With the Winter Olympics approaching its first weekend, there's no other place to start than with Mountain, the middle section of a vertiginous trilogy by Australian director Jennifer Peedom that started with Sherpa (2015) and will conclude in the next year or so with a biopic of Tenzing Norgay. A cross between an cine-essay and a travelogue, this Willem Dafoe-narrated meditation on humankind's relationship with the world's highest peaks takes its philosophical cues from Mountains of the Mind, a 2003 tome by Cambridge academic Robert Macfarlane. Its soul, however, lies in the majestic score performed by Richard Tognetti and the Australian Chamber Orchestra, which combines pieces by the conductor himself, as well as Antonio Vivaldi, Ludwig Van Beethoven, Frédéric Chopin, Edvard Grieg, Arvo Pärt and Peter Sculthorpe.

By rights, the stars of this cinematic adrenaline rush should be the peaks themselves, as well as the mountaineers, ice climbers, free soloists, skiers, snowboarders, mountain bikers, BASE jumpers, wingsuiters, heliskiers, parachute cyclists and tightrope walkers who seek to conquer them. But, as Peedom has opted not to identify any berg other than Everest, the spotlight should fall on cinematographer Renan Ozturk and aerial cameraman Anson Fogel, who contribute over two-thirds of the 2000 hours of footage (the rest coming from the Sherpas Cinema archive) that has been shaped into a brisk and breathtaking 70 minutes by editors Christian Gazal and Scott Gray.

Cutting from monochrome footage of Dafoe and the ACO preparing to record their soundtrack to a shot of a tiny red-shirted figure on a sheer face, Peedom wastes no time in revealing what a dizzying odyssey this is going to be. As the camera exposes the peril the climber is in, Dafoe explains that those who don't get mountaineering will be baffled by such reckless folly. But there are just as many who are lured by the siren song of the summit and a slow montage of aerial passes over snow-tipped peaks certainly helps justify their allure.

Yet, just three centuries ago, the notion of scaling mountains would have been considered lunacy, as they were places to be avoided because of the gods and monsters that dwelt there. As the camera swoops over moving specks in the wilderness, however, Dafoe opines that mountains came to be made of dreams and desire, as well as rock and ice, and their conquest became a challenge that could no longer be shirked. A goat makes light of a precarious ledge, as we see Buddhist monks praying in a mountain-top monastery. We are also shown archive footage of early expeditions, as Dafoe describes how reverence was replaced with a sense of adventure that drove the likes of George Mallory and Andrew Irvine to take on Everest.

They perished in the attempt, but their intrepidity convinced others `to replace mystery with mastery', as the great powers sought to name and claim the highest places on the planet in the name of imperialism and progress. But the trailblazers were soon followed by soldiers and tourists, as ski resorts were made accessible by cable cars and the once forbidding terrain became the playground of the rich and leisured. Yet, it wasn't until Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay scaled Everest in 1953 that mountaineering really seized the popular imagination.

Keen to escape the controlling confines of the city, people started to climb in order to experience sensations that existed solely on the time-warping summits that seemed to beckon and betray in equal measure. A series of images shows the physical strain involved in climbing, as athletes take on implacable obstacles with a mix of brio and bravery that is both humbling and numbing. Much depends on honed technique and, yet, the physical reality often proves more resistant than the image in the mind's eye. Consequently, some of the most experienced climbers have lost their lives in pursuit of their ambitions, and so have the countless anonymous locals who signed up for expeditions for pay packets that could mean the difference between starvation and survival.

This was very much the theme of Sherpa and Peedom doesn't dwell on it here. But the point is well made through shots of climbers howling with the pain of their exertions, while others plunge downwards to be saved only by their ropes. Even safe zones like tents and caves can be inhospitable and the close-ups of stoves boiling hot drinks seem almost sensually reassuring. But, as Dafoe notes, the ranges are often spectacularly beautiful in the morning sunshine and a montage of inspiring vistas send the climbers on their way with a renewed vigour and purpose that is rewarded by reaching their destination and posing for that all-important photograph to show to the folks back home. One pair even have time for a joint with their feet dangling over the edge of an incline.

But the conquest of the mountains has led to them being exploited and a timelapse sequence not only shows hundreds of holiday skiers making patterns on the piste, but also the clearance of woodland to make room for more chalets and parking lots. Dafoe wonders if we have ceased to acknowledge the power of the mountains when stunt skiers and snowboarders use them as the stage for exhibitions of gymnastic derring-do. As Vivaldi pulsates on the soundtrack, Peedom uses Go-Pro rigs and static cameras to juxtapose headlong point-of-view shots and slow-motion replays to showcase the skills of these seemingly fearless thrill seekers.

