Cinema has been slow to react to current events since the demise of the newsreel at the dawning of the television age. Yet, even though 24-hour rolling news channels bring the latest crises and calamities into our sitting-rooms, such reportage rarely provides more than a superficial overview of a situation and it is often left to the documentarist to delve more deeply to capture the human stories behind the headlines. 

Sean McAllister has risked life and liberty in Iraq and Yemen to make such hard-hitting actualities as The Liberace of Baghdad (2004) and The Reluctant Revolutionary (2012). But he found himself behind bars while shooting A Syrian Love Story, a five-year project that took Palestinian activist Amer Daoud and his Syrian wife Raghda Hassan from the bustling Mediterranean port of Tartous to the sleepy episcopal Languedoc city of Albi, via the Yarmouk refugee camp in Damascus and the French embassy in Beirut. The resulting film is both pugnacious and poignant, But its impact feels all the more potent and immediate because of the ongoing emergency involving those fleeing to Europe from Syria and the other countries caught up in the pitiless Isis bid to establish a caliphate. 

Amer Daoud first saw Raghda Hassan 15 years ago through the bars of his cell in a Syrian prison. Her face was bloodied, but he recognised her beauty and strength and began communicating with her through a tiny hole in their party wall. On being released, the 45 year-old Amer and the 40 year-old Raghda married and raised his sons, Shadi and Fadi, alongside their own boys, Kaka and Bob. However, Raghda was arrested by Bashar al-Assad's Muhabarat secret police for publishing a book about their unconventional courtship and Amer approached Sean McAllister in a Damascus bar in 2009 to ask if he would help draw attention to his wife's plight. 

Accepting Amer's hospitality, McAllister embedded himself with the family and became fascinated with 10 year-old Kaka and the long-haired toddler, Bob. As he got to know the pair over the next couple of years, McAllister was able to witness Kaka's growing awareness of the political context of his mother's incarceration and, following her release (secured with the help of the US States Department) during the 2011 Arab Spring, he becomes increasingly radicalised through gaining a better understanding of Raghda's convictions and courage. The four year-old Bob also seems wise beyond his years, although he clearly enjoys being the centre of attention and there is a very amusing moment in Albi, in which he tries to coerce three girls singing a song to keep quiet because McAllister is interested in him and not them. 

At one point, McAllister is arrested for wearing glasses containing an HD camera and his five-day detention is only ended by the intervention of Channel Four and the Foreign Office. However, while he is released without charge, the footage of the family on his confiscated camera imperils them and they are forced to flee to Lebanon, where they are granted asylum by the French government. Nevertheless, Raghda is so committed to her cause that she slips back into Syria for three months and eventually joins her menfolk in Paris. 

Unfortunately, having endured such a struggle to be together, Amer and Raghda find cohabitation without a campaign to wage tougher than they had anticipated. Indeed, their arguments drive Amer into the bed of another woman and prompt Raghda to attempt suicide. She accuses him of only being able to feel his own pain and not the suffering of others and they agree to separate. Raghda confides to McAllister, while smoking a cigarette at a café table, that she adores her sons, but feels they are becoming more French than Syrian and concedes that she can no longer combine the dual roles as homemaker and freedom fighter. Consequently, she relocates to Gaziantep, near the Syrian border with Turkey, where she becomes a cultural and political adviser to the opposition in exile.

In all, the family moved 15 times during their ordeal and it's intriguing to see how attitudes toward McAllister change over the five years he was filming. Raghdi was in jail when Amer co-opted him and it says much about the friendship that developed, as well as McAllister's appreciation of the cinéma vérité brief that she begins to confide in him more readily with each visit, until she is telling him things that she doesn't feel comfortable saying to her spouse. By contrast, Amer becomes more of a stranger as he achieves the security he cherished for his brood and succumbs to his frustration that Raghda is more wedded to her ideals than him by cheating on her. The real fascination, however, lies in the transformation of Kaka, whose pensive wariness in Damascus is gradually replaced by a growing political maturity that enables him to accept his mother's decisions. 

Acting as his own cameraman, McAllister is very much at the heart of the story. But he never allows his presence to distract from the issues, even though he sometimes sets scenes in motion rather than simply observing them. He is well served by editor Matthew Scholes, whose punchy style keeps sentimentality at bay. However, the brief running time doesn't quite convey the epic span of this intimate account of the price that has to be paid for freedom of mind, body and conscience.

