70 Best 2024 Documentaries to Watch

In the first twenty minutes, The Remarkable Life of Ibelin seemed to be quite unremarkable, with the usual way a biographical documentary would go, that is, loved ones waxing poetic about how great the dead person was in life. But the documentary takes this to introduce Ibelin the same way his parents discovered the online life Mats Steen lived. It’s a unique documentary, mixing in the usual home videos with the animated gameplay of the archived life Steen lived in Ibelin, but it’s grounded by, and somewhat co-created through the words Steen himself typed about his life as a disabled man, and the game history he shared with the community he formed online. The Remarkable Life of Ibelin ends up being quite a remarkable depiction of living online, that feels much more honest, human, and creative than the condescending or cautious narratives we’ve previously heard about the online world.

Will and Harper’s premise is simple: two friends journey from one end of the States to another and, amid pit stops and bar hops, sunsets and beers, they talk about life, from its biggest concepts down to its tiniest details. The only difference in this case is that Will and Harper are navigating their friendship as well as the roads; since Harper has only recently transitioned (formerly, she was the comedy screenwriter Andrew Steele), she and Will feel the need to settle more than a few questions. When did this all start? What kept Harper from coming out? Will the friendship still be the same? Does Harper still like bad beer? Will, for his part, is earnest and curious, and though he fumbles along the way—at one point, he inadvertently exposes Harper to a transphobic crowd—he’s quick to recognize his mistakes, learn from them, and recenter our attention to Harper, who is the real star of this film. We learn about her childhood and how she grappled with identity throughout her life. We even visit her home in Iowa and get to know her family. The film keeps it light by smartly relying on their naturally funny tandem and the beautiful American country backdrop. It’s been said that to know the real American pulse, you’d have to go to the Midwest, and that’s exactly what they do. It’s not always pretty, but there are bubbles of joy there that present hope not just to Harper but to the many transpeople out there waiting to know if it’s finally time to head out (it is).

Mountain Queen isn’t just a movie about a professional mountain climber, although Lhakpa Sherpa is certainly impressive as she trudges through the deathly terrain of Everest (and at 50 years old at that!). It’s also the heartbreaking story of a broken family in repair. Sherpa reveals shocking details about her abusive husband, fellow climber Gheorghe Dijmărescu, and we see how it’s affected her two daughters, one of which is so hurt, she can’t bring herself to speak to her mother. The main thread of the movie is her 10th attempt to scale the tallest peak in the world, but Director Lucy Walker smartly intercuts this with tales of Sherpa’s own life—a laborious obstacle on its own—rightfully framing Sherpa as the strong woman that she is.

For the longest time, television seemed to be the antithesis to reading– part of that belief still lingers to this day. However, just before the turn of the millennium, there was a show that didn’t find itself opposite to it, instead, it wanted to be its ally. That show was Reading Rainbow. Butterfly in the Sky tells its story. It’s quite nostalgic, as the show’s former cast and crew recall what it was like, and the way the film structured its sequences captures not just the show itself, but the cultural weight it represented, as it encouraged reading not just as a skill you need to learn, but as a way to interact with the wider world around us, which is worth protecting. Butterfly in the Sky believes in stories, and believes in the story that it wants to tell about Reading Rainbow.

We Are the World is a charity single created for African famine relief. It was a smash success– it inspired plenty of other charity singles and already has a TV documentary about it. But The Greatest Night in Pop reveals new behind-the-scenes footage with a home video flair, intercut with interviews from those who were in the booth on that fateful day. The anecdotes about that night might have already been said elsewhere, but director Bao Nguyen manages to capture the energy in the room, peeking into the emotions of the various personalities that helped shape the song. It’s an intriguing, if straightforward documentary, and it’s certainly a treat watching the decade’s best voices collaborate to make this one track.

With Netflix producing countless true crime documentaries, you’d be forgiven for dismissing How to Rob a Bank as usual, forgettable fare. But the documentary ever so slightly curbs cliches by focusing on a theme—in this case Hollywood, in honor of Scurlock’s pseudonym and love of movies—without losing sight of the bigger picture. Which is to say, directors Seth Porges and Stephen Robert Morse go all in the movie theme without giving way to cheesiness, mostly by honing in on Scurlock’s favorite films like Heat and Point Blank and effectively replicating the thrill of those action classics. It uses fine, storyboard-like illustrations that are mostly entertaining and nostalgic but occasionally quite beautiful, and borrows the same synth soundtrack from the said films. But it even though it initially sets Scurlock as the anti-hero, a Robin Hood of the times, its sympathies lie with the victims, the traumatized bank tellers and goers. It’s a smartly made and engaging film, complete with the quintessential shootouts and elaborate heists, and it thankfully doesn’t let the talking heads do all the work.

More than anything, Netflix’s 116-minute Menendez Brothers documentary feels like a PR shield to protect the streamer against the onslaught of criticism its dramatized series (Ryan Murhphy’s Monsters) received. Netflix wants to have its cake and eat it too. If Monsters painted the brothers as evil and spoiled, The Menendez Brothers takes a more humane approach by shedding much-needed light on male sexual abuse. It also literally gives the brothers a voice by having their present-day selves, through exclusive phone calls, weigh in on the events that led to that fateful day they killed their parents, as well as on the heated legal proceedings themselves. The series is at its best when it focuses on the present (How are the brothers faring in prison? Why is this generation so passionate about protecting them?) and when it gives us a legal breakdown of the complicated case. Since many other documentaries about the brothers tend to focus on the scandal and psychology of such a case, it helps to see what went down in this new light, with input from the brothers no less.

It’s immediately apparent that there are more carefully made documentaries out there than Remembering Gene Wilder. The film is riddled with pixelated photos for one, and the overall tone is fawning for another. But Wilder is too great of a man to be affected by mediocre filmmaking, and so Remembering Gene Wilder still makes for an entertaining and insightful watch despite its small faults. The film is less about his life and more about his work—a chronological account of his career with nuggets of wisdom for performers, comedians, and writers tucked neatly in between. It still dives into his personal life, to be sure, but as Wilder will readily admit, his creative decisions spell out all you need to know about him.

Far from a typical documentary, Skywalkers is as relentless and fast-paced as the climbers it follows. As Angela Nikolau and Ivan Beerkus illegally scale towers and skyscrapers with little more than the clothes on their back, Director Jeff Zimbalist throws viewers into the next thrilling scenario whether they’re ready to or not. It’s amazing how much of the breathless editing replicates the energy between Nikolau and Beerkus, regardless of whether they’re in action rooftopping or deep in an argument about trust and relationships. The film has a deep emotional core that makes it resonate more than it should; people might come in for the extremity of their sport, but they’ll leave learning something worthwhile about love.

