Parky at the Pictures (DVD 16/4/2015)

Keen to improve the image of vampires in the 21st century, Taika Waititi invites a film crew to make a documentary about the friends, with whom he shares a squalid property in downtown Wellington. Waititi is 379 years old and so cleaves to the manners of an 18th-century dandy that he puts newspaper down whenever he makes a kill. Aged 862, Jemaine Clement was a medieval torturer in his previous life and still has a thing about dungeons and torture, while the 183 year-old Jonathan Brugh fancies himself as a bit of a ladykiller (in every sense of the word) when not indulging his passion for National Socialism. Completing the quarter is Ben Fransham, an 8000 year-old nosferatu whose taciturnity belies the fact that he can still feed with ruthless efficiency.

Although they live together, the age differences mean that the vampires have little in common and they argue incessantly about whose turn it is to do the various household chores that are something of a necessity in light of their gory existence. Waititi is all in favour of meeting the neighbours and convinces housewife Jackie Van Beek to do the dishes with a vague promise of immortality. However, he annoys his housemates by recruiting Cori Gonzalez-Macuer, a cocky twentysomething whose saving grace is that he brings along Stuart Rutherford, who introduces them to the pleasures of the Internet and nightclubs (when they can get inside, as they can only gain admittance to premises by tacit invitation).

Eventually, Fransham loses patience with Gonzalez-Macuer and bites him and he becomes even more insufferable on joining their brotherhood by boasting he is going to be the next big scourge of humanity. But, by venturing out more often, the vampires attract the attention of hunter Brad Harding, who succeeds in vanquishing Fransham. Shortly afterwards, Rutherford is abducted by a pack of werewolves, led by Rhys Darby. They have anger management issues and try not to use foul language or transform at the slightest provocation. Moreover, they loathe the vampires, who hiss at them whenever they pass.

Yet, when Rutherford returns to the squat, Waititi welcomes him back, even though he may now be a lycanthrope. He also makes a decision regarding the love of his life, after spending many a night mooning around her house. Ethel Robinson (making her screen debut at the age of 98) was a beautiful young woman when he first set eyes on her. But Waititi realises that he would rather live with her as a perpetually old lady than lose her altogether and bites her in the traditional manner.

This rather sweet encounter turns out to be the picture's high point, as the final act centres somewhat tiresomely on a run-in with some zombies at the Unholy Masquerade Ball held at the Cathedral of Despair. But, while the denouement proves a disappointment, there is enough deadpan humour to keep wavelength audiences amused. Opening with a droll credit to the fictitious New Zealand Documentary Board, the action is more akin to a Christopher Guest lampoon of True Blood than a Twilight parody like Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer's woeful Vampires Suck (2010). Yet, while it bears the Conchord hallmark, this never quite hits the consistent heights of the cult TV show. Ra Vincent (who was Oscar nominated for his work on Peter Jackson''s The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, 2012) contributes some atmospheric sets, while Dan Brooker's make-up belies the budget as cannily as Stan Alley's special effects (which peak with the faux Nazi newsreel and the vampires' moonlit transformation into bats). But the surfeit of throwaway gags leaves this looking a little threadbare and one starts to dread what the 123½ hours of discarded footage must have looked like.

Jeanne Herry's debut, Elle L'Adore, has been lauded by domestic critics and proved a considerable box-office success, but it is nowhere near as amusing as Guillaume Gallienne's similar succès d'estime, Me, Myself and Mum. Herry is exceedingly fortunate to have the ever-wonderful Sandrine Kiberlain as her star, as few do deadpan better and this is a comic role that demands to be played with all the gravitas of a drama in order to prevent its numerous farcical contrivances from collapsing in on themselves. Kiberlain is a divorced mother of two who works at a beauty parlour where she has a reputation for gilding her anecdotes. Despite being in her late thirties, she has an adolescent crush on pop singer Laurent Lafitte and not only collects all of his recordings and memorabilia, but also attends so many concerts that she has become friends with his assistant, Benjamin Lavernhe.

She seems a natural choice, therefore, when Lafitte gets into an argument with his wife and accidentally kills her with a blow to the head. Knowing the scandal would damage his reputation, Lafitte decides against calling the emergency services. He even decides against trusting Lavernhe and longtime cleaning lady Muriel Mayette-Holtz and turns up instead on Kiberlain's doorstep in the middle of the night with a proposition he knows she won't refuse. He tells her that he needs someone he can trust to drive his car across the border into Switzerland, where his sister, Sophie Gourdin, will take care of everything.

