will be mutually beneficial.

Chimo criticises the décor and Tchaikovsky walks in to find Weigert removing tiles with a claw hammer. However, Mimi Ferraro and Erika Latta prove less judgemental and Weigert can barely suppress a feeling of pride when Kinney informs her that she should work more often because she is proving so popular. Naturally, Lawrence suspects nothing, as Weigert never misses a school run and goes to a class showcase to see their daughter deliver a piece on the Dominican Republic. Furthermore, Weigert pays regular visits to Dr Anna George to ensure she is not subjecting her loved ones to any health risks.

However, the stakes are raised when she arrives at the coffee shop to find Maggie Siff waiting for her and has to think long and hard before accepting a date with a neighbour. As she had always fancied Siff from a distance, Weigert succumbs and is surprised when she likes it rough. But she cuts a deal with Kinney to bypass Tchaikovsky, as she resents the amount of control he has over her bookings. Yet, while she is boosting her own self-esteem and helping the timid Feneis find herself by lending her some improving reading, Weigert opts to ignore the impact her behaviour is having on her own psyche until a supermarket encounter with Siff and her financier husband Ben Shenkman gets under her skin. She is further shaken by a failed attempt to force herself on Lawrence. But her secret is finally exposed when Lawrence asks her to consider selling the loft to client Daniel London and she catches Weigert in a state of undress on the premises after she had dozed off following an assignation.

Something of an emotional enigma, Lawrence reacts frostily to the revelation. But she needs someone to run her home and care for her kids and the pair come to an arrangement. Weigert bumps into Siff as she walks her dog and expresses surprise that she would want to cheat on a husband who so evidently adores her. But Siff dismisses her cosy notions of happy families and sidles away with a patronising smile, leaving Weigert to start work on another property and pick up the pieces of her shattered idyll as best she can.

Coming so soon after Jill Soloway's Afternoon Delight, this latest variation on the housewife hooker theme is far too tasteful to engage or outrage. Despite starting with a neat montage to David Bowie's `Oh! You Pretty Things' that showcases a slick visual style honed while shooting adverts, Passon proves a desultory storyteller. She leaves too many backstory gaps to let the audience get to know Weigert and Lawrence (we never learn, for example, the precise parentage of the children) and then refuses to pry too deeply into their psychological states as the sexual misadventure flourishes and flounders. Similarly, Weigert's enablers and janes are little more than ciphers, with Siff being a particular puzzle, as her proclivities seem so contrived.

Lawrence makes the most of a woefully underwritten role, while Weigert strives valiantly to invest her adultery with philanthropy. She is less successful at conveying sensuality, however, although this has much to do with Passon's arch staging of the sex scenes, which have been photographed by David Kruta and edited by Anthony Cupo with all the fervour of a washing powder commercial. Abdellatif Kechiche may have strayed too far in the opposite direction in Blue Is the Warmest Colour, but there is no sense of desperation, trepidation or cold naked lust in any of Weigert's couplings and the absence serves to undermine the credibility of both her character and her situation.

Ruinously lacking in wit and frequently betraying a novice's pompous floridity, this works neither as erotica nor as a treatise on midlife angst. The superficiality of the scenario and the threadbare characterisation might be more excusable if the drama was even vaguely provocative. But the coyly non-partisan Passon avoids contentious issues and wastes a willing lead by opting to play safe rather than explore female attitudes to desire, prostitution, fidelity and homemaking. Thus, Weigert gets to enjoy both Sex and the City without seeming to face any emotional or domestic consequences for her reckless actions. Had a male writer or director delivered a similar denouement, he would have been rightly pilloried.

Finally, this week, we have two documentaries. The first celebrates a rare singing talent plucked from obscurity, while the second laments the decline and fall of a sporting superstar. Both Ramona S. Diaz's Don't Stop Believin': Everyman's Journey and James Erskine's Pantani: The Accidental Death of a Cyclist have their moments. But neither would look any worse on a small screen, although, admittedly, you would need a pretty impressive home entertainment system to replicate the necessary cinematic sound quality in the case of the former.