Dog lovers will think they already know everything there is to know about their favorite furry companions, while those indifferent to the animal might think a film will do little to sway their opinion. But Netflix’s Inside the Mind of a Dog makes a surprisingly compelling case for diving deeper into canine psychology. Experts weigh in on their intelligence, which many believe surpasses that of apes, our closest mammal relative, as well as their loyalty and charm. People take the latter two for granted, but they’re actually part of a successful evolution strategy experts have dubbed “survival of the friendliest.” The documentary is full of interesting takes like these, but what really tugs at the heartstrings are the stories of the service dogs we follow. It helps, too, that the movie is narrated by an enthusiastic-sounding Rob Lowe, himself an eager dog owner, and peppered with engaging animations and adorable pup clips.

Invisible Victim may not be all that different from the plethora of true crime documentaries available on Netflix and other streaming platforms, but it is worth watching if only to see how misogyny continues to be rampant at best and deadly at worst. Despite being beaten, kidnapped, drugged, and eventually murdered by the superstar footballer Bruno, Eliza Samudio was still largely framed as the perpetrator in the public’s eye because she was deemed a slut. “She died because she was money hungry,” one fan said on social media. A reporter, meanwhile, asked Bruno, “How are you handling all the embarrassment coming your way?” as if the real crime was Eliza tainting Bruno’s glowing career, instead of Bruno ending her short life. The documentary succeeds in arousing the viewer’s anger, though it doesn’t offer anything particularly new to a well-known case apart from Eliza’s never-before-seen messages to her friend, which revealed her fearlessness and defiance up until her untimely end.

If you want a powerful, masterful rendition of the ill-fated space mission, go and watch Apollo 13 (1995). But the documentary more than half a century after the mission, and two decades after the feature film, is not half bad. Of course, being a documentary, Apollo 13: Survival is much more factual, but the true tale still manages to hold the tension, the high stakes, and the emotional pull of the actual spaceflight, with excellent editing stitching the never-before-seen archival footage and key interviews into an exciting, compelling account. That being said, older viewers that already watched the Tom Hanks drama would likely not find anything new in this film, but Apollo 13: Survival would be a decent documentary to those who have never heard of the spacecraft.

The story of how Dave Kroupa excitedly joined online dating sites only to meet a murderous stalker is both distressing and fascinating. You feel for the guy and wonder how a person could commit such heinous crimes. That in itself is a feat: to be genuinely shocked despite the prevalence of true crime documentaries. But Lover, Stalker, Killer takes way too long to get to the point. For a good chunk of the documentary, you’re left wondering how the pieces will fall into place, all while the interviewees are hyping it up to be something truly horrific as if it were a movie or a game, and not an actually traumatic moment that forever altered the course of Kroupa and his family’s life. It’s good that we get a first-hand account of the case from Kroupa himself because otherwise, this would be another case of desensitized, sensationalized fare. The central story is interesting to be sure, but a lack of technical flare and in-depth questioning makes it, overall, flimsy and overlong.

Jailbreak: Love on the Run could be many things depending on where you stand. You could see it as the tragic story of how an inmate successfully seduced his jailer into letting him escape. Or you could see it as the romantic tale of a woman finding her soulmate after years of denying herself companionship and affection. The commendable thing about this Netflix documentary is that it allows space for both of those perspectives through lengthy interviews with the Whites’ close friends and colleagues. That said, the editing of this Netflix documentary could’ve been tighter. The interviews could’ve been cut short and some phone call excerpts, given their explicit content, could’ve been left out, especially given how this tale ends. Not only would the documentary have been more engaging, it would’ve also been more sensitive to Vicky’s situation. “It’s like a disgusting romance novel,” one co-worker says of Vicky and Casey’s admittedly unethical relationship, but while her comment seems justified at the moment, it turns sour the moment you learn about the couple’s fate.

It’s heartbreaking that the case of Maria Soledad is as gruesome as it is common. We’ve all heard of or know about a woman who was raped, strangled, and beaten to death for no other reason than her gender. But even though Netflix’s Breaking the Silence tells Soledad’s story well enough, with detailed research and in-depth interviews, it’s ultimately hard to tell it apart from the hundreds of other true crime documentaries the streamer has produced. A cynic would say that Netflix’s interests lie not in advocacy or justice, but in riding the true crime fad. But a more hopeful viewer will want to believe in the film’s truth and stance against femicide. If you’re the former, then Breaking the Silence won’t do much for you. But if you are latter, and I kind of hope you are, then this documentary will be heartbreaking, frustrating, and more importantly, inspiring.

True crime stories set in the world of crypto are still relatively unexplored and therefore have a real contemporary edge to them; they feel more relatable because these criminals share the same online spaces we do. Bitconned taps into this with a more casual, carefree energy, but it also brings up the same concerns—namely: how helpful is it, really, to give this much attention to a con artist currently running free? The film spends most of its time explaining how its main characters built their scam then failed spectacularly at covering their tracks, but after a while even the entertainment of others’ mistakes needs to be supported by more thorough analysis, which this documentary doesn’t provide.

With the rise of fascism globally, and concerns about an upcoming world war, depictions of World War II have become popular, with the most notable being Christopher Nolan’s Oppenheimer. Einstein and the Bomb instead takes a look at the prominent scientist, whose theory of relativity made the atomic bomb possible, who had a personal stake in ensuring the Nazis were defeated, but who also had to reckon with the horrific consequences in pursuing the West’s promises of peace. It’s a needed perspective, and director Anthony Philipson pulls from Einstein’s very words, his own ideas about the society at the time eerily echoing the concerns about today’s society. However, there’s something off about the way these ideas are presented, as it feels like the film was less interested in Einstein as a man, and more interested in using him as a spokesperson, using his image to cry over today’s conflicts.

Celebrities are often described as being “vulnerable” in documentaries, but it’s never been more fitting in this case. Here, Celine Dion opens up about her near-paralyzing illness, which affects her vocal cords and muscles and consequently prohibits her from performing on stage. We see clips of the star having spasms and breakdowns as she tries and fails and tries again to get her voice back. More than just a simple biography of what Dion has achieved, which we already know is massive, the film is largely about the doubt that creeps in and threatens to rock your sense of self, and the strength of the human spirit to persevere despite all that. The film is bracingly, unflinchingly raw, but it’s never exploitative, thanks partly to director Irene Taylor’s gentle direction and to Dion’s unwavering resilience.