Risk has become its own reward and some now actively seek danger as an escape from the conformity of daily life. They are even willing to pay to put themselves in peril, as the knowledge one is so close to death enhances the feeling of being alive. The need to do something no one else has achieved has driven people to tightrope walk across vast expanses, cycle to the peak of a crag, throw themselves off tethering rings or plummet of precipices in wingsuits. We see cyclists and skiers employ parachutes to hurtle through the air, as Dafoe describes how such athletes compare their need to prove themselves to feeding a rat with fear. Among the most ridiculous of these pursuits is heliskiing, although leaping from a giant seesaw seems equally preposterous. Dafoe (and, therefore, Peedom and Macfarlane) seem to tut in disapproval, as they regard adrenaline junkies who are `half in love with themselves, half in love with oblivion'.

The supreme test for those wishing to prove themselves or banish their demons remains Everest. But thousands now pay for the privilege each year and Dafoe sneers that this is no longer climbing, but queuing, while exploration has been replaced by crowd control. Yet the mountain can still bite back, as it did with the 2015 avalanche that killed 22 people, the majority of whom were Sherpas. As Dafoe laments, there is no glory for those left behind to mourn. In such ways, mountains humble human instincts and expose our insignificance and a deeply moving timelapse shot of a starry night sky is complemented by the reminder that these forms existed long before life emerged from the slime and will continue to do so long after it has been extinguished.

A truly awe-inspiring sequence follows showing molten lava cascading down the side of a volcano. A furious red against the darkness, it cools to an amorphous grey that bubbles and flumps in an almost comic fashion. But, as Dafoe reminds us, mountains are born of fire and force and, thus, they are forever moving in a unique symphony that accompanies the dance of life. Amidst the most beautiful shots in the entire film, we see water babbling through an ice cave and a waterfall steepling downwards under the unconcerned gaze of an owl and a deer. Remarkable close-ups reveal the shape of snowflakes as they land on the forest floor and timelapse sequences shows drifts and thaws and stretches of water freezing and melting to prove the earlier point about mountains being in motion.

As clouds swirl around a lone peak and we see a party of two trek along a narrow ledge, Dafoe returns to the idea of the indifference of the Earth to our presence. Those who have scaled the heights often struggle to communicate the sensation of feeling time passing over them and leaving nothing behind but their shadows. But, while mountains don't need us, we need them to reconnect us with their wildness and revive our jaded sense of wonder.

It's hard not to feel a touch inconsequential at the end of this assault on the senses. There are moments when the drone and chopper shots seem conspicuously flamboyant, while the prose can sound a little purple and preachy. Moreover, some of the high-rise antics seem to have been included simply to invite our disdain at the foolhardiness of those courting danger in order to delay the onset of humdrum mediocrity. But many will be awestruck by the dynamic athleticism on display in a panoply of audiovisual splendour that demands to be seen on a giant screen.

For the record, the countries included in this often exhilarating treatise are Antarctica, Argentina, Australia, Austria, Bolivia, Canada, Chile, France, Greenland, Iceland, India, Italy, Nepal, New Zealand, Pakistan, Papua New Guinea, Scotland, South Africa, Switzerland, Tibet and the United States.

The city symphony is one of the oldest documentary forms and Mark Cousins has already proved a dab hand with Here Be Dragons (2013) and I Am Belfast (2015). But he adds a fictive element to Stockholm My Love, which revisits some of the landmarks captured by Arne Sucksdorff in his Oscar-winning short, Symphony of a City (1948). Also known as People in the City, this 11-minute monochrome gem followed the example set by such silent masterpieces as Paul Strand and Charles Sheeler's Manhatta (1921), Walter Ruttmann's Berlin, Symphony of a Great City (1927) and Dziga-Vertov's Man With a Movie Camera (1929) in employing editorial strategies to capture the rhythms of everyday urban existence.

A year after the fatal accident in which she ran over an elderly dog walker, 47 year-old architect Neneh Cherry goes for a walk on a misty grey Stockholm morning. She is supposed to be giving a lecture, but would rather commune with her late African immigrant father while walking along the Söder Mälarstrand waterfront, where Lake Mälaren meets the Baltic Sea. As she feels the breeze on her face, she admits that her life has been crawling by since the crash and the crossing ropes of two moored boats seem to prevent her from crossing in the direction of the stadhus city hall that dominates the skyline. She feels as helpless as the dangling corpse that is used to advertise a popular restaurant and keeps flashing back to the oranges that bounced out of her victim's hands when she hit him.

