Oh dear. No doubt Swinton and Guadagnino meant well. This experimental documentary attempts to get to grips with the motiveless murder of a London waiter by two schoolboys in 1994 by deconstructing itself as it goes along. What is it that fascinates us so about crime? How can we explain such irrational impulses? Does it help to recreate murder, and if so, how graphic should we be? All valid questions, but the movie is horribly ill-judged and not a little offensive. There's more than a hint of amateur theatricals about it, with Tilda and pals dressing up in wigs to stage the court scenes in her back garden, totally gratuitous female nudity, and a yawning gap between intention and result. It doesn't make your film more honest to incorporate a boom in the shot, just more self-conscious.