Only too pleased to help her hero, Kiberlain readily agrees and even promises not to look in the boot. However, a missing persons report is filed and the intervention of a border patrol leads to detective inspector Pascal Demolon becoming convinced that Kiberlain has something to hide. But such is Kiberlain's skill at convoluting any tale that he quickly becomes confused, although his concentration is not helped by the fact that his partner (and sexually voracious girlfriend) Olivia Côte is flirting with fellow copper Sébastien Knafo.

Eventually, Demolon's need to keep Côte away from temptation allows Lafitte to slip through his hands after Kiberlain starts to resists her idol's shameless efforts to frame her as the crazed fan who murdered his wife out of jealousy. But, while the pieces in Herry and Gaëlle Macé's screenplay slot together neatly enough, this increasingly feels like a romp that can't resist adding one more embellishment to an already teetering narrative edifice. Without Kiberlain (who received a César nomination for her efforts), this would come crashing down, as her utter conviction in her cockeyed character ensures this remains highly enjoyable even as it becomes more ridiculously improbable.

Nevertheless, the Demolon/Côte subplot soon outstays its welcome, even though their impossible co-dependency is supposed to mirror that of Kiberlain and Lafitte. But, while Herry, as the daughter of singer Julien Clerc and the actress Miou-Miou, clearly has insights into fan eccentricity, her satire lacks bite, while she struggles to generate any suspense as it is clear that Kiberlain goes her way with the assurance of a sleepwalker (her expressions and timing during the interrogation sequence are exemplary). Lafitte also has a couple of nice moments, when he realises during a phone conversation that Gourdin has no idea what he is talking about and when he looks in the mirror to discover his first grey hair. But, even in an age of empty celebrity, his character rings hollow from the outset and, as a consequence, this hokey amorality tale winds up feeling as bleak as one of production designer Loic Chavanon's amusingly sterile interiors.

Only Frederick Wiseman and Raymond Depardon can compete with Nicolas Philibert when it comes to Direct Cinema. But, while either could have produced a study of Radio France to match La Maison de la Radio, neither could have invested it with such wistful wit and delicate discretion. Filmed over several months in 2011, the action has been shaped to suggest a day in the life of stations like France Inter, France Info and France Bleu, which share the thousand or so offices nestling in Henry Bernard's vast circular edifice on the banks of the Seine in the 16th arrondissement of western Paris. But rather than dwelling the bustle behind the scenes, Philibert concentrates on the cool professionalism that informs each and every broadcast.

Following an evocative montage of voices in studios across the complex building to an info-cacophony, Philibert leaves Patrick Cohen presenting the breakfast show to descend on the newsroom, where presenter Marie Christine Le Dû is giving rookie newsreader Faouzi Tritah some unvarnished tips on how to approve the composition and delivery of his new flash items. Clearly not wishing to intrude upon what is tantamount to a dressing down, Philibert slips into the drama studio, where producer Marguerite Gateau is taking someone through a story to explain how she wants it read. But Philibert doesn't linger long and flits from Tata Milouda conducting an interview about slam poetry to soprano Ruth Rosique preparing to record a jaunty ditty with her accompanist.

Back in the newsroom, Emmanuel Leclère tries to book an interview with the president, while managing editor Marie-Claude Rabot-Panson calls a reporter to arrange a live link-up. Assistant Florence Paracuellos scours the Internet for filler items and comes up with something about dying anchovies in Los Angeles. Outside, people scurry along corridors, while the garage and post room are hives of activity. An outside broadcast unit sets off on a motorbike to follow the Tour de France into Châteauroux, while blind journalist Laetitia Bernard types in Braille and Japanese writer Akira Mizubayashi is interviewed about the effects of the 11 March tsunami.

Down in the music studio, Rosique is backed by strings and an accordion, while Gateau listens intently as the cast completes a final read through before she starts recording her drama. Elsewhere, the audience enters in the spirit of a quiz show whose time clock ticks down to the sound of a xylophone. As a rapper launches into a number in English, Philobert cuts drolly to classical music specialist Frédéric Lodéon, who peers out from behind a stack of CDs on his desk to reveal how to spot when a programme has been pre-recorded. Luckily for journalist Philippe Vandel, he isn't going out live, as he muffs his lines in delivering a report on Belgium. But it's the sound of drilling coming through the supposedly soundproofed walls that frustrates Gateau, as she has to stop recording until peace is restored.