But Cherry perks up a bit when she reaches the skateboard park underneath the Västerbron bridge. Her mood further improves in Vällingby, which was designed in the early 1950s by Sven Markelius to be the first `ABC City' (Arbete, Bostad, Centrum - Work, Housing, Centre) that would accommodate people from all classes in a space full of amenities they could cherish. Prime Minister Olof Palme and ABBA's Benny Andersson lived here and Cherry people watches above the main square, with its church, cinema and community centre. She wonders if this is what happiness looks like, while at the same time fretting that this utopia might come to seem like a prison to the next generation of kids and immigrants. This proved the case with the uniform houses designed by Markelius and Uno Åhrén that chimed in with the Folkhemmet (People's Home) policy pursued in the 1930s by Prime Minister Per Albin Hansson, who lived in one of the identical white houses that Cherry scrutinises.

She also finds beauty in the tenement blocks in Rinkeby, even though much less thought went into their construction. Wandering through the estate, Cherry wonders if the 90% immigrant population is happy, as riots had recently taken place (perhaps the ones Donald Trump would later misunderstand). Noting that Rinkeby is twinned with the pyramid city of Giza, Cherry extols the virtues of the Stockholm Mosque, which occupies the old Katarinastationen power station that had been designed by Art Nouveau architect Ferdinand Boberg, who had been greatly influenced by Islamic art. She looks up at the chandeliers inside what still feels like an industrial building and wishes she could forget the awful accident that continues to haunt her.

Cherry strolls through a yellow-walled subway tunnel that was bulldozed through a hill before she pops into the Storkyrkan to see the oldest image of Stockholm, Jacob Elbfas's 1630s copy of `Vädersolstavlan' (`The Sun Dog Painting'), which was painted by Urban målare (aka Urban Larsson) in 1535. She recalls her father telling her that the circles in the sky were made by aliens and she muses on the possibility that we are all alien in some way. As she arrives at the Public Library built by Gunnar Asplund in the 1920s, she wishes he had shown more imagination. Yet she adores the Skandia-Theater, a cinema dating from 1923 and wanders past the spirals in the dark green and white walls and along the cool corridor before emerging in the red auditorium that offers her a sanctuary from the outside world. She wishes Swedes had more of an escapist nature and were more spontaneous. But not everyone is playing hookey.

Having looked at some statues dotted around the city centre, Cherry arrives at the spot where Olof Palme was assassinated on 28 February 1986 as he came out of the cinema with his wife, Lisbet. As she sees someone put a flower on the commemoration stone, she thinks back to the accident. Light and shadow play on her face, as she remembers Gunnar, the 79 year-old man who had darted into the road after his runaway dog. He had bent down to pick up the lead and she had hit him with some force. She had dashed to his side and he had winced with pain. But he died three days later and Cherry has lived ever since with the guilt of something that wasn't her fault.

Strap-hanging on the subway, she speak sings about her pain before she starts addressing Gunnar in Swedish. She revisits the scene of the accident in Björkhagen and is tormented by uncertain memories of whether she had turned off the radio before jumping out of the car to help him. Eyewitnesses had glowered at her, with one accusing her of being a murderer. But she also remembers little details like the dog eating the ham from a dropped sandwich before wandering off without its owner. She had also picked up the oranges, as if this would make things better. She feels the earth spinning around her as she recalls the 15 seconds that changed both of their lives.

The sound of her phone ringing shakes Cherry out of her reverie and she goes to Markuskyrkan (St Mark's Church), which was designed by the 75 year-old Sigurd Lewerentz in 1956. She notes the Persian brickwork and they way it contrasts with the bark on the birch trees before wandering inside. As the music of Berwald swells on the soundtrack, she asks Gunnar if he was an emotional person and wonders why Sweden has had so few public tragedies. Lighting a candle, she tries to fathom whether she and Gunnar would have got along. But she also wants him to see Engelbrektskyrkan, which was designed by Lars Israel Wahlman and completed in 1914. Feeling like a foreigner inside this vast church, Cherry enjoys being alone with strangers.