Frida Kahlo is an iconic Mexican painter, not just because of her outstanding art, but also because of her outlook in life, despite her ill health and tragic accident. Because of this, she has been talked about in multiple books, movies, and exhibitions, but a new documentary has popped up, this time from her own words. Carla Gutierrez’s directorial debut is a revelation, voiced primarily in Frida’s native Spanish and paired with key archival footage, vivid animations of her paintings, and an excellent acoustic score plucked from classical guitar. Being a biographical documentary, fans of the artist would, of course, be familiar with her life events, but Gutierrez’s approach is still worth watching, mostly because it’s Frida’s own words driving the film.

Giannis Antetokounmpo’s rags-to-riches life story is the stuff of movies, and indeed it’s been told many times on print and screen. But this is the first time he and his family are telling it themselves, which is a big deal since Antetokounmpo, as it turns out, is inseparable from his family. Their revealing interviews about how they struggled as undocumented immigrants from Nigeria in Greece add a new, moving depth to a well-known journey, which Director Kristen Lappas wisely divides into chapters named after Greek ideals Antetokounmpo represents. Despite Lappas’ background (she is Greek-American), she makes sure to balance Antetokounmpo’s heroic moments with the Greek government’s at-times unfair treatment of the athlete and other immigrants in the country. She also puts a spotlight on the pressures Antetokounmpo is going through as one of the youngest champs in NBA history. After all, at just 29 years old, he’s already a two-time MVP and playoff winner. This doc proves that the story of how he got there is no less remarkable.

Jennifer Lopez believes that her latest album and its movie accompaniment, This Is Me…Now, are her magnum opus, so she gives the joint project her all. She funds, writes, produces, directs, and choreographs everything with the help of her team, which amusingly includes her lover and muse Ben Affleck. Whether or not it actually is her greatest work of all time doesn’t matter; it doesn’t even matter that people get it. What matters is that she creates it with the undivided fervor of an artist possessed with the knowledge that this is their last chance to make a mark. And it’s that energy that makes this documentary, which is a behind-the-scenes look at This Is Me…Now, so captivating. Lopez is in her element directing the movie-musical of her life. At 54 years old, she’s completely candid (sometimes, amusingly, to Affleck’s dismay) and abandons all need to conform to industry norms. She follows her heart first and her mind second, which explains why her project is as big-hearted and relatable as it is bonkers and all over the place. It’s a bit like The Disaster Artist in that way: watching Lopez’s creative chaos is far more interesting than the creation itself.

What does a highly successful 20-year-old musician have to say about life and the industry? As we learn from Laroi, a lot apparently. Throughout this film, which documents his rapid rise from hopeful Aussie to international star, Laroi shares observations that are at turns earnest, endearing, and self-aware. Unfortunately, these likable traits aren’t enough to make Kids Are Growing Up staple viewing beyond Laroi’s fanbase. If you’re not part of the club, you might find it hard to grasp the necessity of this production at all. Though pleasantly intimate and amusingly animated, there is nothing innovative nor insightful about it. The Australian leg of his origin story seems to have been largely skipped, as are some parts of his musical process. And though it’s the most interesting part about him, the documentary doesn’t focus too much on him being a prodigy. Laroi is talented to be sure, but this documentary seems like a premature attempt at capturing him in his presumed prime. As a result, the filmmakers betray a lack of confidence in Laroi’s future, even though it’s clear it’ll burn brighter than ever.

At the peak of his fame in the 80s, Christopher Reeve was constantly seen as his onscreen character, Superman. Like him, Reeve could fly (planes). He was full of charm and stood for what was right. But in this revealing documentary, we learn the whole truth about Reeve; his troubled childhood, his initial struggles with commitment, his physical talents, his love for family, and—as many a superhero star will sympathize with—his deep yearning for a creative career outside of the comic book character who made him famous. Of course, a significant chunk of the documentary also deals with Reeve’s unfortunate paralysis. We witness, through home movies and narrated biographies, how he coped with the tragedy. Making the film even more special is the input of his three children, who look back at the time with generous honesty and vulnerability. This film is made for fans of the actor, but it’s also a great example of the power of advocacy (Reeve became a disability rights activist after the accident), love (his wife Dana is a superhero on her own), and legacy (his children run his foundation to this day).

Backed by hefty research, dramatized by great players, and made relevant by the current and future impact aerospace has on the human race, Wild Wild Space makes for a surprisingly thrilling watch. Like the title suggests, outer space is a gold mine of opportunity right now, and the three startups the film zeros in on—Astra, Planet Labs, and Rocket Lab—are competing much in the same way the cowboys of the Old West are, full of ambition and lacking any mercy. It’s packed with drama, which you wouldn’t normally expect from a film that’s largely about physics, finance, and politics, but here we are. And the simultaneous storytelling works, too. They’re all equally interesting and overlap in smart ways, thanks to Kauffman’s deft editing and Vance’s knowledgable takes that tie it all together. Scientist vs capitalist vs madcap underdog is a story you’d never know to watch till the end till now.

In 1966, Elizabeth Taylor and her friends recorded themselves talking about the ups and downs of her life. These candid conversations are the basis of The Lost Tapes, a revealing tell-all that allows Taylor to set the record straight in her own words. Here, you get to see and hear the many parts of Taylor–her romanticism, activism, and passion, as well as her fun banter with the journalists, friends, and lovers who alternately interview her. Of course, the downside to having Taylor and her loved ones narrate a biography is you only get one side of the story, while the thornier parts of her life are skated over. Things like child labor and having to play a married-24-year-old at 16 years old, or being physically abused and suffering a miscarriage, these are things Taylor, and therefore the documentary, shy away from expounding. But while it may not be the definitive documentary on Taylor, it certainly is the most personal and intimate. It also serves as a reminder of how we’d all like to be remembered—in our own and our cherished friends’ words.

When Moviepass announced that it would allow you to watch at least one theater film a day for just $10/month, the deal seemed too good to be true. And it was, though it wouldn’t be apparent till a couple years later after top executives Mitch Lowe and Ted Farnsworth burned through the company’s funding and ultimately ran the company down to the ground. That’s one story MoviePass, MovieCrash tells, that of a business that bit too much than it could chew. But the documentary also brings to the fore the overlooked story of Stacy Spikes and Hamet Watt, the company’s Black co-founders who built something special and innovative, but who were shoved off in a frustrating move of greed and racial politics. That’s the more interesting part of the film, especially since Spikes eventually reclaims what’s his. It’s also what gives the documentary more heart than the usual tale of a business’s downfall.

It makes sense that a documentary about Faye Dunaway doubles as a documentary about the best of late 20th-century cinema. Dunaway, after all, has starred in many defining films, including Bonnie & Clyde, Chinatown, and Network, the latter of which won her an Oscar. But there are times when it feels like the documentary equates Dunaway to her career, and we get way too many clips of these admittedly great films, as opposed to more intimate slices of Dunaway’s life. Still, it’s heartwarming to see Dunaway take control of her narrative after falling victim to the press’ relentless defamation of the star. Yes, she’s difficult and a diva, she admits that many times in the documentary. But she’s also a fastidious hard worker—someone’s gotta be, or else they wouldn’t come up with the classics that we have now.