By contrast, things are becoming heated in an editorial meeting in the newsroom and Philobert cuts away to the soothing sound of a marimba band in full flow. Jesus Cabrera also provides a welcome distraction with his drinks trolley, while Rabot-Panson tries to lighten the mood by joking about the discovery of four bodies in Lille. As Gateau works on some sound effects for her production, a storm chaser named Michel discusses the French weather and sportingly agrees to do a plug for the interviewer's show. It's not an ideal day to be on the trail of the Tour, but spirits are high among the spectators, who come over and chat with the reporter and offer him a bottle of wine before he speeds off after the peloton.

Philobert cuts from a point-of-view shot through winding streets to a conductor leading his choristers through a song being recorded with a piano accompaniment. Writer-cum-actor Jean-Bernard Pouy is asked to extemporise a pensée to close an under-running programme and he waxes lyrical about potatoes while peeling some. Elsewhere, writer Annie Ernaux explores the place of anger in solitude, while sound recordist Marc Namblard ventures into some woods to set up a miscrophone under camouflage to record some ambient sounds.

Views of the Eiffel Tower bring Katell Djian and Laurent Chevallier's cameras back inside the Maison de la Radio to shuttle from Rabot-Panson following up a story about a cyclist racing a horse to Antonio Placer recording `Republicalma' with pianist Jean-Marie Machado. The close-ups used to capture this intense rendition are repeated to capture the changing expressions as Bénédicte Heim is interviewed by Alain Veinstein about her dual life as a writer and teacher. The contrast between his composure and her unease is fascinating and Philobert adroitly follows it with a clip of Umberto Eco ruminating on perspectives in novels before plastic surgeon Laurent Lantieri discusses how patients react when they first see their new faces.

Continuing the round of the magazine and chat shows, Philobert listens in as singer Arno Hintjens avows that he wouldn't want to be famous, as he like being able to remain the underdog and he shares the pleasure that actor Michel Piccoli still takes in travelling by bus. Comic actor Jos Houben clearly wishes that his fans could distinguish between his characters and his private self, as he reveals how people used to seeing him being knocked around on screen expect to be able to push him around in real life. This lament on the breaking down of barriers is juxtaposed with a clip of screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière contemplating how differently everyday noises would have sounded throughout history. But Philobert returns to Houben in time to hear him explain the need for rules in comedy and have to be reminded by his hosts that the sight gag he wishes to perform wont work very well on the radio.

Checking in on Gateau and Rabot-Panson once more, Philobert eavesdrops on conductor Matthias Brauer giving the Radio France choir a stern lecture on the need for precision in Germanic pronunciation. He also dallies to listen to Maïa Vidal singing `The Alphabet of My Phobias' in English to an accordion before cutting away to the world of critters and creepy-crawlies, as Namblard continues to record the sounds of Nature. As if to prove that preparation is everything, Philobert next cuts from current affairs presenter Alain Bedouet sorting papers in his office to him conducting a lively discussion on the role of Facebook in the Tunisian Spring. However, unpredictability is part of the magic and the shot of Caroline Ostermann grimacing after reading the shipping forecast splendidly conveys the tension that even the most experienced broadcaster feels when going out live.

A montage conveys the range of programmes on offer during the evening, with a football commentary providing the audio backdrop to shots of people typing, reading and recording. As a song about Virgil and Ulysses dies away, medical academic Jean-Claude Ameisen readies himself to speak. Nearby, Evelyne Adam hosts a popular request show on France Bleu and researcher Elisabeth Rodier fielding calls that may well come from the occupants of the cars visible from her window. But not everything is designed to provide the soundtrack to quotidian tasks, as Pierre Bastien demonstrates by using rubber bands, Meccano and a trumpet in a glass of water to make music on a France Culture show. Realising nothing can top this astonishing sequence, Philobert takes a final tour of the darkened offices and studios. Lights still burn through the night, however, as someone has to write Patrick Cohen's script for the next day's breakfast show.

Although this superb documentary depends heavily on Philobert's eye for detail and editorial acuity, its bid to convey the immediacy and intimacy of radio is entirely reliant on Olivier Do Huu's inspired sound mix. Whether capturing the mellifluous sonorousness of the spoken word or the rich variety of song, Do Huu judges each to perfection and sends the viewer back to the private spaces where they do their own radio listening with a fresh appreciation of the artistry and craftsmanship involved in communicating solely with words, music and sounds.