However, she has one last place to show Gunnar and walks along an avenue of trees like Alida Valli in Carol Reed's The Third Man (1949) to the Uppståndelsekapellet at the Skogskyrkogården (the Resurrection Chapel at the Woodland Cemetery). Also designed by Apslund and Lewerentz in the 1920s, this is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site and, as she looks through a peephole in the locked door, Cherry asks Gunnar for forgiveness so that she doesn't have to atone for her sins in a limbo for accidental killers. As dusk falls and she hurries home, Cherry sings to the old man about the pleasure of spending the day with him and the regrets she will always feel.

The next morning, for reasons known only to herself, Cherry starts communicating only in Swedish text messages that are translated in the subtitles. It's a capricious decision that feels so much more contrived than when Godard first used slogans and captions in the 1960s. But, on we go, as Cherry vows to look and listen rather than speak and, as Benny Andersson's keyboards begin to tinkle on `Sorgsmarch', she looks past the cross of ropes to city hall and decides to go in search of happiness. She wonders if it lies in the skateboard park and lingers overlong for an awkward sequence (made bearable only by the wonderful klezmer-like music), as she spins round with her arms extended as the wind ruffles her hair. Peering down from a bridge, she debates whether happiness lies in skinny-dipping in freezing water.

Continuing her walk, Cherry fetches up at the Lumafabrikens (Luma Factory) in Hammarby Sjöstad. Designed in 1930 by Artur von Schmalensee and Eskil Sundahl, this former light bulb factory has been gentrified into luxury apartments. But it provides a beacon of light for Cherry, as she seeks a new direction for her life and she feels inspired to sing the title song as she looks out over the city. Following a montage of unidentified sights that plays out over Cameron McVey's instrumental outro, Cherry takes a ferry to the Gröna Lunds Tivoli fun park on Djurgården Island, where she screams while riding the rollercoaster.

Walking on a bridge, Cherry thanks the people of Stockholm (particularly the old) for helping her regain her mojo. She thinks fondly of how the city responds to snow and rain, as a blue balloon floats past in the gutter. A time lapse shot shows boats bobbing on the tide is cross-cut with a jagged handheld shot of Cherry running and a scene of downtown traffic, as a caption claims that she has fought off the primitive emotions that have been blighting her life to recapture her sense of modernity. As the film ends with another Cherry song, a pair of ducks swim past on the smooth water and we are left with the impression that life will go on with a renewed spring in Cherry's step.

In one of the mood boards on the film's website, Cousins quotes a maxim by Michel de Montagne: `Every one rushes elsewhere and into the future, because no one wants to face one's own inner self.' And this proves the key to an odysseian rumination on inner worlds, grief, women alone and the comfort of the familiar that switches between English, Swedish and captioned communications to the musical accompaniment of 19th-century composer Franz Berwald, pianist Benny Andersson and Cherry herself (singing Cousins lyrics).

Cousins may not be able to follow Arne Sucksdorff in having a stern church warden bend down to help some boys gather their dropped marbles or a gnarled fisherman comb his moustache so he looks good in a picture being painted on the bridge. But he does take inspiration from Patrick Keiller's London (1994) and Terence Davies's Of Time and the City (2008), as well as a range of artistic, literary and cinematic works that includes Johannes Vermeer's `Woman Holding a Balance' (1662-63), James Joyce's Ulysses (1922), Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway (1925), Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking (2005), Julian Barnes's Levels of Life (2013), Maya Deren's Meshes of the Afternoon (1943), David Lean's Summertime (1955), Mikio Naruse's When a Woman Ascends the Stairs (1960), Agnès Varda's Cleo from 5 to 7 (1961), Jean-Luc Godard's Two or Three Things I Know About Her (1967), Krzysztof Kieslowski's Three Colours: Blue (1993), Jonathan Glazer's Birth (2004) and Alfonso Cuarón's Gravity (2013).

At times, the action meanders, as Cousins wanders off at a philosophical tangent or indulges in gnomic displays of intellectual braggadocio (some of which are directed at Ingmar Bergman for his failure to recognise the vitality of city dwelling in the latter stages of his career). But, as was the case with his perambulations around Tirana and Belfast, he mostly makes a fascinating travelling companion, as his infectious curiosity and keen eye for a telling image force the viewer to rethink their relationship with their own environment and what makes their lives worthwhile. The notion that this is any sort of fiction is specious in the extreme, as a middle-aged architect's cogitations on the impact of a road accident on her psyche are hardly the stuff of gripping drama. Moreover, Cherry is less required to give a performance than respond to instructions in what are essentially a series of meticulously lit modelling assignments.

