50 Best Documentaries on HBO Max

In All the Beauty and the Bloodshed, documentarist Laura Poitras (Citizenfour, My Country, My Country) lends her empathetic and incisive lens to a subject so passionate and imaginative, she ends up collaborating with Poitras to co-create the documentary about her life. The subject is Nan Goldin, one of the most influential photographers of the late 20th century. 

The documentary captures Goldin’s work as a queer artist and anti-opioids activist, intertwining both aspects to tell a nuanced and incredibly important story about freedom, identity, and self-expression. This incredibly complex, encompassing, and vibrant feature won the top award at the Venice Film Festival, besting 19 other films from around the world.

A 100-minute highlight reel of the audacious 24-hour performance staged by artist Taylor Mac in 2016, this concert film succeeds not only in capturing the show’s eclectic mix of songs, drag costumes, and interactive audience segments, but in capturing the emotional atmosphere conjured up in that Brooklyn warehouse. The very premise of the performance is ripe for analysis: a history of America starting from 1776, progressing one decade every hour, represented by selections of popular music of the time—which Mac questions at every turn, reinterpreting and reclaiming them for a contemporary queer audience. It begins as a creatively educational exercise, but gradually becomes more and more personal, until the audience is fully involved in the performances themselves.

Even the 24-hour format transcends its gimmick. That the show becomes an endurance test is deliberate, with bonds forming in real time and the exhaustion of this ever-changing drag performance conveying the weight of all this history on the most vulnerable and misrepresented sectors—who’ve already endured continuous losses decade after decade. And still there is cause for celebration, and genuine warmth among the people slowly becoming more vulnerable with each other over 24 hours. It’s a beautiful, intelligent, frequently funny, and ultimately moving experience in a class all its own.

This searing allegation of sexual abuse against Def Jam Recordings’ Russell Simmons unfolds with the intelligence and tenacity of a world-class prosecution. But more importantly, On the Record remembers to fight for a justice that’s restorative, too—paying proper tribute to Drew Dixon and many other equally creative and talented women behind the scenes in the American hip hop industry. With every new argument it introduces, this documentary encourages us not only to be open to new information, but to rewire our very way of thinking about race, intersectional feminism, and the music business. It may be a bit of a cliché, but On the Record really does leave you smarter than when you started, with a heightened awareness of how the present moment is inseparable from our history.

The culture of propaganda and cover-ups that kicked off the pandemic is the subject of this compelling documentary by award-winning director Nanfu Wang (One Child Nation). Wang, who traveled with her family to China in January 2020, saw and filmed the pandemic firsthand, and wrote to major newspapers like The New York Times to convince them to write about it. They never did. 

Media and government in both China and the U.S. played down the threat, and this documentary asks how different everything would have gone otherwise. More dauntingly, it’s an examination of how the Communist Party in China managed to use the event to its advantage. 

Biographical documentaries tend to depict exceptional people– people who are so great that everyone wants to know about them, and people who are so terrible that they serve as a warning. Great Photo, Lovely Life depicts a serial sexual abuser in photojournalist Amanda Mustard’s family, able to get away with nearly all his crimes each time he skips over state lines. It’s not an easy film. It’s deeply uncomfortable. There are certain interviews that will trigger anger, despair, and bewilderment over how someone so evil can remain out of bars all his life. Great Photo, Lovely Life doesn’t provide any easy, comforting sequence as a balm to sexual abuse survivors around the world, but it’s an urgent reminder of the consequences of maintaining silence.

Unlike the other documentaries depicting “Hollywood’s smartest dumb blonde”, My Mom Jayne takes on a different approach to Jayne Mansfield. Already the title tells you that it’s from the perspective of one of her children– namely, her youngest daughter Mariska Hargitay– so naturally, it takes a more respectful depiction than what’s been shown of her peers. Hargitay and her siblings present a different kind of retrospective, reassembling the remaining fragments with a more personal touch and an unexpected family mystery. My Mom Jayne is such an excellent portrait of Jayne Mansfield, one that opens surprising layers to the person behind the bombshell persona.

Comedy special John Early: Now More Than Ever is shot like a monumental concert documentary: it’s all nostalgic ‘70s cinematography, with intercutting backstage scenes that detail pretentious pre-show prayers and spikes of tension melodramatically flaring up between the performers. All this self-aggrandizement is the special’s overarching joke, though — it literalizes what Early does with his ultra-narcissist onscreen persona, last explored in sketch special Would It Kill You To Laugh? with Kate Berlant.

Early’s decision to blend comedy and musical performance here means you can count the actual stand-up bits on one hand. It’s also true that his observations on subjects like the Access Hollywood tape and app permissions would struggle to carry a conventional special (sharp and heightened by physical comedy though they may be). But the interplay between music, outright jokes, and the tongue-in-cheek framing of the special is what makes Now More Than Ever such a rich and layered show. Early is a master at character-building, and the way he manages to unearth sincerity even amidst all this self-satirization speaks to both his comedic and dramatic genius, making this hourlong show a testament to just how deserving he is of the spotlight.

This charming documentary about one of the most brilliant, groundbreaking comedians alive strikes a delicate balance between accessible and deeply appreciative, making it both a great gateway for those yet to be uninitiated into the Albert Brooks fan club and a satisfying retrospective for us confirmed devotees. It’s directed and fronted by Rob Reiner, celebrated director himself and one of Albert Brooks’ oldest friends, and the choice is perfect: his rapport with Brooks is warm and easy, extracting real sincerity from the famously deadpan comedian-writer-actor-director.