If you’ve seen the bone-chilling Oscar-winning film The Zone of Interest, then The Commandant’s Shadow isn’t just supplementary but necessary viewing. It interviews and interrogates the son of SS officer Rudolf Höss, who describes his childhood in Auschwitz as “idyllic,” and parallels his life with that of an Auschwitz survivor and her family. They’re not asked “gotcha” questions, though there are some moments where Höss’s family members’ insularity shocks you. Instead, everyone is given the time and space to reflect honestly about the pain and trauma that continues to live on in their families. It’s a difficult film to sit through, but insightful and ever-so-resonant in an age where mass torture and genocide continue in many parts of the world.

I’m just as sick of hearing about the 2020 elections as the next person, especially since we have a new wave of candidates to review and prepare for in the coming months, but Stopping the Steal has one attention-grabbing appeal: it has Republican officials and Trump supporters explain how the former president lost the race. As a result, the documentary feels justified, if not substantive. These are his people objectively and plainly expressing their disappointment over his decisions. But don’t expect a 180-degree shift in principle. They’re still aboard the Trump train for the most part, but they want you to know they can be level-headed if they want to be. The film, helmed by Leaving Neverland director Dan Reed, eventually loses steam midway as it tells the story chronologically and straightforwardly, occasionally rerepeating its points. But it’s still a worthwhile watch if only to definitely prove how baseless the voter fraud accusations are.

As documentaries go, They Called Him Mostly Harmless is pretty standard, if not forgettable, fare. There isn’t a lot of information regarding the case it focuses on, so it relies heavily on interviews with related persons and “internet sleuths” who have taken it upon themselves to solve the mystery of this hiker’s identity. It moves slowly, bogged even further down by unnecessary backstories that do nothing to get us closer to cracking the case. To be sure, it’s impressive that the missing man in question was able to scrub all evidence of his existence in this digital age, but the documentary fails to build on that intrigue and instead gives us something that sputters till the end.

There’s no doubt that pro climber Sasha DiGiulian is a fiercely brave and talented woman. And between her early entry into the sport and multiple first female ascents, her journey warrants an equally impressive film. Unfortunately, Here To Climb isn’t that film. It fails to capture DiGiulian’s spark and instead shows us a canned version of the athlete, one who may look appealing in inspirational clips and sponsored commercials, but here looks too guarded and rehearsed to seem authentic. The directors also don’t seem keen on appealing on a non-climbing audience since it doesn’t care to explain much of the jargon used, nor does it take its time to contextualize DiGiulian’s sport and success. The rare time it looks back, like when it introduced Lynn Hill and the major impact she had on rock climbing, is when it actually shines.

Nobody should doubt Tatiana Suarez’s place in the world of mixed martial arts, and it goes without saying how inspirational she can be to young girls who feel they don’t fit a traditionally feminine mold. But a documentary really should do more than just reiterate facts, farm motivational soundbites, and refuse to ask follow-up questions to the most interesting ideas revealed. By the end of The Unbreakable Tatiana Suarez, it feels as if the film has repeated the same few talking points over and over, which doesn’t actually make Suarez herself look better, but makes her look more like a product to be endorsed. Any potential discussion that can be had about the dangerous nature of wrestling and MMA—or on how this kind of controlled, organized violence interacts with real domestic violence experienced by Suarez—is quietly dismissed.

In the decades since pioneer pilot Amelia Earhart disappeared from the face of the Earth, countless theories have emerged to fill in the gaps of her still-unknown whereabouts. Historians generally agree she crashed into the ocean, but that’s not dramatic enough, isn’t it? Some people believe she was captured by the Japanese, others believe she turned into a spy. Even others think she assumed a whole new identity. But among the more plausible theories is that she crashed into an airbase in Rabaul, New Britain. This is what Finding Amelia tries to prove true, and up to the task are two independent enthusiasts—one an aviation historian, the other a lawyer. Their insight is interesting enough, except they’re not treading new ground. All of what they say has been explored in previous documentaries both worse and better, so you’re left with nothing more than reminders and weak What Ifs. There is also a sense that some of the parts are staged, which is fine if you’re trying to recreate important but dangerous encounters, but at least make them feel real.

For people having difficulty bearing a child, artificial insemination is one way to go for parenthood, but going to sperm banks can be expensive, shrouded with too much anonymity, and have had many incidents of malpractice. Some people would rather take things into their own hands. Spermworld explores the journeys of three different internet sperm donors, who meet with hopeful parents. It can be awkward, even when the donors are fairly ordinary guys with fairly decent motives, but the way director Lance Oppenheim approaches the community is disarmingly human, acknowledging the strange quirks that come with the donation, but also the interesting parental desires human beings do have.

When people talk about hip-hop’s origins, they tend to forget an important element: dance. Along with DJs and rappers, it’s the breakdancers who helped popularize the culture and pushed hip-hop into the movement that it is today. Breakin’ On the One gives the dancers their due and shines a light on their overlooked history. We see how it served as a buoy that saved kids from potential crime on the streets, how inextricable it is to New York history, and how it even has roots in traditional African culture. The music and editing work hand in hand to match the dynamic boom-boom-boom energy of hop-hop and breakdance, making it exhilarating to watch.

Produced by ABC News, Print It Black is a documentary that opts for a straightforward approach instead of a stylish one. It’s more breaking news than investigative, more TV than film, but it works to highlight the urgent issue at hand. Well, two issues, which it sometimes clumsily handles. On the one hand, Print It Black is about the devastating Robb Elementary massacre and how the small town of Uvalde is further divided in the aftermath. On the other, it’s about the relevancy of the town paper, The Uvalde Leader-News, and the crucial role it plays at a time when more and more news publications are shutting down. At the intersection of these two stories is Kimberly Rubio, a staff reporter for the paper whose 10-year-old daughter was one of the victims of the massacre. Without Rubio, the two threads come undone and the documentary fails to feel like a cohesive story. Odd decisions, like leaving out the identity and motivations of the perpetrator and allotting virtually zero screentime to the other nine victims, start to become glaringly obvious. It’s a shame because both are worthy topics that deserve their own features; here, they seem unfairly smushed into a feature that’s unconfident about the way it handles them.

