Conclusions is both the perfect title and false advertising, as Boorman himself admits (and is clearly deeply amused by) towards the end. It's decades of decaying and haphazardly sketched thoughts whirring within a brain whose body has long since failed it. You sit alongside Boorman as he reminisces and mourns, gets a little weepy (though he doesn't want to show it) and repeats himself (but you don't really mind). Then he brings out his poetry about trees, and he's talking fervently (religiously, even) about the beauty of water. Before he can completely lose you, he simmers back to a softer temperature to ponder the infinity he imminently faces. It's wonderfully intimate, and his wry wit and measured language work wonders for this unencumbered and formless self-retrospective audit of his life.

There are two sides to this. As a documenter who spent decades at the technological and artistic cutting edge of film, he is the best-case scenario—deeply observant. The book is packed with wonderfully specific anecdotes and experiences. My favourites are the deeply contrasting stories of Akira Kurosawa describing the impossibility of directing Toshiro Mifune ('You can only aim him like a missile!') and the tender way Boorman laments the way his work pulled him away from his family, a direct parallel between his father's failings and his own. He offers his full range in these short, scattered pages. A people watcher and a lover, who has watched so many people, and so much love, live and die before him.