The majority of the faces on view (none of which are identified on screen) will be unfamiliar to British audiences, but the very denial of easy celebrity recognition forces non-Francophiles to concentrate on what is being said and how it is being presented. Gateau and Rabot-Panson are probably the star turns, but Lodéon strikes a chord (even though Philobert bends the observational rules by resorting to an interview situation) and Bastien's Heath Robinson turn is a joy to behold (although its probably not quite as compelling on a purely audio level). The real star, however, is Bernard's modernist masterpiece, which made headlines last autumn when it had to be evacuated during a fire scare. One wonders how a similar snapshot of the BBC might turn out, bearing in mind that the division of stations between London and Salford would preclude a commensurate sense of homogeneity. But, while Britain can currently boast a number of admirable documentary makers, there is no one who can hold a candle to Nicolas Philibert.

Although the situation in the Ukraine has slipped from the headlines, Sergei Loznitsa's documentary, Maidan, remains hugely significant. Born in Belarus, but raised in Kiev, Loznitsa has recently made an impression with the fictional features My Joy (2010) and In the Fog (2012). However, he returns to his roots in actuality for this remarkable account of the events that took place between November 2013 and February 2014 and turned a country flexing its democratic muscles into a war zone whose fate could have grave consequences for the entire planet.

When protesters began to gather in Kiev's Maidan Nezalezhnosti (aka Independence Square) to make known their opposition to the pro-Russian policies of President Viktor Yanukovych, Loznitsa and fellow cameramen Serhiy Stefan Stetsenko and Mykhailo Yelchev found vantage points around the periphery and set about recording in fixed master shots the events that unfolded over the next few hours. Initially, the mood was buoyant, as the national anthem alternated with patriotic songs (some with pertinent new lyrics) and speeches and poems were delivered from the platform to rousing cheers. The carnival atmosphere is reinforced by volunteers bringing food supplies from a local school, as the crowd prepares to camp out for a long haul. Yet, while there is an amusing interlude in which a man making sandwiches has his phone confiscated by his tutting supervisor for not wearing protective gloves, the sight of the barricades rising to keep the police at bay suggests that violent reprisal cannot be far away and that Yanukovych will not heed the lyrics of the old Italian partisan song, `Bella Ciao'.

Until now, Loznitsa and his colleagues have maintained a watching brief, allowing people to drift in and out of the frame and convey a palpable sense of being at the heart of the demonstration. Indeed, the inertia of the cameras adds to the immediacy and intimacy of the footage. But, suddenly on 19 January, the mood begins to change as speakers urge women to leave the frontline because stringent anti-protest laws have been announced and the expectation of brutality sends ripples of anxiety through the still defiant throng.

Shortly afterwards, the armed police make their first charge and are met with both resistance and a volley of rocks that drive them back. As tear gas is fired into an area reserved for the press, the camera moves for the first time as the operator seeks sanctuary so he can keep filming, as water cannon are unleashed on the demonstrators before the first crack of live ammunition is heard on the soundtrack. Now looking down on the action and across the square from what appear to be city council offices, the camera is able to peer through smoke rising from burning fires and the lingering gas hanging thickly on the cold air.

After several days of tense stand-offs, the crowd begins to march towards the parliament building. But the camera retains its passive watching brief, with the result that thick black smoke is left tantalisingly unexplained in the distance and the viewer is left to speculate whether the woman who rushes across the frame is running towards or away from some momentous event. An old lady harangues a younger woman, as cobblestones and bricks are ripped from the road by passing youths to be used as missiles. The scene changes rapidly, as people rush in every direction and the sound can be heard in the distance of voices appealing from the stage for urgent medical assistance. But the indelibly lingering impression is left by the unrelenting chant of `Glory to the Heroes' and the poignant strains of the mournful folk song `Plyve kacha po tysyni', which records the parting exchange between a mother and a son terrified of perishing alone on foreign soil.

There were times when the news coverage of the Kiev uprising resembled a digitised re-imagining of Claude Monet's 1878 canvas, `The Rue Montorgueil, Paris'. But there is something much rawer, almost Bruegelian, about this self-consciously painterly record that compels the audience to create its own account simply by choosing where to look within the static image. Initially, the intra-frame movement is vital, joyful and unquestionably naive. But, as the forces of oppression move into Maidan Nezalezhnosti, the eye is distracted away from the human element by the thick plumes of smoke that now seem to be dire portents of the chaos that would be wrought upon the eastern part of the country from the summer onwards.