You can see what director J.J. Anderson is trying to do with Sacred Soil: chronicle the lives of current Piney Woods students and connect them with their school’s storied past. It’s an admirable task that speaks to how, despite all the innovations we’ve made since the school’s founding in 1909, we still have a ways to go to achieve true racial equality. And it’s a story worth telling, set in a school brimming with bright minds unafraid to engage in important discourse. However, these ideas are muddled in Anderson’s unfocused storytelling. There is no narrator, so we’re left listening to clips of conversations and meetings that go on for too long (it often feels like sitting in a forum we’re not invited to). There are inserts of archival photos and beautiful shots of the school, but there’s little context provided to them, so those of us outside of the Piney Woods ecosystem are left feeling confused. Is the documentary about Black teenhood or is it about the history of the school? I imagine there’s a smoother way to interweave the two, but Sacred Soil ultimately fails to bridge the gap between the then and now.

If you’re coming into this expecting to relive your favorite ‘80s coming-of-age moments from The Breakfast Club to St. Elmo’s Fire, then you’ll get a taste of that, but don’t expect to be fully satisfied. Instead, the reunion that happens in Brats resembles group therapy more than anything. Here, director Andrew McCarthy (Pretty in Pink, St. Elmo’s Fire) seems to be on a journey to heal from his troubled past, which he believes was caused, in part, by a defamatory article that called him and a crop of young actors in the ‘80s “The Brat Pack.” The film follows McCarthy as he travels across the country to discuss the label with fellow Brat Packers, who funnily enough, don’t share his contempt for it. Sure, they’re annoyed, but they’ve moved on for the most part. McCarthy on the other hand doesn’t possess the self-awareness to know this, which is perhaps why he’s fallen trap to the Streisand Effect. “The Brat Pack” isn’t nearly as negative as he thinks it to be, but because he keeps ranting about it, he’s unwittingly fueling the accusations against him. He just might be the vain celebrity, the brat, he claims he’s not. Still, the documentary has its moments. The way it’s modestly filmed is charming and inventive, the artful blend of old footage and 80s music hits the nostalgic spot, and the conversations can be interesting. Who would’ve thought Demi Moore would be the wisest person in the room?

Child Star feels like it’s two movies clumsily stitched into one. On the one hand, it’s a straightforward documentary about the history of child actors. There are talking heads of experts explaining things like the Coogan Law, also known as the California Child Actor’s Bill, as well as interviews with children who dream of being famous one day. These latter interviews are precious and heartbreaking, and they make the documentary’s advocacy feel more urgent and real. On the other hand, it’s a documentary about Demi Lovato and her famous friend’s trauma dumping over coffee. I’m not saying these parts are less watchable than the others. In fact, I appreciate the celebrities’ willingness to unpack the traumatic parts of their childhood—Drew Barrymore, in particular, seemed to have it incredibly tough. But there’s just too much ground for a feature-length film to cover. This is all on top of Demi’s own catharthic confrontation with her past, which she hashes out with her friends and family. As a result, it feels like the film is merely scratching the surface of the important issues it brings up.

Though it begins with the catfishing and hacking incident that affected thousands of Tegan and Sara fans, not to mention Tegan herself, Fanatical dips into the more general topic of fandom and explores both the good and bad of it. Tegan and Sara make for an excellent case study for two reasons. One is that they came into the social media world earlier than most pop stars, and two is that their fanbase back then was uniquely comprised of young queer people. They were vulnerable and eager to connect online, which “Fegan” or the Fake Tegan who catfished their fans, exploited to no end. The documentary does well both as an explainer of fandom and as an exploration of this unfortunate event. Where it fails is as a true crime documentary. Director Erin Lee Carr approaches some of the more unwilling interviewees with a strange sort of aggression, making the documentary feel uneven at times, if not outrightly biased.

Diane von Furstenberg has no doubt lived a rich, fascinating life, but the documentary struggles to strike a balanced tone and instead comes off as an advertisement of DVF’s (admittedly beautiful) dresses. It’s not that the designer doesn’t merit the glowing praise given to her by friends, family, and experts in the documentary, but that the other side of the coin is never explored in depth. The creases to her character (and there are plenty) aren’t given any airtime as von Furstenberg is portrayed as an admirable albeit flat role model. The only exception here is when daughter Tatiana recalls the time her mother has been absent virtually all throughout her childhood, but even then, the documentary just glosses over this thorny part of their past. The film is fun and aspirational, loaded with delightful collages of home videos and designer clothes, but it’s hardly inspiring or relatable. Even in her old age, von Furstenberg seems to admit that she carries no business sense, and only stumbles into financial success with luck and plenty of help. Thankfully, she doesn’t feign ignorance about her privilege, even if the directors bafflingly insist on a rags-to-riches narrative.

Before this documentary, I didn’t have the faintest clue that the formative films of my childhood—Star Wars, Superman, Indiana Jones, ET, and Harry Potter, to name a few—were scored by one man: John Williams. This film is a loving tribute to Williams, who at 92, is still as lively as ever as he shares how he stumbled into Hollywood and found his calling as the definitive movie composer. It features interviews with frequent collaborators like Steven Spielberg and Yoyo Ma and fans like Chris Martin and Seth MacFarlane, but it’s truly Williams’ music that makes watching this a special experience. As soon as you hear the chilling first notes of Jaws, the brash opening of Star Wars, and the melodic strings of Jurassic Park, you’re hooked. Then Williams, often along with the directors, go on and recount how those came to be, and you find yourself seated, eyes wide with wonder.

It’s hard not to be enchanted by Henson’s furtively creative world, which here is charmingly sectioned into nostalgic archival footage, stop motion art, and clips of Henson’s own experimental films early in his career. Those unfamiliar with Henson might think his story is simply the history of the Muppets and Sesame Street (though even then it would be a full one), but Henson has plenty of other creations too. He’s part of a line of chronically dissatisfied artists who are constantly reinventing and restlessly one-upping themselves, which is why his work evolved into early CGI, as well as The Dark Crystal franchise and films like Labyrinth. This lovingly told documentary tries to match Henson’s heart and creativity, while also showing the darker aspects of his life, such as the effect his nonstop artistry had on his family and health.

Everything about Sugarcane is arresting, whether it’s the epic shots of the sweeping reservation (“Canada is our land,” one native announces), the emotional moments shared by survivors of the abusive residential schools, or the damning discoveries they find in an investigation into the Catholic priests. Every second of it is sure to shock and infuriate. Not everything is tragic though. There are slivers of hope, especially from the independently assembled team leading the investigation. The police are apathetic and the suspects are evasive, but despite the deep trauma, pain, and violence the community of Sugarcane has gone through, they persist.