Nevertheless, she has a fascinating face and Christopher Doyle photographs it with the same care and flair he brings to the cityscapes. It remains to be seen whether Cousins will venture into this hybrid territory again or whether he will restore his own sing-song brogue to the soundtrack. But, whatever he does, the chances are high that the results with be slightly smug, infuriatingly provocative and utterly compelling.

The product of an often unhappy and occasionally abusive childhood in Kingston, Jamaica and Syracuse, New York, Grace Jones has always since insisted on being in control. The public image of the aloof, mercurial glamazon has been consciously designed to generate a sense of enigmatic mystique. But it also serves to keep intruders at bay and, despite several years of unique access, documentarist Sophie Fiennes struggles to get past the façade in Grace Jones: Bloodlight and Bami. Taking its subtitle from the patois for the red light in a recording studio and a type of flatbread, this veers away from the conventional blend of archive clips and talking heads. But, while there are fleeting moments of intimacy, this seemingly subversive approach restricts Fiennes to an observational role that allows Jones to reveal only what she chooses about her private life and her diverse career.

The opening credits roll over two intercut performances of `Slave to the Rhythm', one of which features Jones in a golden mask with a flowing cape, while the other has her hula-hooping in a black basque with her eyes peering out through a delicate golden lattice. All of the live performances were specially staged in Dublin and the crowd sound their approval before Jones greets some fans outside a theatre (but seemingly one in the United States). She signs autographs and responds politely to the worshipful prattle before hopping on a plane back to Jamaica.

She greets her mother Marjorie with a new banana-coloured hat that she can't wait to get home to open. Slipping into the local patois, Jones enjoys a grilled fish supper with her family and they reminisce about Marjorie marrying young and having plenty of babies and this history is reflected in the lyrics of 'Williams Blood', which recalls Marjorie's life `keeping up with the Jonses' in Spanish Town. The live rendition segues into `Amazing Grace', which links in with the fact that Jones's father was a clergyman and that her mother is still a regular churchgoer, even though she is very much a non-believer.

While it's impossible to put a date to the footage, the sessions for Hurricane took place in 2008, some two decades after Jones had vowed never to release another album after Bulletproof Heart (1989). A collaboration with producer Ivor Guest, this was a self-funded project and Jones seeks to tie legendary Jamaican musicians Sly Dunbar and Robbie Shakespeare to a firm recording date. Her phone call with the latter becomes animated, as he refuses to commit and Jones demands some respect because she can't afford to book studio time if he is going to give her the runaround. She also reminds him that she is human and deserves better from an old friend.

Having let Fiennes capture a little vulnerability, Jones returns to diva mode, as she breakfasts on champagne while recording `This Is'. She jokes about wishing that a certain body part was as tight as a particularly stubborn oyster shell and her laughter during the session belies the ice queen reputation that she has so carefully nurtured. Footage of the recording is intercut with a live performance, as the lyrics again reveal Jones's reflective mood while cutting the album. But she had to make sacrifices along the way and we see her complaining to a television producer that she feels like a madam in a brothel in being surrounded by female dancers in skimpy white costumes while singing her distinctive disco version of `La Vie en Rose'. As there are no male dancers available, Jones agrees to do a second take on the empty stage, but she finds the whole gig tacky and has to keep reminding herself that the ends will justify the means.

This certainly seems to be the case, as she lays down the rhythm track for `Well Well Well' with drummer Sly and bassist Robbie, whose readiness to improvise proves both a delight and a distraction. Jones remains in her element, however, as she chats to market traders while buying meat and swims in the Blue Lagoon. But being home also brings back painful memories and she alludes during a conversation with son Paulo and niece Chantel about the abuse that she suffered at the hands of her step-grandfather, Master Patrick (aka Mas P), a preacher whose a ferocious temper prompted Grace to act as lookout for her younger siblings to protect them from his tirades. She cuts him a little slack by stating that he hadn't wanted to raise five kids in his later life, but still recalls how he used to read her letters to her parents in New York. He made such an impact on her that she used to channel her rage into her stage persona and one of her acting coaches had to hypnotise her and use a safe word when they did associational exercises.

Jones demonstrates her stage strut as she clashes giant cymbals at the start of `Warm Leatherette' and again in `From the Nipple to the Bottle', which examines her refusal to allow a man to manipulate her. This number is juxtaposed with a sequence of Jones preparing for a performance while fuming down the phone to an aide who has allowed a client to avoid signing a contract promising to pay for her hotel room. Initially strutting naked, she wanders between interconnecting rooms trying to memorise the words to `I Need a Man' and jokes that there are times when she simply has to be `a high-flying bitch' in order to get things done and make people honour their commitments.