In 1981, Journey recorded “Don't Stop Believin'', which made history by becoming the most downloaded song of the 20th century. Key to its success was the soaring vocal delivered by Steve Perry. However, since he quit the band in 1998, guitarist Neal Schon, bassist Ross Valory, drummer Deen Castronovo and guitarist/keyboardist Jonathan Cain have been searching for a singer to do it justice. Much to his amazement, in June 2007, Schon found his man while skimming YouTube, where he discovered a long-haired Filipino named Arnel Pineda covering Journey tracks for The Zoo with such fidelity and pananche that he persuaded the sceptical Cain to fly him to the United States to audition for a spot on a new album and a subsequent tour.

Manager John Baruck also needed some convincing, as did Pineda's wife, Cherry, who had stuck with him through some hard times and didn't want him investing too heavily in what might be a publicity stunt. But buddy Noel Gomez urged Pineda to seize his chance and, although he took a couple of days to conquer his nerves and impose his own personality on what he called `the legacy sound', he convinced the naysayers and Cain welcomed him aboard as enthusiastically as Schon.

A sizeable proportion of the fan base took to social media to express their misgivings and even some of those queuing to witness Pineda's debut hoped he would fail. Aware of the responsibility of following the iconic Perry, Pineda had the humility to recognise his luck and conceded that the fearful might have a point. But, while he was nervous about playing Viña del Mar in Chile in front of an 18,000-strong crowd (as well as 25 million watching live on television across Latin America), he passed the test with flying colours and flew around the stage while belting out the hits with eerie precision. He was ticked off by Baruck for upstaging his bandmates and putting undue emphasis on the presentation rather than the music. But Pineda had done enough to be accepted into one of the biggest rock acts on the planet.

Diaz decides at this juncture to go back to San Francisco in the summer of 1972, when Schon was persuaded to form his own band by Herbie Herbert while playing with Carlos Santana. Valory was drafted in to play bass, while Gregg Rolie was hired to sing. But, while their gigs were acclaimed, album sales were disappointing and CBS urged Schon to adopt a more radio friendly style. As a result, Rolie was replaced by Steve Perry in 1977 and Cain was added to the strength in time for the 1981 Escape album that made Journey's reputation. Released two years later, Frontiers proved equally successful. But fame took its toll and the band members drifted apart to pursue solo projects and put their lives back on track before reuniting on Raised on Radio in 1986. Another lengthy hiatus followed, but Perry left for good after Trial by Fire (1996) and he was replaced two years later by Steve Augeri. However, throat problems led to his dismissal in 2006 and Jeff Scott Soto filled in for a year before Schon vowed to find a permanent replacement to enable Journey to cash in on the 80s nostalgia boom. 

While Journey were busy conquering the world and falling apart, Arnel Pineda was growing up in the direst poverty in the Philippines. His mother died when he was a child and his father abandoned all but his two youngest sons in 1981. When relatives could no longer afford to raise the other children, Arnel started singing at funerals for food and his brother Erik credits him for keeping the family together. On occasions, they had to sleep rough in a park with Manila's other homeless kids, but Arnel found them a room on joining The Zoo and he remained the breadwinner until his siblings were old enough to fend for themselves.

Pineda learned much while fronting a covers band and Castronovo compares his vocal flexibility to that of Paul Rodgers. Cain helps with his scale exercises and sympathises that Journey songs are notoriously difficult to perform, as they were tailored for Perry's range and style. But, even though he gets a chill, Pineda retains the high levels of energy and accuracy the fans demand and Schon is delighted they are able to offer some solace in tough economic times. He and Cain are aware of the need to protect Pineda, as Augeri burnt out and they are more convinced than ever of his value when they return to San Francisco and he sings `Any Way You Want It' with a power that takes them unawares (indeed, the camera catches the looks of astonished appreciation they share on stage).