Contrary to the headline displayed on this film’s poster, Disney’s The Beach Boys isn’t a definitive guide to the band. Instead, it plays like a “greatest hits” album that goes through their famous ups and downs. Their steady rise among American teens and leader Brian Wilson’s pop music innovations are covered, as are the more dour moments of their career, like the relentless abuse they got from their manager (the Wilsons’ father Murry) and the disagreements between Brian and his cousin and co-writer Mike Love. But for better or worse, the documentary doesn’t go into too much detail about these high-profile feuds, focusing instead on the joy and brilliance of their era-defining music, which tends to get buried beneath all the drama anyway. Because of this sunny approach, the film sometimes fails to match the band’s complexity. But there’s no denying that it’s just as enjoyable to watch as it is to listen to The Beach Boys’ music.

The Beatles ‘64 zeroes in on a precise moment in The Beatles timeline: their American debut, which propelled them from English boyband to Global sensation. Since their appearance in The Ed Sullivan Show in 1964, they’ve been on a nonstop upward trajectory to success. The documentary, co-produced by Martin Scorsese, explores why that is by expanding their two-week trip in the US into food for thought: why did they blow up the way they did? Was it because the country was in shambles and needed an escape? Was it because developments in tech and media unwittingly jumpstarted the fandom/parasocial craze? The documentary considers all this by having historians, experts, music icons, and even fans weigh in. In that sense, it can be all over the place, but the music and the pristine, restored clips of interviews with the Beatles and their performances onstage make it a worthwhile watch.

Elton John’s latest concert film follows the same structure as most current music documentaries: it splices present-day footage of the musician doing his latest (and final tour) with flashbacks of his past. In either rare archival footage or lovely animation, we see snippets of his troubled childhood, his serendipitous meet-up with writing partner Bernie Taupin, his rise to fame as an unlikely rock star, and his rocky relationships with different men. If you’re an avid fan of the singer, you likely won’t see anything new here, save for excerpts from his final tour. But whether you’re familiar with John’s music or not, this documentary is sure to be a pleaser, especially aurally.

On Jeju Island, there lives a fierce group of elderly women who free-dive and catch sea creatures for a living. They’re called Haenyo, considered indigenous because of the ingenious ways they’ve kept the South Korean tradition alive for decades. In this beautiful documentary, Director Sue Kim follows them under the sea and beyond as they fight to preserve their way of life, which is threatened by global warming (the creatures have gone deeper to avoid warm waters), corporate interests (Fukushima’s radioactive waste, if dumped in the ocean, would affect the community), and waning public interest (only a handful of the Haenyo are under 70 years old). There’s also the issue of payment and protection, because as one freediver puts it, “What’s the use of being recognized by UNESCO if we can’t earn enough to sustain ourselves?” The Last of the Sea Women tackles all this and more using the most gorgeous shots I’ve seen in a while.

The Bloody Hundredth was produced as an accompaniment to fellow Apple TV+ production Masters of the Air, and it shows. In writing and editing, it doesn’t feel grand enough to stand on its own despite having big stars like Tom Hanks and Steven Spielberg come in and lend their presence. That said, it’s still a compelling story, made even more valuable by the real-life heroes who recall their experiences onscreen. This, plus the rich archival footage that accompanies them, is what makes an otherwise straightforward documentary well worth watching.

If you’re expecting a documentary about the particular U2 concert in Sarajevo, to focus exclusively on U2, you’re not really going to get it in Kiss the Future. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, it’s probably the best approach for this particular documentary, as it focuses more on the way Sarajevans found solidarity with each other through the music U2 made in response to the Northern Ireland troubles, and thus, of course, the film needed to focus as well on the Sarajevans’ conflict. Director Nenad Cicin-Sain got key viewpoints on the Bosnian War in Sarajevo, such as Christiane Amanpour, who covered the war, and former President Bill Clinton, but Kiss the Future shines when we hear from the people on the ground, from the Sarajevans that gone through this harrowing time.

As emotional and personal as it is, Becoming King is just too dewy-eyed and close to the source to have any bearing on those who are not all that interested in learning about the immersion process a Hollywood actor goes through. Jessica Oyelowo admittedly has an interesting story on her hands: that of her husband David Oyelowo (whose name literally means “respect the king”) fulfilling his seven-year dream of playing Martin Luther King, Jr. His journey is a combination of grit, talent, and what appears to be fate and destiny, and it is nothing short of inspiring, especially for aspiring actors. But there is an inherent bias in depicting this story as magical and heroic, without the thorny nuances other more distant filmmakers might’ve included. For one, it barely tackles class and race, and when it does, the discussions are short, superficial, and only in service to the real conflict of the documentary, which is whether or not Oyelowo achieves his acting dreams. It feels shortsighted in the way some passion projects can be, bolstered by limited funds and even fewer eyes to critique it. It’s well-meaning and personal, and it can serve as a helpful resource to those who want to know how to get into the industry. But for the general viewer, the documentary offers little more than standard information on the actor and his breakthrough film.

Witches begins as an innocuous exploration into witchery: how they’re depicted and why they’re alluring. Director Elizabeth Sankey builds an amusing collage of witches from films like The Craft and shows like Bewitched. At this point, you expect it to go a certain way–it resembles the many documentaries that are delightful yet detached, educational yet nowhere near novel. But then it makes a fearless and interesting turn. Sankey tells a deeply personal story about her struggles with childbirth and motherhood, connects it to how past societies crucified witches (many of whom were misunderstood and misdiagnosed mothers), and invites friends, experts, doctors, and historians in on the conversation to create something more holistic, historical, and honest than your typical documentary. It’s equal parts moving and enlightening, but most importantly it rouses you into empathy and action. Hopefully, the belittling of the child-bearing and child-rearing experience ends now.

Continuing her fight to tell the world the truth about her sexual assault case, journalist Shiori Ito released Black Box Diaries. Like her book, it’s a powerful documentary. Filmed with actual CCTV evidence, with some witness accounts, and with recordings she made while investigating her case, Ito’s first foray into film is personal, vulnerable, and intimate, going through the events as it naturally unfolds. While it is depressing to witness the ways investigators, lawyers, politicians and other people have failed her, Black Box Diaries immediately reveals Ito’s resolve for the truth, and how taxing the toll was for survivors that chose to take the same path.

Is there anything more lovely than hearing Martin Scorsese talk about cinema? Maybe it’s just the film nerds in us– we are, after all, always on the hunt for A Good Movie to Watch– but it’s just wonderful to hear Scorsese talk about movies, especially from directors he loves and are inspired by. Made in England: The Films of Powell and Pressburger is about the influence of The Archers, and while it’s mostly a straightforward documentary, director David Hinton makes it something like a cohesive film course on the directors, with Scorsese as lecturer. Oftentimes letting the directors’ shots and music speak for themselves, with Scorsese adding needed context, it won’t be a surprise that Made In England would be a treat for film nerds, but it also would be a great introduction for casual viewers, or viewers that want to start watching classic films, like those of The Archers.

