30 Best Documentary TV Shows of 2024

It’s refreshing being able to satisfy an appetite for mystery without grisly crime stories being the focus all the time (on Netflix no less).  The series does a fine job humanizing and fleshing out these stories, spending ample time on interviewees who speak with conviction and betrayal in their eyes, those who struggle with the toll that skeptical media has had on them. At the same time, when the “logical” perspectives are brought in, it adds intrigue and layers to each episode, leaving viewers to play a social deduction game by themselves with all the information given. With a tone as friendly as eerie stories will allow, and to varying degrees of success, the show delivers on its promise of intrigue.

True crime documentaries have a way of stretching out a thin story for views. For instance, what could have been an hour-long film is tediously and often unnecessarily extended into five or so episodes. Thankfully, that’s not the case in Hollywood Con Queen. Three hours is a reasonable length to cover Harvey Tahilramani’s wild crimes and even wilder stories. His biggest offense thus far is pretending to be bigshot Hollywood executives (among them famed producer Amy Pascal and Universal chairman Donna Langley), then luring freelancers into flying all the way to Indonesia to deposit sums of money to his account. If he’s not manipulating them, he’s demanding them to commit sexual acts, effectively abusing them. Despite that, Tahilramani is convinced that he is somehow the victim of all this scheming, and it’s his first-hand account, along with the victims’ harrowing testimonies, reporter Scott Johnson’s excellent reporting, and private detective Nicoletta Kotsianas’s staunch investigation that make Hollywood Con Queen a compelling true-crime watch.

Countless documentaries have been made about The Third Reich’s rise to power, so Berlinger’s Hitler and The Nazis doesn’t particularly tread new ground. It starts with Hitler’s childhood and political beginnings, which anyone with a cursory knowledge of world history should know, but it picks up by the second episode, when it finally settles into a rhythm of stunning archival footage, realistic reenactments, expert commentary, and Shirer’s AI-recreated voice. The latter is chilling, not just because it recounts horrific events but also because it sounds strangely, unfittingly mechanical–to say nothing of the unnecessary use of AI when hiring a voice actor would’ve done the trick. Other than that, however, Hitler and the Nazis is a meaty historical account of a past that shouldn’t be forgotten, one that the newest generation will do well to watch.

For better or worse, Sprint is shot like a reality show. There’s an overflow of competitiveness, confidence, and consequently, drama. The jabs are subtle (except when they’re coming from the Americans, who are the most entertaining of the bunch) but they’re largely felt, which counts in a sport that requires a surprising amount of mental fortitude. This naturally makes for great entertainment, but the unfortunate result is a neglect of technical aspects of the game. There’s no scientific breakdown of historical background, which one think would fit somewhere in the six episodes, but it is an insightful account of the inside lives of such colorful characters.

These women put on a mask, are tasked to make people happy, and aren’t doing it for the money because of how little it pays. It’s a striking resemblance to the life of an independent wrestler or a circus freak. And the latter is pretty much how these women are seen by cold and callous higher-ups who seem to only see a bunch of boxes to tick, with admittedly not a lot of specifics to their recruitment process. The insights from talking heads reveal some character from both what’s said and unsaid, and prep time and dance performances get their fair share of the spotlight. So, we can’t say there is no journey to follow—it’s a frustrating one—but it’s tough to maintain an extended interest given the ceiling of substance here.

I’ve seen my fair share of true crime documentaries, and a major complaint I have is about how directors tend to overdramatize the story, so much so that it achieves the opposite effect for me. I feel desensitized and irate when the music swells to usher in yet another cliffhanger. So it’s refreshing to see almost none of that in Cowboy Cartel, which is well-edited and gripping enough to keep you hooked till its finale. Of course, the downside to stripping a crime story of sensationalism is that it can get boring in its straightforwardness. This happens more than a few times in Cowboy Cartel, and it doesn’t help that its main interviewee, FBI Agent Scott Lawson, recounts events in a sleepy and monotonous tone. Still, it’s tightly edited, well-researched, and intriguing case. The documentary itself may not always match its energy, but when it does, it’s a show that’s very hard to put down.

Many in this docuseries acknowledge that the developments to this case feel very much “like a movie.” Maybe that’s why the filmmakers leaned into that presentation style with the twists, phone conversation voiceovers, and jumping timelines. It’s a decent storytelling choice, but it also feels like the shock factor and media hullabaloo is the focus of the film sometimes. Much of the runtime is dedicated to the role of the media, which served as a tremendously unhelpful distraction to the investigation; thus giving the series a sense of focus on the one hand, but also weighing the series down with too much details and fluff cinema.

The docuseries simultaneously revolves around the precedent that spouses are suspect #1 when their partners go missing/are victimized, as well as the angle of Scott Peterson maintaining his innocence. It’s a heartbreaking, dark Christmas Eve case with a dash of classic Netflix sensationalism with the editing being a smidge extra at times. Still, some elements help, like the splendid visuals for the timeline that help the viewer take note of inconsistencies and red flags throughout the story, of which there can be a lot. But like most middle-of-the-road true crime, it drags. And you stay because the story itself is interesting, in spite of everything.

This docuseries doesn’t say anything particularly new about the ‘90s, but that doesn’t make the journey to the past less fun and fashionable. The filmmakers behind In Vogue, seemingly aware of their limited knowledge, compensate substance with stars. There are too many celebrities to count here. There are tastemakers like Hamish Bowles, supermodels like Kate Moss and Linda Evangelista, actors like Gwenyth Paltrow and Sarah Jessica Parker, and of course Anna Wintour herself, all breathlessly recounting the revolution in ‘90s fashion. Maybe it’s just nostalgia, or a credit to the exhilarating way the documentary is edited, but the decade does come alive here and makes a convincing case for how it changed the game. Suddenly, red carpet fashion is a thing, models are instant celebrities, high fashion is synonymous with pop culture, and minorities are slowly but surely gaining recognition for their influence in setting trends. If anything, In Vogue is a pleasant way to pass the time. Not all that demanding or challenging, but an interesting reminder of the way things were.

Anatomy of Lies, as much as it can, follows the complicated web of lies TV writer Elisabeth Finch has told throughout her career, among them: that she has cancer, that her brother died of suicide, and that she witnessed her friend being blown to bits in a mass shooting. Her transgressions range from icky to downright immoral, and this three-part documentary smartly and sensitively tackles them all, even if key figures from the narrative are missing, including Finch herself. Instead, most of the story is told by Finch’s ex-wife Jennifer Beyer, who bravely represents how much harm these lies can create. My only issue with the doc is how much it expects audiences to know about Finch already, so it takes way too long to drop the ball and expose what she’s done in clear terms. Otherwise, the show is as juicy as it is horrifying, while also posing that age-old question: is it excusable for a writer to use other people’s trauma for their own storytelling purposes?