There has been a vogue for re:found footage features since the BFI sponsored Penny Woolcock's From the Sea to the Land Beyond (2012). Now, Paul Wright follows Kim Longinotto (Love Is All, 2014) and Benedikt Erlingsson (The Show of Shows, 2015) into the vaults at the National Archive for Arcadia, a paean to the bucolic beauties of the British landscape that is also shrewd enough to stray away from the Green and Pleasant Land to examine the Dark Satanic aspects of our island home. Counterpointed by a score composed by Portishead's Adrian Utley and Goldfrapp's Will Gregory, the blend of dramatic and documentary clips is often exhilarating. But it sometimes feels a tad self-conscious in its bid to provide a stylistic and thematic link to Wright's laudable debut. For Those in Peril (2013).

In the first tranche of extracts, Wright and editor Michael Aaglund stick to the rubric established by the British Documentary Movement of focusing on churches and cottages, farmhands toiling in the fields and children revelling in the wide open spaces. The picture postcard views induce a shiver of nostalgic wistfulness for lost places and mores before a caption marked `Amnesia' presages images of sheep dipping, maypole dancing, water divining and the crowing the May Queen (who, in this clip from 1944's Springtime in an English Village, just happens to be black). 

Moving `Into the Wild', we see our first colour shots in heading into the mountains and teeter across a bridge spanning a stretch of rocky coast. As a policeman stands guard over Stonehenge, snippets of early adaptations of Alice in Wonderland take us underground in pursuit of the White Rabbit before we resurface in the company of some nudists, playing games or communing with nature. There's an ethereality about this collage that evokes the national mythology that is further celebrated in `Folk'. 

Some Scottish women sing a milling frolic in Gaelic, as they beat a length of cloth on a table top to the rhythm of the tune. Scenes of Morris Dancing, street games and the re-enactment of superstitious practices tumble in on each other, alongside a delightful scene of four men dancing in the middle of the road in an unnamed Kent village. Fire plays a pivotal part in many of these rituals, several of which have a violent subtext. Yet, we next discover `Utopia', as we are treated to views of unspoilt countryside, as well as the Cerne Abbas Giant and a white horse carved into the earth. Children charge through the woods and skid down slopes, as they get up to the kind of mischief that no longer appeals in the video age. On the soundtrack, a man calls for a greater humility to restore humanity's custodial bond with the soil before a trippy segment attempts to demonstrate links between traditional dances, hippy freakouts and trance raves. 

The eviction scene from Kevin Brownlow's Winstanley (1975) anticipates `The Turning', as common land was fenced off and the idyll was divided into parcels of private property. We see overhead shots of majestic country manors that contrast with the humbler dwellings of the rustic residents. Trees are cleared and mechanised vehicles roll into the fields, as helicopters buzz overhead spraying the crops with chemicals. Quarry explosions scar the landscape, while trees burn and huntsmen gallop in pursuit of a fox to leave `Blood in the Soil'. A man in a top hat explains that man has a right to hunt wild animals, as footage of a shooting party is cross-cut with scenes of a pub punch-up. We are also shown footage of people riding pigs and ostriches and attempting to tame bears and wild cats before we find ourselves `In a Dark Wood'.

Shadowy figures prowl in the night, as a small boy falls into a slurry pit and a search party scours the woods by torchlight. Images of people working and partying are juxtaposed with shots emphasising the class divide. An extended sequence showcases the fireballs of Stonehaven before a top shot of a naked woman curled foetally in a hole in the ground takes us into `Winter Solstice'. Scenes of snowy struggle follow before we join a pagan gathering on wind-blasted cliff edge. A rare glimpse of industrial sprawl follows, although we are taken back into the countryside by a single-decker bus winding its way along deserted roads. But some expanses of greenery were turned into new towns and housing estates and the character of the country seemed to change as a result, even though old traditions like cheese rolling remained. Industrial farming methods were introduced that required fewer workers and communities were forced to fight to preserve lifestyles that were being ripped away from them. A man in a vox pop declares that he wouldn't mind if wildlife was wiped out in the name of progress, while a middle-aged woman who still brushes the stuffed corpse of her beloved pet dog is somewhat smarmily held up to ridicule. 

Teenagers sniff glue in the shadow of a flyover, as Wright drives home to notion that the dream is over. As a consequence, we are cast into `Oblivion', as house owners ready their property in the event of an attack and images of nuclear drills are interwoven with news clips of street disturbances, as people begin to drift apart and look after themselves rather than their neighbours. A male voice hisses, `The End of Everything', and a shot of the sun being eclipsed gives way to the footage of simple lifeforms that had opened proceedings. As we see shoots bursting through soil and paving stones alike and the dead rise from their graves. a woman whispers about everything being connected and the past being gone, while the future remains unwritten.

