“Iron Mike” turns out to be a sympathetically pitiful figure in James Toback’s Tyson, a documentary told exclusively through archival clips and interviews with the former heavyweight champ, all of which are fractured by the director’s splitting of the screen into visual quadrants and his deft editing of Tyson monologues into a lucid first-person narrative. Such aesthetic division seems fitting given the fragmented subject at hand, who exhibits less of the raging-bull persona of his heyday than the severely screwed-up individual that the public came to know during, and after, his precipitous personal and professional fall from grace. At times contrite, angry, amusing and scary, and always more self-analytical than one would expect, Tyson comes across as an athlete destined for greatness and a man fated to fail, an impression that Toback (who previously worked with the boxer in 1999’s Black and White) readily promotes through subtle editorializing that amplifies the idea that the fighter is something of a tragic figure. It’s a hypothesis that has some validity, as evidenced by the doc’s thoughtful recounting of his early years living with a destitute family and running scams in Brooklyn. Too bad, then, that Tyson avoids taking the steps necessary to conclusively argue its case.

The trump card of Toback’s film is its candid autobiographical chats with Tyson, who reveals an impressive aptitude for introspection. The heavyweight’s musings on the underlying stimuli that pushed him toward boxing (a schoolyard bully’s constant thieving, and his success at fighting back), as well as his astute understanding of the sweet science’s technical and strategic elements, reveal an insightfulness also found in his frequent admissions of life and career mistakes. Toback furthers his material’s depth in understated yet striking ways, most forcefully in his shrewd use of a clip of a press conference for one of the fighter’s post-prison comeback bouts. After a reporter yells out that the paroled Tyson should be “in a straightjacket,” he responds with a stream of ugly homophobic invectives that barely contain the tears threatening to surface – a momentary glimpse of sadness over his lost confidence, self-control, and reputation, as well as of his lifelong attempts to mask, and counter, emotional pain with fierce, borderline-crazy aggression. Here as in many other places, Tyson deliberately and somewhat successfully courts pity for the deeply troubled athlete, elucidating the mixture of resentment, paranoia, ego and uncontrolled fury that made him both a champion and a mess.

Toback’s use of split-screen gets at the man’s splintered psyche, and the masterfully arranged footage of Tyson’s in-ring exploits conveys the awe-inspiring supremacy of his pugilistic skills. Nonetheless, Tyson’s lack of complementary voices (pro and con) hinders its attempts to be a comprehensive, definitive psychological portrait. This is most apparent during those sections when Tyson addresses the rape conviction that sent him to prison for three years (an incident about which he’s still bitter, yet only cursorily talks about), his screwy marriage to Robin Givens (primarily, and insufficiently, summed up with “we were just two kids”), and his relationship to, and falling out with, iconic promoter Don King. As the three developments in his boxing life – after the death of his beloved manager and mentor Cus D’Amato – that most directly contributed to his plummet from the sports world’s mountaintop, they deserve not only more time than they’re granted, but more outside analysis than Tyson is willing (or able) to provide. By skirting these vital incidents’ role in Tyson’s descent into ear-biting, face-tattooing, fighting-for-easy-paydays ignominy, Toback’s doc ultimately proves too subjective to truly get at the heart and mind-frame of its iconic subject.