There are those that choose to intellectualise Vertov's silent Soviet documentary, including Vertov himself, (when he was alive, at least.) But of course, there are those that will choose to intellectualise a sunrise or a sunset (or a bowel movement, for that matter.) Millions of words have been written on Man with a Movie Camera, analysing how one shot relates to the next, and on what these relationships mean. I can just imagine bookish looking gentlemen in cardigans, armed with DVD remotes, notepads and pens, sitting inches away from a television set, bleary-eyed as they enter their 37th hour of watching this magical film, and they are not even half-way through yet. I contend that one does not need to understand every second of this film, that one does not need to analyse every frame. Just watch it. Just watch it as it was intended to be watched. Let your brain decode what it wants to, and just enjoy the lyrical beauty of what is in front of you.

Following on from the likes of Berlin, Symphony of a City (1927), Vertov's documentary paints a picture of a day in the life of the Soviet Union. The film begins and ends in a cinema with people watching the same film that we are watching. People stream into the cinema and take their seats. The projectionist loads the projector. The film starts. A city is awakening. We are greeted with people beginning their day: they wash and dress and leave for work, busses leave the station, cars, carts and trams jostle for space on the busy streets, performers perform, workers work, and machines grind. Communism lives.

We are given neither inter-titles nor time to dwell on the images; the cutting is fast. Form seems to be more important than content. We are shown a portrait of a city, yet the experience is more musical, more abstract. Often the imagery is more akin to the abstract work of Norman McLaren than to a traditional documentary. Occasionally some of the effects are a little jarring. The man with the movie camera appearing from within a pint of beer is perhaps a little cutesy; in fact, most of the manufactured, altered shots are a little distracting, and I could happily have lived without them.

Documentaries, even avant-garde ones, gain in importance and appeal with each passing year. A Visit to Peek Frean and Co.'s Biscuit Works (1906), a commercial film, which at the time of its production would have been of little value to anyone, is, over 100 years later, absolutely fascinating. To witness people who look just like us, who have long since left this mortal coil, going about their lives, their heads filled with long forgotten worries and dreams, holds a fascination that transcends the intentions of any artist. Vertov's film is no different. With that in mind, the part of the film that lives longest in my mind, is a scene in which a group of children, faces glowing with excitement, watch a Chinese street magician performing tricks. The looks on these children's faces hold far more profound value than a million intellectualised cross-cuts.