The latest pictures and sharpest reviews from Cannes

You can't walk down the Croisette these days without bumping into a 1980s icon. Take Maradona, the football star, who admitted at his press conference that he would saw off his right arm — the famous “hand of God” —- for a date with Julia Roberts. The tubby scourge of English football is in town to celebrate himself, and promote the documentary of his life made by Emir Kusturica. Sorry, did I say documentary? This unctuous parable about a humble slum-dweller who weaves and wobbles his way to the football hall of fame is fatally sidetracked by Kusturica's attempts to become a pop star.

The film opens with Kusturica strumming away, tunelessly, in front of his Gypsy folk band. Music is a key component of this mighty clash of egos. This film is a waltz with two professional rebels who do everything but sleep with each other. There are clips of Diego scoring goals in the 1986 World Cup. And shots of Kusturica fronting his band, The No Smoking Orchestra. They are both fallen angels who bond in Argentina, Cuba and Naples. The journey of Maradona from the backstreets to official campaigner for the anti-North American Free Trade Agreement is a tricky swallow. But if you think that's a mouthful then please look away when the two start munching “neoliberalism, imperialism and George W. Bush”.

I know the idea of Maradona being reinvented as the new Che Guevara might not be Sir Alex Ferguson's half-time solution. But it's hard to care when all these two muckers want to do is sound off about the lopsided politics that have wounded all our lives. The explicit inference of the film is that Maradona's famous leap to beat Peter Shilton is in some way justifiable, because it's a metaphorical blow against the greedy West. That's a wounding foul. Indeed a red-card offence.

So what a plonking irony it is to hear Johnny Rotten singing God Save the Queen as Maradona beats England for the millionth time. You can't but admire the pint-sized beast. He is feckless and loveable. But Kusturica ought to know far better, if only because he has already pocketed two Palmes d'Or. You can't make a documentary about how cool you are while hiding behind a man who is adored by several nations. Maradona is a child. He is not Latin America's first original punk.

There is a scene where they are taking free kicks at some stooge in the Aztec Stadium in Mexico. Kusturica bends the ball into the top right corner of the net. Maradona bananas it into the left, then punches the air. The director is oblivious to the gesture. Actually I'd be curious to know if he would blink if Mike Tyson smacked him in the face. But we are in the mind and imagination of the auteur Kusturica, and he is already lining up his next awful gig. If you go, watch out for that strange chap pogoing in the corner. It might well be my mate Maradona.

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