Given the way things panned out in Egypt, one can only have misgivings as one watches the tide turn and it is instructive to compare Loznitsa's methodology with the handheld aesthetic employed by Jehane Noujaim in shooting The Square (2013). In particular, the sound mix achieved by Vladimir Golovnitski, Kirill Krasovskiy and Boris Peter places the restricted tableaux into a wider context, while also reminding viewers that the perspective captured by either a single or multiple cameras can never be the definitive record, but only a mosaic piece of a much bigger picture.

British newcomer Charlie Lyne recalls the recent history of American teens on screen in Beyond Clueless, a compilation essay that is notable not only for the fact that it was funded by Kickstarter, but also because its director is a 23 year-old who was born in the year that this whistlestop survey opens. While still a teenager, Lyne made a name for himself with the Ultra Culture blog. His writing exudes a confidence in both his own opinions and his understanding of what his audience wants to read and, in this regard, there is something Truffautian about his irreverent attitude. This same fearlessness informs this meticulously researched and superbly edited clipumentary. But the insights into the adolescent psyche and its depiction in Hollywood movies lack originality and depth, while no attempt whatsoever is made either to put the pictures in a wider social or cinematic context or to consider how they were made and why the majority have stylistic, political and cultural traits in common.

The problem facing a 53 year-old critic approaching this material is that it simply wasn't made for them and, as a consequence, they are likely to sound like a grumpy old man in assessing it. As someone who was in their thirties (and over) when the pictures under review were first released, it's difficult to have a personal relationship with them, especially as all most have going for them is a snarky postmodernist take on the anxieties, aspirations and attitudes that were already clichéd when John Hughes satirised them with infinitely more wit, finesse and empathy in the 1980s.

So, what follows has to bear the rider that while this critic saw most of the movies under discussion, he did so out of professional duty rather than personal enthusiasm and many seem no more acute or exciting in retrospect than they did at the time. This is not to say, however, that teendom and its cinematic representation are not worthy topics. Indeed, Mark Cousins and Matt Wolf have already covered similar ground in The Story of Children and Film and Teenage, respectively. But, while Lyne references many more movies, his scope is much narrower, as he focuses exclusively on American titles made between 1991-2006. Moreover, in comparison with Cousins, he lets slip little passion for his chosen subject. There is no joy, wonderment or guilty nostalgic pleasure in the commentary, delivered with such detached irony by cult actress Fairuza Balk that the more pertinent pronouncements get lost amidst the perfunctory synopses that accompany the pictures studied in greater detail. Thus, this often sounds more like a college assignment or an online think piece than a documentary script, which is a shame, as Lyne clearly knows his stuff and repeatedly proves himself to be an editor with an enviable eye and a judicious sense of tone and pace.

Dividing the treatise into five chapters, Lyne dissects the truisms of growing up and the rules of high school with a glib gravitas that is entirely appropriate for a genre that often runs more deceptively deeply than critics give it credit. In order to fathom the mysteries of `Fitting In', he invokes Andrew Fleming's The Craft (1996) to consider the nature of cliques and David Nutter's Disturbing Behaviour (1998) to lay bare the secrets of canteen pecking orders. In between, he stuffs a selection of corridor walks to introduce the bitches, jocks, nerds, skaters and boys and girls next door who will become increasingly familiar as the discourse develops. Lyne next latches on to Mark Waters's Mean Girls (2004) and Roger Kumble's Cruel Intentions (1999) to show how newcomers can gain acceptance by preying on those more vulnerable than themselves. However, as the kids discover in Jim Gillespie's I Know What You Did Last Summer (1997), the outsider remains a potent threat to the cabal and has to be made over to fit the cookie-cutter template, as in Melanie Mayron's Slap Her, She's French! (2002) and Robert Iscove's She's All That (1999).

