MacGowan's talents as writer are clear; but those same talents did not extend into his understanding of modern Irish history - which is, at best, fantastical.
And seeing Gerry Adams' interview with MacGowan - which is threaded throughout the documentary - reinforces this sense of fabulism.
At one point, Adams asks MacGowan about 'The Dunes', a song about the burial of victims of the Irish famine, prompting stock footage of children playing on sand dunes.
You can only hope Temple consciously created that chilling semiotic, otherwise we might relegate him to the same dunce filled history class as MacGowan.
There is not one critical voice in this documentary offering an alternative view of Irish history or the impact of Republicanism on both countries.
But perhaps where the documentary fails, it succeeds in exposing the intellectual motivation behind nationalism - a concept which first emerged in the late 19th century, 700 years after the Anglo-Norman's landed on Wexford's coast.
Perversity.
At one point Adams ventures that the word 'Punk' stems from an Irish word for 'a Yank'. Even MacGowan - a self proclaimed Republican - receives this assertion with a look of incredulity - or so you'd hope.
Fact: 'Punke' is a word used by Shakespeare to refer to prostitutes. Shakespeare was born in the 16th century; America was founded in the 18th century.
More painful still, is watching MacGowan's descent into a pale of drink and drugs. On the back of Fairytale of New York - a song which allegedly grosses .5 million per annum - The Pogues were treated to a gruelling touring schedule that Shane, according to his father, never came back from.
Retaining a relationship with your brother or your son when they have become world famous must be complicated; add to that several ringed walls informed by alcohol and substance abuse and it surely becomes painful.
Addiction - to give it a name - is complex. No doubt MacGowan had his own good reasons.
But as much as it's important not to fall foul of a romantic version of Ireland, it's equally important not to romanticise MacGowan's life long dependencies on substance abuse.
MacGowan's sister talks about a soul who is kind, thoughtful and intelligent - all great qualities entombed by a sarcophagus of indulgence, with no hope of excavation.
All that said, Temple's talents as a director shine through. Had this film been given by any other director it would have been dull, lifeless and vapid.
Let's hope MacGowan's songs live on, he's added so much more to the Irish song book. But let's also hope his version of Ireland stays buried, because we can't keep moving forward to the past; at some point, Ireland has to be allowed to change.
And seeing Gerry Adams' interview with MacGowan - which is threaded throughout the documentary - reinforces this sense of fabulism.
At one point, Adams asks MacGowan about 'The Dunes', a song about the burial of victims of the Irish famine, prompting stock footage of children playing on sand dunes.
You can only hope Temple consciously created that chilling semiotic, otherwise we might relegate him to the same dunce filled history class as MacGowan.
There is not one critical voice in this documentary offering an alternative view of Irish history or the impact of Republicanism on both countries.
But perhaps where the documentary fails, it succeeds in exposing the intellectual motivation behind nationalism - a concept which first emerged in the late 19th century, 700 years after the Anglo-Norman's landed on Wexford's coast.
Perversity.
At one point Adams ventures that the word 'Punk' stems from an Irish word for 'a Yank'. Even MacGowan - a self proclaimed Republican - receives this assertion with a look of incredulity - or so you'd hope.
Fact: 'Punke' is a word used by Shakespeare to refer to prostitutes. Shakespeare was born in the 16th century; America was founded in the 18th century.
More painful still, is watching MacGowan's descent into a pale of drink and drugs. On the back of Fairytale of New York - a song which allegedly grosses .5 million per annum - The Pogues were treated to a gruelling touring schedule that Shane, according to his father, never came back from.
Retaining a relationship with your brother or your son when they have become world famous must be complicated; add to that several ringed walls informed by alcohol and substance abuse and it surely becomes painful.
Addiction - to give it a name - is complex. No doubt MacGowan had his own good reasons.
But as much as it's important not to fall foul of a romantic version of Ireland, it's equally important not to romanticise MacGowan's life long dependencies on substance abuse.
MacGowan's sister talks about a soul who is kind, thoughtful and intelligent - all great qualities entombed by a sarcophagus of indulgence, with no hope of excavation.
All that said, Temple's talents as a director shine through. Had this film been given by any other director it would have been dull, lifeless and vapid.
Let's hope MacGowan's songs live on, he's added so much more to the Irish song book. But let's also hope his version of Ireland stays buried, because we can't keep moving forward to the past; at some point, Ireland has to be allowed to change.