Bill Cunningham New York

For four decades New York Times photographer Bill Cunningham has cruised the Big Apple on his Schwinn bicycle like a fashionista superhero. His batcave is a studio in Carnegie Hall that even Manhattan's most scurrilous realtor would describe as cramped. His arch-nemesis? Bland cookie cutter apparel. Watching Cunningham snap his subjects, who range from haute couture clad It girls to peacocking drag queens, is joyous.

On a crowded crosswalk, through the teaming masses, the wiry octogenarian will spot his target – an exquisite hemline, a pair of funky heels, a modernist sculpture disguised as a hat – and spring into action like a benevolent cheetah, chasing his elegant prey through downtown. Celebrity does not curry favour – he has no time for a drearily attired Catherine Deneuve. In fact, he has little time for anything beyond his work. During this quick-footed profile director Richard Press asks Cunningham only two questions: one about love, the other God. Both cut deep. The price of this lifelong quest to document beauty is a heavy one.