Fighting off his cold, Pineda jokes that he makes the odd mistake and is grateful that audiences are cutting him some slack, as he knows how dangerous pressure to perform can be. In the 1980s, he succumbed to the temptations of groupies and drugs, while he was written off by the doctors after his voice failed during a spell in Hong Kong. However, meeting Cherry helped calm him down and his throat recovered, although plans to strike out solo with songs like `Pain in My Heart' had to be shelved, as the crowds wanted covers and it was a recording of one of these gigs that Schon saw online.

Cracking that he has become an overnight sensation after 25 years of pain and strain, Pineda greets fans outside venues as though he is still one of them rather than a star. He is particularly pleased that so many Filipinos have started coming to the gigs and he is swamped outside the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles by adoring compatriots. He poses for pictures and signs everything that is handed to him, as he is fully aware that the bubble might burst at any moment. But he also receives timely words of encouragement from Jason Scheff, who replaced Peter Cetera in Chicago and knows exactly how hard it is to fill big shoes. Despite being exhausted, Pineda meets and greets the great and the good after the show. But he spends much of the trip to Las Vegas in an ogygen tent aboard the tour bus.

Heading back to Manila, he complains that touring is an arduous business and regrets that friction often gets the better of longtime friends in a hothouse atmosphere. But he is pleased to have converted the doubters and is grateful his success has enabled him to buy a big house, where he can cook his favourite dishes in peace. Cherry accompanies him when he sings to some local fans beside a river and joins him in plunging into the water, as she is determined to stand by her man and forgive any lapses that might happen on the road (even though Arnel insists he has every intention of remaining faithful).

After a few months of relaxtion, his four new friends fly in for a special concert. Understandably, Pineda is nervous before playing his home city, but the crowd goes wild when he breaks into `Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world' and a closing caption confirms that he is still with Journey six years later and is now very much one of the gang.

Given that Diaz was accorded all area access, it's hardly surprising that she allows this amiable and mostly entertaining profile to overrun. Indeed, such is the remarkable nature of the story that a little self-indulgence is almost de rigueur. Fortunately, Pineda is sufficiently modest and aware to take the attention and adulation in his stride. He is also lucky that his bandmates are so relieved at having picked a winner who is keeping them in business that they allow him the limelight with a mixture of graciousness and amusement.

More might have been made of events after the honeymoon period, especially as no explanation is given as to why it has taken so long for a documentary recorded in 2008 to surface. But, even though details of the darker post-1986 period are a bit sketchy, Diaz just about gets the balance right between Journey and Pineda and, most importantly, she avoids sentimentalising his tough upbringing or sensationalising what appears to have been a prolonged lost weekend. Indeed, having viewed the self-effacing tenacity with which he rose to the challenge, few would begrudge him his chance or wish him anything other than continued success.

James Erskine has very cannily plugged a gap in the documentary market by concentrating on sporting topics. However, the cosy nostalgic vibe that made his account of England's tilt at Italia 90 (One Night in Turin, 2010) and the 1981 Botham-inspired victory over Australia (From the Ashes, 2011) worked less well when he had to examine the serious socio-political issues that surrounded the infamous 1973 tennis showdown between Billie Jean King and Bobby Riggs in The Battle of the Sexes (2013). Unfortunately, the superficiality of Erskine's clips and quips approach is further exposed in Pantani: The Accidental Death of a Cyclist, as he resolutely refuses to engage with the pivotal question of whether the legendary Italian was a tragic genius or a calculating drugs cheat.

Born in Cesena in 1970, Marco Pantani joined the Fausto Coppi cycling club in Cesenatico at the age of 11, with his grandfather helping parents Paolo and Tonina with the funds to buy his first bike. In 1992, he won the amateur Giro d'Italia and his success at the Girobio led to him signing to the Carrera Jeans-Vagabond team. A solid first season saw Pantani growing in confidence and, during the 1994 Giro, he disobeyed team orders to launch a blistering attack up the Mortirolo Pass and take his first professional stage victory. Rival Eugeni Berzin recalls how astonished everyone was by the audacity and power of the climb and Pantani cemented his growing reputation by finishing third and winning the young rider classification in his debut Tour de France.