Those unfamiliar with James Hamilton would be forgiven for asking “Why him?” Why does he get a documentary? What makes this photographer so special? But a few minutes in, those questions are immediately replaced with the more appropriate, “Well, why not him?” Hamilton’s work spans decades, and they capture in rich detail a New York that’s long gone, as well as an alternative form of journalism that used to thrive back then (in print no less!), but can now only be found few and far between. It’s enough to see his work, sectioned here in order of their appearance in iconic publications like Harper’s Bazaar, The Village Voice, and New York Observer. Still, they’re complemented by moving images and illuminating interviews beautifully shot in 35mm. Uncropped is reminiscent of other documentaries that also capture New York in its heyday, a distinguished roster that includes films like All The Beauty and the Bloodshed, Paris is Burning, and The Automat. But Uncropped, like Hamilton, has a distinctive edge that marks it as an instant classic. By the end, you can’t help but think, what a rich life Hamilton’s lived, and how lucky we are to see through his vivid, imaginative lens.

In the 1950s and 60s, as Congo freed itself from Western rule, it also played a vital role in the Cold War and worldwide emancipation of colonized countries. The documentary unearths this often-forgotten part of history in an unconventional manner. Instead of using talking heads and chronologically going through past events, it uses activist musicians Abbey Lincoln and Max Roach as a starting point. It borrows their language—jazz—to tell their story. The result is mesmerizing. Many things are happening all at once; there’s the quick flash of images, the jarring cut from archival footage to live performances; and the bold text on screen, which serves as our narrator in a way. There are excerpts from newspapers as well as poets, diplomats as well as musicians. Then there’s the music, of course, whose fast-paced and unpredictable beats match the anger mounting in the film. Soundtrack to a Coup is strong, inventive, and further proof that there are more ways than one to teach history.

There are three threads in Daughters that directors Natalie Rae and Angela Patton weave beautifully together. The first thread follows the incarcerated men who gather every week to talk about fatherhood, mostly, because of the program that they’re in, but also: masculinity, race, systemic poverty, social mobility, and the skewed prison system in America. The discussions are raw and enlightening. “This isn’t normal, that we’re all in here,” one of the men wisely says, and it feels special to witness that moment of shared empowerment. The second thread follows the daughters, whose ages range from 5 to 15. In line with the film’s honesty, it shows us girls who miss their fathers and girls who don’t; girls who know everything about them and those who can’t even remember their faces. One is oblivious, the other suicidal. This part is enlightening in a different way: you hope the kids are too young to realize what’s going on, but that’s almost never the case. The final thread is where the two others meet: it offers the most heartbreaking parts of the film, but also the most beautiful. Both parties dress up, take pictures, move on the dancefloor, and say their inevitable goodbyes, and all this is captured in the same darklit, grainy color as the film cameras the fathers and daughters are given to document the dance. The direction and editing is artistic, but never in a gratuitious way. Instead, like other parts of the film, it’s filled with gentleness and empathy.

“Imagine a nightmare when you had to relive your adolescence,” says Cecilia Aldarondo at the beginning of her third film, You Were My First Boyfriend. Indeed, the scene recalls a teen prom that could easily be yours (if you were one of the unpopular girls): neon lights, prettier dresses that are never yours, disapproving looks, and the impression that everyone around you is having the time of their lives, while you sit awkwardly in a corner. This image sets the tone for a self-exploration in documentary form that relies on a simple, yet imaginative premise, what if you could re-enact the formative events from back then, but do so today, by directing actors to step in for your past selves. Aldarondo approaches the topic sincerely and with curiosity. Not a pang of nostalgia there, but the heartfelt doc manages to reflect on the pasts that shape us in a witty way to promote self-acceptance and, ultimately, healing.

After the La Manada rape case in 2016, it was necessary to document this event, especially since the widespread national outrage and demonstrations managed to move the country to change the way Spain defines consent. You Are Not Alone: Fighting the Wolf Pack documents this arduous journey. While it’s done through the familiar Netflix true crime approach, there’s some respect given to the victim that hasn’t been given previously by the media. The film sticks to the actual verbatim words used by the victim, albeit edited for clarity, but they ensured that their words were not accompanied with photos or similar looking actors, keeping the truth of their words without risking their safety. While the documentary’s direction isn’t new, the outrage is still felt, as well as the genuine hope of a country that came together to ensure justice.

At first, you wonder, couldn’t this behind-the-scenes look at the making of The Boy and The Heron just be a DVD special? But a few minutes in, it becomes clear how rich the material is. It’s not just about Miyazaki and the making of a movie, it’s about him grappling with grief and transforming it into art. A surprising chunk of this documentary is about death. Miyazaki’s friends and colleagues are passing away, it seems, every month, and the only way Miyazaki can mourn and honor them is through his (their) art. The Boy and The Heron itself is a fulfillment of a promise Miyazaki made to his closest friend, Isao Takahata, or Pak-san, as Miyazaki lovingly calls him. It’s Pak-san whom he mourns the most in the movie, but almost everyone who’s passed makes an appearance both in the documentary and the film. The lines between the two are often blurred by Miyazaki, in his failing memory, and by documentary director Kaku Arakawa. Arakawa’s editing is chaotic, if not experimental. He cuts between reality and fiction—documentary footage and Ghibli clips—faster than you can make sense of it all. “I opened my brain way too far for this project,” Miyazaki claims, and you can feel the exhilaration and fear in every second of this brilliant film.

In 1914, Sir Ernest Shackleton set out to the Antarctic in the hopes of making the first land crossing on the continent. His ship, the Endurance, couldn’t complete the journey, and so Shackleton and his crew had to pivot from setting a record to simply surviving. Almost a century later, a group of scientists are determined to find Shackleton’s abandoned ship. This documentary, directed by the award-winning duo behind Free Solo, The Rescue, and Nyad, alternates between The Endurance’s magnificent past and tragic present and mostly succeeds in telling a balanced story. The past, unsurprisingly, is more intriguing. It’s a nail-biting tale of survival, amplified by the use of colorized footage shot by one of the crewmen. The present is informational, but it struggles to match the scope of Shackleton’s journey. Both tales are inspiring nonetheless, and woven together as expertly here, prove to be an educating and entertaining watch.

It’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s not in the film Pavements, which is a mockumentary (or is it a documentary?) about the ‘90s slacker band of the same name. But that blurriness is the point. Director Alex Ross Perry blends past and present, fact and fiction, to deliver a mesmerizing genre-bending composition. Perry follows frontman Stephen Malkmus and his bandmates as they mount a reunion concert and participate in a musical and biopic about their lives. Interviews with the real members and their actor stand-ins are mixed without warning, as are the actual and staged reactions to their music. But like a well-made collage, the messiness makes sense. Some of the most entertaining parts emerge from actors Joe Keery, Nat Wolff, and Fred Hechinger, who deliver their best impression of a Rock Star without being predictable or too much. Plenty of things are happening at once here, but they make up a whole that feels intentional, comical, and even inspirational.