Quite what this is supposed to signify is left open to interpretation, but there's no denying that this is a mesmeric enterprise whose lyricism has a cutting edge. As with many jaunts in the country, there's a tendency to ramble and it's often tempting to follow the signposts, even when they lead into such unsettling territory as Don Levy's Herostratus (1967), Robin Hardy's The Wicker Man (1973), David Gladwell's Requiem for a Village (1976) and Chris Newby's Anchoress (1993). But Wright refuses to allow the audience to wallow or view through rose-tinted spectacles, as he highlights the suspicions and prejudices on which our culture is based. Yet it's noticeable that he resists coming totally up to date and, as a result, he avoids confronting the realities of the post-Thatcherite era that he castigates with unflinching fury. 

With its theatrical release timed to coincide with the Summer Solstice, this audacious archival repurposing is destined for cultdom on disc. Combining haunting choral passages with snatches of strings and electronica, Ultley and Gregory's score is also likely to find its adherents. But the secret to watching this sensory challenge lies in allowing the audiovisuals to transport you, as you impose your own emotion and meaning.

Directed by Richard Jukes and narrated by Sir Martyn Lewis, 100 Years of the RAF provided a serviceable introduction to Britain's use of air power in the century following the amalgamation of the Royal Flying Corps and the Royal Naval Air Services to form the Royal Air Force on 1 April 1918. Now comes Anthony Palmer and David Fairhead's Spitfire, which profiles the most iconic machines in the service's history and commemorates the heroic `Few' who piloted them. 

Narrated by Charles Dance, this makes judicious use of The First of the Few (1942), Leslie Howard's biopic of designer RJ Mitchell. But the co-directors also mine the archives to admirable effect to create a well-meaning, if slightly tardy addition to the RAF centenary celebrations. Sadly, two of the contributors, Geoffrey Wellum and Mary Ellis, have recently passed away.

The last remaining Spitfire to have flown in the Battle of Britain is kept at RAF Coningsby in Lincolnshire, where Squadron Leader Andy Millikan proclaims it the world's most important aeronautical artefact after the capsule of Apollo 11. Yet, even though the plane was decommissioned in May 1957, Andy Jones of the Solent Sky Museum believes that it has retained its place in the heart of the nation thanks to Leslie Howard's flagwaver. Along with Alan Jones, he looks over Mitchell's Supermarine S6A N248 and explains how a million people gathered near this spot in 1931 to witness Flight Lieutenant John Boothman win the famous Schneider Trophy aerial race. But, as Dr John Aykroyd (a Fellow of the Royal Aeronautical Society) explains, the Nazi expansion of the Luftwaffe prompted Mitchell to switch from sport to security, as he began work on a fighter plane to combat those being developed in the Third Reich. 

However, Mitchell was not the lone genius that Howard suggested. He owed much to Canadian engineer Beverley Shenstone, who had been inspired by the elliptical wing designs of Ludwig Prandtl while working for Junker in Germany. By 5 March 1936, however, the prototype was ready for testing at Eastleigh airfield in Hampshire and Judy Monger (who was four at the time) is the last witness to its maiden flight, as her father worked for Supermarine. Newsreel footage is rather clumsily cross-cut with images of a Spitfire soaring over the White Cliffs of Dover before a gathering of dark clouds presages Dance's revelation that Adolf Hitler re-occupied the Rhineland two days after the successful test. 

Pilots Ken Wilkinson, Tony Pickering and Paul Farnes claim this action convinced many that Winston Churchill was right in fearing that a second world war was inevitable. But preparations suffered a setback when Mitchell died at 42 in June 1937, although Hawker had also perfected the Hurricane and production of both planes was stepped up, as the threat from Europe grew. Responding to the call, but also passionate about flying, Nigel Rose and Geoffrey Wellum (the war's youngest pilot, who, sadly, died this week) joined the RAF around the time the Spitfire went into active service in August 1938. 

War was declared on 3 September 1939 and Farnes and Tom Neil recall a mix of sobriety and excitement at the realisation that they would be going into action. Their emotions are conveyed by footage of three surviving Spitfires taking off to the stirring strains of Chris Roe's achingly patriotic score before Dance describes the capitulation of mainland Europe over a map emphasising Britain's glorious isolation. We hear Churchill declare the commencement of the Battle of Britain on 18 June 1940, as Neil and Pickering concede that history would have been very different if the Nazis had invaded. But Wilkinson suggests no one in the RAF was prepared to contemplate defeat, as they had such wonderful aircraft at their command. 

