Beckham

Even if you were not into football then and you are not into football now, “Beckham” makes for fascinating viewing—as a document of the late nineties and early two-thousands in the U.K., with its Brit-pop and its Blairy optimism; as a record of a moment when the use of private jets and the acquisition of luxury goods by newly wealthy celebrities might have been regarded as crass but wasn’t yet deemed ethically criminal; as a portrait, albeit a flatteringly partial one, of a long-enduring marriage between famous people who seem genuinely to enjoy and admire one another.

Both the Beckhams describe the making of the documentary as “therapy” – but it will probably be just as cathartic for a generation of fans still starry-eyed with nostalgia for those halfway-line lobs.

It’s a lot of fun, and each of the hour-plus episodes flies by.

You might have expected Netflix’s four-hour documentary about David Beckham to be a doting hagiography that would offer a few tasty morsels but would mostly polish the shiny tiara of Brand Beckham. And you would be right. ... But the crucial question is: is Beckham entertaining? Put it this way, I binged the lot in one sitting.

Beckham is a time capsule of the Noughties, when Posh and Becks dominated two of the most eminent cultural cornerstones England has offered the world: football and tabloid gossip. It’s fun – but don’t expect anything more than the glossy façade we’ve been sold by Brand Beckham for decades.

It’s too neat to feel honest about the complicated life we watched play out across four hours. Stevens may find flashes of real emotion staring into Beckham’s face, but that’s as far as he’s allowed to go.