Nevertheless, she gets her show face on in time - with the help of some busy backstage bees - and has a New York audience in a bijou venue lapping up `Pull Up to the Bumper'. After what is presumably this show, Jones holds court in her dressing-room, where a trendy devotee asks about the time she slapped Russell Harty on a BBC chat show. Happy to oblige, she recalls how Harty had turned away from her to interview Lord Lichfield and she insists that she had warned him a couple of times about being rude before she struck him. As she declares, with a mixture of self-deprecation and seriousness, she would never hit someone without prior warning.

While driving to a nightclub, Jones suggests that she would like the spirit of Timothy Leary to hold her hand as she died and a trance-like slow-motion sequence follows with plenty of distorted sound, as Jones dances the night away. A gentler percussion sound takes over, as we glide back to the recording studio. But this trip isn't all about the album, as Jones has also agreed to accompany Marjorie to church to see her bishop brother, Noel, preach a sermon. She fusses over which hat best goes with her colourful top and takes a deep swig from a bottle of white wine in the car park before going inside. Noel hands the floor to his mother, who brings the house down with a high-pitched rendition of `His Eye Is On the Sparrow', with Grace enjoying seeing Marjorie milk her moment in the spotlight, while also using it to praise God.

In the minibus home, Noel remembers that squabbles between the siblings always resulted in him taking sides with his brother Max, while Grace and Christian were natural allies and Pam was always neutral. He reminds them of the time that a pre-teen Grace was caught canoodling with a classmate and Mas P held a two-week interrogation before he started dishing out the whoopings. They remember how Max used to seek sanctuary with their neighbour, Ms Myrtle, and Jones goes to visit her and help feed the chickens. She is in no doubt that Jones had star potential at an early age and they spend an evening in her cramped kitchen discussing Mas P's attitude to his brood and playing jacks on the floor.

Cutting from this scene of humbly cosy domesticity, Jones allows green laser light to refract off a spangled bowler hat, as she rattles through an uptempo version of `Love Is the Drug'. During a champagne breakfast in Paris while wearing nothing but a fur coat, Jones reflects on the loneliness of being on stage. But, even if she forgets the words, she knows that she has the audience in the palm of her hand and she carries this sense of assurance into everything she does.

While in the city, she does a modelling session with photographer Jean-Paul Goude, who is not only Paulo's father, but who also did much to create her visual image at the start of her career. She enjoys posing for him and they discuss whether she should sing `La Vie en Noir' during her next show. He shares a birthday with Mas P and Jones tells Goude that he is the only man who made her knees buckle when she came to see him. Slightly embarrassed, he asks if she will be okay with the concept of getting old alone and she insists that she will never be lonely, as she can always find ways to occupy her time and her mind.

Being a grandmother certainly helps and we see Jones cooing over the sleeping infant resting on her father's hand. She also likes to keep on the move and, as the film ends, she returns to an old haunt in Jamaica to catch the sunset. Fittingly, `Hurricane' plays over the closing credits, as it captures the many moods that Jones has displayed for the camera and, yet, we are no closer to knowing the real woman or what drives her.

It would be fascinating to learn more about her artistic influences and inspirations, especially as Fiennes places music so squarely at the heart of her profile. But, while songs are performed in full on a minimalist stage set designed by Eiko Ishioka, with lots of chic lighting designs to show off the Philip Treacy hats and Jasper Conran corsets, we discover nothing about her creative process or how being famous transformed her existence. We also learn nothing about why she spent so long out of the studio and what prompted her to return with 23 songs that reflect upon almost a third of her lifetime. Nor do we find out anything about her perspective on the a changing world, apart from the fact that her accent alters to suit the scenario she's inhabiting.

Mercifully, we are spared any salacious details about her often turbulent love life and, instead, we get to see the value that Jones places on her family. It's sad, therefore, that the release of the film should coincide with the death of her mother Marjorie at the age of 90. Indeed, it's clear that Jones's Jamaican roots also matter a great deal to her and there is a sense that she is currently reclaiming the island for herself to dim the scarring memories of her youth. But Grace Jones is not one to buckle under emotional pressure and she acknowledges that taking ownership of her pain has been crucial to her evolution as a woman and as an artist. However, she remains the consummate performer and, while she allows her guard to drop for the odd fleeting glimpse with her nearest and dearest, she keeps her true self closely under wraps.