Irvine Welsh documentary was a fitting end to close the EIF

Irvine Welsh is full of stories, one reason he is such a prolific author. He isn’t short of anecdotes, either, or of opinions. These range from politics to what he mockingly refers to as his “practice”, in other words his approach to fiction writing. But he also has the raconteur’s gift of delivery and – whisper it – a whiff of the public intellectual to him. God knows we need that breed these days. Throw in his oeuvre (another term he probably hates) and his authorship of the most iconic Scottish novel of the last 30 years, and you can see why he is such a rich subject for a documentary.

Unsurprisingly there have been a few to date. But Edinburgh-based film-maker Paul Sng’s is undoubtedly the best, making it a welcome and fitting work to bring down the curtain on this year’s Edinburgh International Film Festival. Artful, considered, imaginative, rewarding, though-provoking and pleasingly high concept, it avoids dwelling too much on past glories to foreground its subject in the present.

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We open, though, with a sort of career précis. It comes courtesy of clips from an onstage interview conducted at a Toronto literary festival by Welsh’s fellow Edinburgh-er Michael Pedersen, fast approaching national treasure status himself. Still in Canada, we then see Welsh visit the offices of a couple of lifestyle/therapy gurus in order to take hallucinogenic drug Dimethyltryptamine.

Known as DMT – or, sometimes, the businessman’s drug, because the trip it induces can be had in a lunch-break – it offers Welsh a break from the reality which he says is “not enough” for a writer and from which Sng takes his intriguing title. Having brusquely headed off some therapy-speak “bullshit” from the shaven-headed wellness dudes – just give me the drug is Welsh’s simple request – he takes to a mattress to enjoy the experience.

We return to him there throughout, Sng using this as a framing device and as a slipway to launch the free-wheeling sequences in which Welsh, dressed in white suit and t-shirt, wanders through an abandoned factory as images and colours are projected onto him and the walls. These sequences are trippy and psychedelic, and have the effect of making it look as if he is in some liminal space, or is being invited to amble through a dream version of his own life. Much of the projections show old footage of Edinburgh, causing the author to reflect on his early life, the death of his parents, his use of drugs, his reasons for first picking up a pen. “I wouldn’t have been a writer if it hadn’t been for Acid House,” he says at one point.

Sng also drops in excerpts from Welsh’s novels, accompanied by even trippier visuals. The obliging readers include Liam Neeson (a passage from The Acid House), Stephen Graham (Glue), Maxine Peake (Porno), Ruth Negga (Dead Men’s Trousers) and, last, an unspecified voice with a very slight Australian lilt. Could it be? It is: Nick Cave, reading from The Blade Artist.

Too much of this would be, well, too much, so interspersed with the curated readings and the jazzy visuals are more prosaic sections. We see Welsh and his wife Emma at Traquair House in the Borders following a book festival event. We watch him play football with childhood friends in Muirhouse, at the ground of Lowland League football club Civil Service Strollers, then chatting easily with them in the bar afterwards. We see him in LA with his manager, at his house in Miami, and at the boxing club he frequents there.

Sng controls and presents his material well, though it’s Welsh’s own observations, thoughts and opinions which really drive the film. Some are just wryly humorous. “Married to me? I think it would be a hard shift,” he says, the only time he answers an off-screen question. Others are more reflective. “Writing ... is essentially a square go with yourself,” he says. Then, later: “You steal from your own life. You’re constantly putting fangs in your own fucking neck.” And: “The most important resource you have is time. I basically retired 30 years ago, I’ve just been indulging myself since.”

But it’s one of his post-trip comments which lingers most in the mind. “I’m no longer an atheist,” he says. “It makes dying a more exciting thing than a thing to dread.”

No sign of that yet, though – it’s very much a life and an appetite for life which Paul Sng’s commendable documentary celebrates and explores.