A documentary by Stevan Riley. Rating unavailable.

An after-the-fact “autobiography” of Marlon Brando, told entirely in his own words, this fascinating documentary takes you surprisingly far into the mind of the man who essentially defined film acting for the 20th century.

Directed by Stevan Riley and constructed with writer Peter Ettedgui—British documentarians who specialize in the intersection of politics and popular culture—the confusingly titled film digs deep into a trove of audio recordings Brando left behind when he died at 80, in 2004. They even have access to a holographic rendering of his famous face, made late in life, bringing some of his taped remarks spookily to life.

Fortunately, this device is used sparingly. And there are no other talking heads, titles, or other voices to interfere with the actor’s own thoughts. There are numerous filmed interviews and clips to augment the audio diaries.

As in Martin Scorsese’s definitive Bob Dylan biodoc, No Direction Home, the subject is much less cryptic and far more humble than fans would typically expect. Brando’s respect for his craft and colleagues, and doubts about his own talents and responsibilities, come across as strongly felt and crucially human. We learn that he was dissatisfied with his breakthrough performance in On the Waterfront, and that memories of his abusive father provided the madness behind the method of his angriest displays, especially in A Streetcar Named Desire. That family history certainly haunted him in his relationship with his own ill-fated children.

Brando’s stellar comeback in Last Tango in Paris was likewise fuelled by self-doubting conflicts with director Bernardo Bertolucci. And there’s the poignant recollection of his having to audition (sort of) for the title role in The Godfather, with director Francis Ford Coppola perhaps regretting their association during the horror of making Apocalypse Now. Brando’s latter-day catalogue is notably improved in this context, which gives his whole career a more thoughtful shape.

Marlon’s only real deficit is a funereal score that sounds like an extended Oscar-night In Memoriam. But if you tune that out, there’s still plenty to hear.