Peter McLeavey: the film

Last night, Rose and I went to the film about Peter McLeavey at the film festival. I've got a lot of time for Peter. I've got a lot out of visiting his gallery over the years, and especially from the many chats I've had with him.

The film had some interesting bits: interviews with him and his wife, extracts from his correspondence, and some photos of the old days. However, I was left with a sense that there were some important bits missing. Peter's been in the same rooms in Cuba St for 40 years, so there was a bit of discussion of how it's changed. However, there was no mention of the effect of the bypass, which I found very strange until I saw the acknowledgement for funding from the council in the credits. Oh dear. (I'm probably being highly unfair with this imputation, but, hey, it's how it looks to me.)

The more serious omission though was that there was no criticism of Peter. He's occupied a position of power and influence in the highly bitchy art world for a considerable amount of time. He will have his detractors. The only time this was alluded to was when he was talking about the importance of loyalty: 'The relationship between the dealer and artist is like a marriage, and sometimes you come home after work on a Friday to find your wife in bed with the butcher.'

I'm sorry, but this doesn't cut it. Come on! Not acknowledging criticism is not fair on either Peter or the audience. And it's dishonest. Peter's a grown up. He can take it. And, to be absolutely clear, I'm not in any way advocating a hatchet job. Rather, you put it to him fairly, allow him to respond, and let the audience make up their own minds. That's what documentaries do.

Part of the problem was that there were no interviews apart from with Peter and his wife. The director got up before the screening and said they'd shot it in three days. They may have thought that this gave them enough material for a film, but unfortunately it did not give them enough material for a good film.

This is a great shame. Rather than a document of lasting importance, we've got a puff piece, a hagiography – and I don't believe in saints.