Although the Luftwaffe had 2400 aircraft and outnumbered the RAF by 4:1, our boys worked as a team and were backed up by the likes of Joan Fanshawe, a member of the Women's Auxiliary Air Force who was a plotter with 11 Group. She explains how radar reports enabled controllers to keep pilots informed of Luftwaffe flight patterns and Wilkinson, Neil, Rose, Farnes and Wellum recall the chaos of confronting the enemy and the sense of relief on passing through a phalanx unscathed. Pickering, however, remembers having to bail out and being offered a consoling glass of scotch by his commanding officer. However, the decision to intercut grainy aerial combat footage with fetishised colour shots of Spits with the sun glinting on their wings while they perform meaningless swoops and banks is ruinous, as the contrast trivialises the life-and-death situation that existed in the summer of 1940. 

We see footage taken from Rose and Farnes's wing cameras, as the latter sheepisly admits that he rather enjoyed himself, as he was young and full of derring-do and didn't really think too much that he was sending someone of his own age to their doom. Wellum reminds the audience that this was total war and that there could be no room for sentiment. Indeed, Pickering reveals that pilots shunned close friendships, as there was no knowing who would survive and Neil admits that there was little time for grieving.

On 7 September, the Luftwaffe switched its target from the coastal airfields to London and, eight days later, Hitler launched the aerial assault that he hoped would clear the way for an invasion. But the RAF held firm and, as the camera scours details on the Battle of Britain monument on Victoria Embankment, we hear Churchill thanking the `Few' in his speech of 20 August 1940. 

A cut takes us to newsreel of workers in the Supermarine factories in Southampton and Birmingham who kept churning out the planes Fighter Command needed. Women played a key role on the shop floor, as well as in the design studio. Moreover, the likes of Mary Ellis and Joy Lofthouse served as ferry pilots for the Air Transport Auxiliary. They joke about the glamorous lifestyle and the heads they turned, but they did a vital job taking planes to airfields without radio communication and often had to fly in bad weather. 

With Operation Sea Lion having been abandoned, Hitler turned his attention to North Africa and Neil found himself flying a Hurricane off an aircraft carrier for Malta. He arrived by the skin of his teeth and was grateful when Spitfires were sent to the George Cross Island in 1942. Allan Scott was 18 when he arrived and uses his scrapbook to show how he became the last surviving Spitfire ace from this theatre of the war. He is anything but boastful, however, as he remembers sweating with fear during a dogfight with a Messerschmitt. 

By the time Malta was secured, the Soviet Union and the United States had joined the Allied cause. Moreover, pilots from across the British Empire and from the defeated nations of Europe had signed on to do their bit, including Pole Franciszek Kornicki, But, as Neil and Ken `Paddy' French, recall Spitfire crews had to deal with the new threat of the Focke-Wulf 190 and they were glad when modifications gave them the added strength and speed they needed in time to fly support sorties on D-Day. We see archive footage of the planes with their black-and-white identification stripes, as French recalls how surprisingly uneventful his three trips had been on 6 June. 

When Germany launched the V1 rocket, Supermarine responded with the Mk XIV Spitfire, which had a new wing design and a Rolls Griffon engine to give it the power to compete with this devastating new weapon. Neil and Wellum commend the company for its modifications, but point to the brilliance of the original Mitchell design, which made it so flexible. But the advent of the jet engine meant the end of the line after 22,000 Spitfires had rolled off the assembly lines. Over 50 are still airworthy and more are being restored each year and their appearance at air shows and memorial prompts an aside on the need not to forget. Owner Maxi Gainza will always remember Mary Ellis, as she signed his Spitfire (with her maiden name Wilkins) while delivering it in 1944. Now 99, she gets to see the plane in action again and add a second moniker to make the machine truly unique. 

This touching reunion runs the risk of tilting the documentary towards schmaltz. But, despite the contributions of the former pilots and ATA duo, this has already proved a disappointing tribute to a mighty machine. Much of the problem lies with the overuse of John Dibbs's aerial footage, the emotive strings and Charles Dance's eulogistic narration, which skirts over the technical problems Supermarine experienced and barely touches upon the casualties the RAF incurred. More damningly, however, Palmer and Fairhead (who also edited) struggle to improve upon two BBC films, Spitfire Women (2010) and The Spitfire: Britain's Flying Past (2011).