Upon learning that three young members of their family will soon lose their ability to see, parents Sébastien and Edith Pelletier decide to travel around the world to tick off things from their children’s bucket list. That list alone, which includes drinking juice atop a camel and seeing Mount Everest, makes for an adorable watch (it’s always nice to see deeply active and curious children in an increasingly digital world), but it’s the dedication their parents, Sébastien and Edith, pour into them that gives the film its heart. They prepare their children as much as they can by allowing them to see and sense everything, so that they have touchstones and references when their sight begins to fade. While watching the sunset in a dreamy Egypt desert, Edith asks 11-year-old Mia, “Without your eyes, can you feel the immensity of this place?” Mia says “Oui,” as she runs sand through her hands.

Though it’s a bit chaotic in structure—it’s chronological but all over the place—The Stones and Brian Jones is a compelling and crucial portrait of The Rolling Stones’ co-founding member and original leader. Jones’ life is typical of rock stars, from the misunderstood childhood and philandering habits to drug dependence and luxurious lifestyle, but director Nick Broomfield tries to paint more nuance into his character. We’re reminded, through interviews with past lovers and even letters from a family that disowned him, that he was also ambitious, insecure, sensitive, affectionate, gentle, and moody. Too often, Broomfield will relish in Jones’ tragedy, when he could’ve focused more on his musical prowess and technical knowledge, but it is overall a fair picture. It’s sympathetic to Jones of course, but Broomfield doesn’t forget to include excerpts from Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, who ‘till now seem to harbor mixed feelings over Jones (he did have Jagger arrested after all). There’s drama and tension and a good deal of great music, which are always fun to watch.

In many ways, the 1998 film The Truman Show forecasted how we’d interact with media today. Parasocial relationships are a thing, as is the feeling of entitlement we get when prying into other people’s lives. But before all that, Japanese TV producers were already testing the ethical limits of voyeurism through the reality show Denpa Shōnen, a social experiment of sorts that broadcasted how people would react in extreme situations. It was one of the first of its kind, and so The Contestant takes us through its novelty; smartly, it explains how and why a show so brutal was a massive hit. It tries to understand Japanese media and humor, not other it, while also sympathizing with Nasubi, who sits down for an enlightening interview. The documentary itself is revealing and disturbing—except for a confusing third act, in which it completely loses its critical air and tells a story of heroism that, while inspiring, feels detached from the rest of the film. What was the aftermath of all that cruelty? Did no one file a retroactive complaint? Is Japanese media still this intense and unwittingly cruel? These are things you’d expect the documentary would tackle by the end, but it confusingly doesn’t. Still, it’s an important and educational watch, one that hopefully serves as a cautionary tale against the ever-manipulative media and always-hungry viewer.

It’s hard to botch a documentary about Martha Stewart, she who lived so many lives (she was a model, a stockbroker, a convict, a homemaker, and now a TikTok darling) and she who came back from one of the hardest celebrity downfalls stronger than ever. Her life is a roller coaster ride and watching the documentary certainly feels like being in one too. Whenever Stuart dodged a question, director R.J. Cutler did well to zoom in on a twinge on her face or show a previous photo or clip that may reveal the answer. It’s well made that way. Only the prison scenes left a bitter taste in the mouth—why should I feel sorry for her hundred-day stint when so many other wrongly imprisoned women with less privilege are still stuck there?—but everything else about this dense portrait is very filling and entertaining.

Who polices the police? It’s an age-old question that’s nowhere near finding an answer, especially in America where law enforcement is deeply rooted in racism and violence. But this documentary by Yance Ford is a noble and ambitious attempt to answer that. It features multiple scholars who weigh in on the history of America’s police force, which evolved from sheriffs who displaced Native Americans to slave patrols who controlled African Americans and, later on, to troops who broke up protests held by the working class. The documentary is heady with ideas, but sometimes it feels like it’s taking in more than it can tell. The scholars, as cerebral as they are, sound like they’re going in circles the way the film is edited. And though Ford occasionally breaks these talking heads with poetic ruminations of his own, the documentary could benefit from a more focused, personal, and imaginative take. As it is, Power feels more like an informative but flat history lesson, instead of a powerfully moving social film.

This is Me…Now is more than just a glorified music video. It’s a personal confessional for one, and a surprisingly effective comedy for another. In parts, Jennifer Lopez speaks to her therapist (Fat Joe) about the dreams she’s been having, which then give way to surreal sequences of Lopez singing songs off her latest album, all about love and personal growth. You’d have to be a fan of Lopez’s pop style to appreciate the music, but the choreography is mesmerizing and, dare I say, Lopez’s true strength. When she’s not regaling us with her thoughts on love, we have the Council of Zodiac Signs, played by a stacked cast that includes Jane Fonda, Sofia Vergara, and Trevor Noah, to humor us with their genuinely funny observations. Lopez obviously has a vision, and it’s admirably big and earnest, but the technical side of the film fails her.

Except for the ornate storybook opener, most of the dream sequences are gray and sludgy, and they rarely reflect Lopez’s rose-tinted view of life. I wish the film had more light, but instead, we get melty, inferior CGI work that is just painful to look at. Some people might be able to forgive this, but because film is largely a visual medium, I find that it ultimately detracts from the experience.

How do you make a documentary about a man who was exploited his entire life while still respecting his true, dignified self? Whatever the answer is, it’s unlikely you’ll find it in Gary, a biography detailing the ups and downs (but mostly the downs) of Gary Coleman’s life. It’s less a holistic portrait than a he-said-she-said narrative, comprised of a cacophony of voices insisting their version of Coleman is the truth. There are only a handful of people who seem to really know Coleman. One of them, Dion Mal, mentions at one point in the film that the best way to celebrate Coleman is to remember that he enjoyed many parts of his life. It’s a shame the filmmakers disregarded that sentiment and went for a true-crime-esque tone instead.

With expired film stock, seemingly random shots, not much dialogue, and virtually no plot, there is little to recommend It is Night in America for casual viewing. It is definitely experimental, and as director, editor, and sound designer Ana Vaz presents these shots of animals and urban landscapes, it doesn’t feel like it’s meant for entertainment. But there’s a curiously poignant tone, with the blue tint darkening the cityscape, in their eyes. Night falls for these creatures, who once had a home in this city, and all they can do is survive. É Noite na América isn’t quite the eco-horror it proclaims to be, but its moody and trancelike direction is an interesting approach to the nature documentary genre.