A montage of party snippets follows to the accompaniment of `House Party', a song by twee pop combo Summer Camp that includes the line, `you take yourself too seriously', which leaves more than an ironic undertone, as Lyne moves into a section entitled `Acting Out'. One of the problems of this documentary is its failure to define the parameters of the teenpic and to contextualise it. This omission proves handy, however, when Lyne wishes to slip into the mix features that don't necessarily conform to generic type. A case in point is Blair Hayes's Bubble Boy (2001), which is used to initiate a rumination on the role of burgeoning desire in teenage rebellion. Following a swimming pool montage designed to remind us of the physique-o-centric nature of adolescent pangs, Lyne enlists the help of Disturbing Behaviour, Rodman Flender's Idle Hands (1999) and Luke Greenfield's The Girl Next Door (2004) to reveal the dangers of letting lust run amuck. He also namechecks John Fawcett's Ginger Snaps (2000) to warn against the terrors of bodily transformation before using Tamra Davis's Crossroads (2002) to unleash a making out montage that culminates in Josh Hartnett flying over a sea of boobs in Michael Lehmann's 40 Days and 40 Nights (2002).

But, despite the teen movie's celebration of sexuality, Lyne knows it also has a socio-cultural responsibility to tame urges and even repress them when they seem transgressive or confusing. Following brief extracts from Gregg Araki's The Doom Generation (1995) and Katt Shea's The Rage: Carrie 2 (1999), `Losing Yourself' examines to the point of overkill the homoeroticism festering in Victor Salva's Jeepers Creepers (2001), Roger Avary's The Rules of Attraction (2002), Jeff Schaffler's EuroTrip (2004) and James Wong's Final Destination (2000). A montage follows showing what can happen when kids go to extremes and weirdness gives way to violence. Lyne wittily gives this package a false ending before fading to black and emerging in the chapter entitled `Toeing the Line', which begins its exploration of conformity with lengthy excerpts from Robert Rodriguez's The Faculty (1998) and Harry Elfont and Jennifer Kaplan's Josie and the Pussycats (2001).

This diatribe on the need to belong (or adulthood's insistence on stamping out individuality) lurches rather unpersuasively into an appreciation of prom night etiquette and the fear of rejection. But Lyne opts not to linger and ventures into `Moving On' to show how teenagers are required to reinvent themselves just as they have established an identity that allows them to survive (and sometimes thrive) in a classroom environment. The grim realities of being a college freshman are laid bare in Elfont and Kaplan's Can't Hardly Wait (1998), while a third visit to Disturbing Behaviour and extended sojourns in Gary Winick's 13 Going on 30 (2004) and Robert Iscove's Boys and Girls (2000) caution against falling into the abyss of perpetual teenagehood. John Schultz also sounds a warning bell against believing in happy ever afters in Drive Me Crazy (1999) before Lyne whacks in a masturbation montage that builds to a crescendo with the suitably corny `Learn to Love Yourself' throbbing away on the soundtrack.

He isn't quite done yet, however, as an epilogue offers a cursory glance at graduation day and its significance for the youth suddenly at the end of one rite of passage and the start of another. Rather archly, Lyne selects clips from Sam Raimi's Spider-Man (2002) to make his point about role playing before a crawl details the 270 or so movies that he has filleted in the course of his dissertation. A full list can be found under the Connections banner on the film's IMDB page, but it's frustrating that Lyne leaves it until now to credit the various directors whose work he proclaims to admire. Similarly, by using character names throughout the narration, countless familiar faces go unacknowledged. It might have been instructive to consider how the Hollywood machine exploits such fresh-faced hopefuls, as very few go on to bigger or better things. The same is true of the majority of the film-makers cited here and it's disappointing that Lyne chooses not to explore the concept of auteurism within a teen genre that seems to preclude stylistic innovation.

Watching the various montages, it becomes evident just how many of these movies utilise identikit lighting and production designs, as well as textbook camera movements whose purpose is to keep the gaze fixed firmly on toned bodies and photogenic faces. But, as the relentless bombardment of untagged images continues, it becomes difficult to tell the caricatures apart. Moreover, it slowly begins to dawn that these visions of everyday adolescence have been concocted by directors who had left school years beforehand and run the risk of imposing their own preoccupations on the now generation. It seems clear, therefore, than depictions of a teenpic present date faster than sci-fi conceptions of the future and that the manners and mores Lyne seeks to enshrine have been old news for over a decade.

