This docuseries could have asked bigger questions on domestic violence, or the murder of Pistorius’s scarcely mentioned girlfriend. Instead, it is a flawed, fawning hagiography
Over five hours and 40 minutes, we get an exhaustive, exhausting account of Pistorius’s childhood, his medical history – born with fibular hemimelia, his feet were amputated at 11 months to give him the best overall mobility – his schooling, the death of his mother when he was 16, his training, his genuinely remarkable sporting achievements. We are offered a look at the growing adoration of South Africa for its golden boy as he racks up sprinting medals around the world, his successes at the Paralympics and his fight for permission to compete in the Olympics. The tone of these parts is hagiographic, which means the other parts – the darker parts, the more awkward parts – are edged with a kind of baffled sorrow. How, the film seems to ask, could all this glory fall away?
What could have been an examination of the cultural convergence that makes South Africa one of the most dangerous places for women to live – a woman is killed by her partner there every eight hours – instead amounts to little more than a head shake over one man’s bad luck.
Pistorius is the result of a society that treats women as second-class citizens, that lets men off the vast majority of the terrible things they do to them, that tells them money, talent and success will earn them yet greater freedom to do as they wish to whomever they wish.
The name of the 29-year-old woman he murdered – a law graduate, a model, the daughter of June and Barry, who broke her back in a horse-riding accident as a child and had to learn how to walk again, little of which was mentioned here – was
Reeva Steenkamp
.