In 1967, Burt Monro broke a world land-speed record. The fact that he was 68 when he did it is no more amazing than the fact he did it on an Indian, a 1920’s motorcycle rebuilt using spare parts and Kiwi ingenuity. Donaldson’s story starts in New Zealand where an old man (Hopkins) lives in a shed and lovingly tends an ancient motorbike to the early-morning irritation of neighbours. For Burt still dreams of breaking the record and this heap is just the vehicle to do it. You can chart the rest, which runs a sentimental course of working passage to America, tranny-time on Sunset Boulevard and a run-in with rule-makers.

In Hopkins, Donaldson found a convincing measure of determination and curiosity. In Donaldson, Hopkins found a director whose understanding of time, place and subject is without peer. His production is a considered love letter to Burt and the country that made him. Of course, there’s no escaping Donaldson’s crowd-pleasing sensibility: all that Monro encounters would have curled the chest hair of your average Kiwi bloke yet he remains as un-phased by them as they do in their overwhelming support for the rule-breaking geezer from half a world away. Maybe it was a gentler place in 1967 and it’s warming to think so as you’re immersed in a golden age with Kiwi Burt racing toward his life’s goal on an ancient bike held together with Nr.8 wire.

The World’s Fastest Indian is no masterpiece, but nor does it try to be. This is a thoroughly entertaining and heart-warming tale of human perseverance and as such, a clear winner.

// COLIN FRASER