The curious decision to end the trawl in 2006 is compounded by the disappointing lack of diversity. Hollywood is certainly not alone in producing teenpics. Indeed, those made in Holland, Germany, Denmark, Norway and Sweden are often more honest and audacious in their discussion of quotidian problems and pressures. But, while one can forgive Lyne for limiting his scope to America, he has to be censured for prioritising pictures centred on white, middle-class kids in small towns or suburbia. He has no excuse, as there are dozens of films about black, Hispanic and other ethnic minority and lower-class teens. His refusal to engage with the agonies of coming out earns another demerit, as does his neglect of the fact that so many high school movies over the last 20 years have been inspired by works of literature, among them Amy Heckerling's Clueless (1995), which has presumably been relegated to a blink-and-miss-it spot because the budget only allowed its inclusion under the terms of fair usage.

Bearing in mind such restrictions, Lyne has done a remarkable job in packing so many clips into such a comparatively short running time. He excels at spotting and matching recurring motifs and the montages are masterfully assembled in imitation of the kiss sequence in Giuseppe Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso (1988) and Christian Marclay's 24-hour, real-time video installation, The Clock (2010). Some may accuse Lyne of being capricious in selecting relatively obscure films for his case studies, but this eclecticism is one of the strong points of a slick, if somewhat self-indulgent exercise in commercialised structuralism, this is most definitely not without interest or merit.

Finally, Morgan Spurlock seeks to expose the perniciousness and ubiquity of advertising and product placement in The Greatest Movie Ever Sold by amusingly selling promotional spots within the film itself. Back on Super Size Me (2004) form after somewhat losing his way with Where in the World Is Osama Bin Laden? (2008), Spurlock again proves a much more genial on-screen presence than Michael Moore, although he is still prone to the intellectual superficiality and grandstanding lapses that have made Moore such a decreasingly effective critic of the contemporary American scene.

Intrigued by the extent to which commercials and sponsorship have impinged upon most aspects of modern living, Spurlock decided to buy in rather than sell out and make a film about the process of funding the very picture he was shooting. Consequently, he hit the phones in a bid to attract potential investors and gets the action off to a rousing start with a montage of pitches and rejections that finally results in Ban deodorant agreeing to come on board for $50,000. Other companies eventually follow suit and Spurlock is seen meeting with founders and executives as he contracts to drink nothing but Pom Wonderful pomegranate juice on screen, as well as exclusively fly with Jet Blue airlines, drive Mini Cooper cars, stay in Hyatt hotels, eat Amy's Kitchen pizza and conduct as many interviews as possible in Sheetz gas stations and convenience restaurants.

He also consents to shoot an ad for Mane`n'Tail shampoo, as he is so taken with a product that can be used on both humans and horses. In so doing, Spurlock fulfils his promise of total transparency. Moreover, he also succeeds in discussing such issues as brand perception, marketing strategies and consumer suggestibility with a satirical insight that would be all the more trenchant if he could resist mugging to the camera whenever he hits a target. Yet Spurlock manages to finance his `docbuster' entirely with other people's money without relinquishing artistic control.

Indeed, he finds time for a couple of digressions, as he buys ad space on the perimeter fence of a cash-strapped school in Broward County, Florida and visits São Paulo to discover how mayor Gilberto Kassab and co-ordinator Regina Monteiro removed all outdoor advertising in a campaign to end visual pollution. Moreover, he also gets to learn some tricks of the trade from PR gurus like Tony Seiniger, Britt Jonson, David Whales, Richard Kirshenbaum, Martin Lindstrom and Peter Bemis, as well as debating the phenomenon of product placement in mainstream movies with directors JJ Abrams, Brett Ratner, Peter Berg and Quentin Tarantino and the ethics of advertising with such academics and activists as Noam Chomsky, Susan Linn, Robert Weissman and Ralph Nader. He even commissions an official film song from the rock combo OK Go.

The majority of these encounters are knowingly droll, with Spurlock never missing the opportunity to winkingly emphasise ironies and reassure the audience that they are not being as manipulated as ordinary punters in being sold the benefits of the tie-in products because they are in on the postmodernist joke. But he struggles to answer such questions as whether having his film sponsored will raise its profile before opening weekend or how much the average consumer is actually influenced by advertising in an era when TiVo and the internet allow them to eliminate sponsors messages at the press of a button.

One thing Spurlock triumphantly succeeds in promoting throughout the film is himself. But the suit he wears on the Jimmy Kimmel Live chat show represents a splendid lampoon of corporatism and logo fixation, which also demonstrates a laudable strain of self-deprecation that goes a long way to restoring Spurlock's credibility after the Osama fiasco.