Iris Apfel.
As slight in scope as it is modest in subject matter, the second-to-last film by Albert Maysles, who died in March, is a charming if occasionally too-reverential portrait of New York identity and self-described "geriatric starlet" Iris Apfel.
Maysles (rhymes with "hazels") and his brother David, who died in 1987,
were famous practitioners of so-called "direct cinema", based on the problematic notion that the camera can capture real life without altering it: Salesman, Grey Gardens and the legendary Gimme Shelter, about the abortive Stones concert at Altamont in 1969, are among their most noted works.
There's nothing especially provocative about their portrait of the wealthy Jewish designer whose status as a fashion icon was built as much on her ability to lend flair to dime-store kitsch as on the luxury or antique clothing that she adventurously remodelled or wore in improbable combinations.
Apfel's style prompted a 2005 exhibition, winningly called Rara Avis (A Rare Bird) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and those who find her difficult to take seriously may just not get her - or this movie.
I suspect that she's somewhat more interesting in person than this film makes her out to be, actually: unlike Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work, which managed to discover a fragile and loveable human being behind all the bluster and one-liners, Iris is happy just to adore Iris, which is all she wants really.