The following year, Tour wins at Alpe d'Huez and Guzet-Neige reinforced his claim to be the master climber. But he was hit by a car during a badly marshalled stretch of the 1995 Milano–Torino road race and the multiple fractures to his left leg raised fears that Pantani might never walk again, let alone ride at the highest level. However, he was soon back in the saddle and not even an encounter with a black cat on the 1997 Giro (not mentioned here) could prevent him from taking two mountain stages at the Tour and finishing third behind Jan Ullrich. But there was to be no stopping Pantani in 1998, as he hauled back a four-minute deficit to Alex Zülle going into the Dolomites to win the Giro and then completed the rare double just a few weeks later, when produced a momentous 12-minute swing in the Pyrenees to break Ullrich and take the yellow jersey.

To this point in the film, Erskine has concentrated on the passion, physique and athletic skills that led to the earring- and bandana-sporting Pantani being dubbed `The Pirate'. The footage of him ramping on the pedals to leave rivals in his dust and of him hurtling down terrifying inclines in his distinctive crouched pose is thrilling. The moment when he stopped to don a cape against the freezing rain during one descent in the Tour sums up his fortitude and courage. But Erskine has paid little attention to the EPO scandal that was breaking around international cycling following the Festina incident during the 1998 Tour. Thus, when he reveals that Pantani was suspended from the 1999 Giro because his blood levels were deemed potentially dangerous, Erskine should have grasped the nettle and explored the extent to which performance-enhancing chemicals were being used and whether Pantani was guilty or framed. This unwillingness to answer difficult questions seriously undermines the value of the profile, as Pantani goes from hero to victim with only a fleeting suggestion that he had been set up by mob-controlled betting syndicates being presented as mitigating evidence.

There is no question that Pantani felt humiliated by his experience and his parents recall the shock he endured when he was accused of being a cheat by bystanders on a training ride. But Erskine decides against probing his psyche at this crucial point in his career and contents himself with chronicling the duel with Lance Armstrong during the 2000 Tour that saw the American seemingly allow Pantani to win on Mont Vertoux before insultingly calling him `the little elephant' because of his prominent ears. The Italian would triumph again at Courchevel, but stomach cramps forced him to withdraw after he failed to break Armstrong at Morzine and his race seemed to be run after he only managed to finish 69th at the Sydney Olympics (a key detail again overlooked here).

During the 2001 Giro, a syringe containing traces of insulin was found in Pantani's room and he was banned from riding for eight months. He returned with a 14th place at the 2003 Giro, but he failed to secure a ride at the Tour and was admitted to a psychiatric clinic in late June. With his reputation in tatters and a case of sporting fraud hanging over him dating back to 1999, Pantani died of acute cocaine poisoning in a Rimini hotel on 14 February 2004. He was 34 years old. Diego Maradona was among the 20,000 mourners at his funeral. But Pantani's legacy remains in doubt and Erskine has done little to clarify matters. He closes with a series of captions, one stating that at least 30 otherwise healthy competitive cyclists died of complications connected to EPO between 1990-2007, while another reports that cycling's UCI governing body refuses to accept the validity of findings published in 2013 by the French Senate which showed that 18 riders in the 1998 Tour (including Ullrich and Pantani) had tested positive for traces of EPO. 

Clearly, there is more to unearth here and it seems a shame that Erskine has wasted his opportunity, after speaking to Pantani's parents, early influences like Vittorio Savini, Nicola Amaducci and Giuseppe Roncucci, cyclists Greg Lemond, Piotr Ugrumov, Marco Velo and Bradley Wiggins, coach Sandro Donati, masseur Roberto Pregnolato, prosecutor Pierguido Soprani, biographer Matt Rendell and journalist Richard Williams. The excellent archive material is slickly assembled by Arturo Calvete and propulsively scored by Lorne Balfe. But the odd recreated moment sits awkwardly and does nothing to further our understanding of Il Pirata and ascertain whether he is a maligned titan or a mere mortal who succumbed to the sponsors and doctors pressurising similarly idealistic cyclists into illegally optimising their chances.