50 Best 2024 Documentaries So Far

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.