This could be a quirkily fascinating film. There’s something adrift and even mildly tragic about Roberts: some itch that, even stark-bollock naked, he can’t quite scratch. But while Farrar’s style is heavily indebted to the likes of Louis Theroux and Jon Ronson, he can’t quite manage the levels of unconscious revelation they sometimes conjure. So too often, he’s left with hyperbole. Is doing a final streak really ‘the biggest decision of Mark’s life’? Is it really fair to say that Mark ‘seems to have lost his bottle’ when it looks more like he’s just grown up? There’s a lesson for documentary-makers here: sometimes, you just have to let the story tell itself.
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