Defending My Life features plenty of talking heads gushing about Brooks’ dazzling multi-hyphenate talents (among them Steven Spielberg and Sharon Stone), a standard convention for documentaries of this kind. But what elevates this into a portrait worthy of its subject are the scenes from a dinner shared by Brooks and Reiner, during which the former opens up about his childhood, reflects on his career, and divulges the autobiographical elements that informed his work. Their tete-a-tete flows with all the unforced rhythm of conversation between good friends; Reiner’s presence coaxes illuminating insight from Brooks, which makes watching the documentary feel as close to pulling up a seat at their table as you’d hope for. The 90 minutes just fly by.

Depicting the horrifying cycle of abuse in the state’s prison system, The Alabama Solution is tough to watch. It was already hard to reckon with the related news reports, but what makes this documentary necessary is the way filmmakers Andrew Jarecki and Charlotte Kaufman teamed up with activists inside to get a deeper look into the prisons themselves. We mean this literally. A third of the footage comes straight from smuggled phones by the inmates, compiled for more than a decade, with much higher stakes than other works that employed guerilla filmmaking. Piecing together their footage with case reviews, news releases, and the state government’s wasteful, lackluster response, The Alabama Solution reveals the need for a better approach.

Legendary Talking Heads frontman David Byrne returns with this enigmatic stage show, and with Spike Lee in tow, the film reaches for the heights of the iconic concert doc Stop Making Sense. For those unfamiliar, Stop Making Sense directed by Jonathan Demme (Silence of the Lambs) captured the Talking Heads’ invigorating live show in their early eighties prime, and is often considered one of the best concert films of all time.

Now nearly forty years later Byrne attempts a resurrection of that spirit or a form of it given his former bandmates notably absent from the project. His propellant energy is on full display as he goes through the ‘Heads catalog with a backing band that dances in intricately choreographed sequences around him. Most notable, however, is the sparseness of the stage production which brings to mind a dirge-like atmosphere. Byrne’s righteous thrashings against Reagan’s America carry renewed weight in the despondency of the Trump-era. So despite his attempts at optimism, aching futility runs through the heart of the show; most pointed when Byrne sings the famous lines from in Once In A Lifetime: “Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.”

The Harry Potter movies undoubtedly changed the lives of its young stars forever — but a stuntman whose future the films had more tragic consequences for is the deserved focus of this moving documentary. David Holmes was just 17 when he was hired as Daniel Radcliffe’s stunt double, a role he held throughout the series. The two formed a close brotherly bond on set, growing up alongside one another for 10 years until a terrible accident during the final movie’s filming left him paralyzed from the chest down, a condition that has deteriorated over the years following post-surgery complications. 

This doc is an inspiring portrait of David, from his fearless childhood and dream-fulfilling work to the incredible resilience he’s shown since the accident. It’s also, though, a poignant testament to the loving, supportive community that Holmes inspired at work — friendships that only reached greater depths following the accident and the end of the movies. The doc’s focus empathetically expands from Holmes’ story to include its impact on his bond with Radcliffe (who features prominently here) and Holmes’ fellow stunt doubles — and, while the sheer force of Holmes’ personality would make for a compelling documentary on its own, it’s the tenderness and honesty that all of these participants show that makes this so poignant.

If Katrina Babies seems like a somewhat disjointed account of the myriad responses to Hurricane Katrina and the U.S. government’s horrible, anti-poor response to the disaster, director Edward Buckles Jr. uses this structure with much more intent. For once this is a documentary that feels like citizen reporting and not a sanitized report from experts who have little to no real personal stake in the subject. As the film swings from one talking point to the next, you get the sensation of just how much the people of New Orleans are still trying to comprehend; the loose structure brings to this film a sense of helplessness that, for some, just can’t be overcome.

Featuring real, in-the-moment footage of operations to rescue young queer individuals from the continuing anti-gay purges in the Chechen Republic, Welcome to Chechnya makes for a demanding but essential call to action. There’s a genuine sense of fear that pervades the documentary, not just for those being rescued after being forcibly outed, beaten, and trapped by the people around them, but for the filmmakers themselves, whose operations are built on meager resources and desperate, spur-of-the-moment decisions. It’s a remarkably courageous film—one that also presents new ways of keeping sensitive subjects safe through the thoughtful use of deepfake technology, keeping their identities hidden while allowing them to freely express themselves.

The particulars of the scandal are enough to shock, enrage, and move anyone, but the directors of BS High also put Johnson in the hot seat and skewer the guy until they wring all ego and delusion out of him. The result is a compelling and terrifying look into a con man’s mind. Johnson alternates between justifying and denying his fraudulent ways and even tries to draw empathy from the audience by explaining his upbringing. But cleverly, the directors intercut his wild speeches with heartfelt testimonies from the real victims of this scam: the young recruits who were promised a better life if they played in Johnson’s team, only to be abused and marked for life. It’s impossible not to feel for the young men, who even up until the documentary’s end, wonder out loud how they could possibly move on from such a traumatic experience. 

A music documentary with its star as one of its main talking heads runs the risk of coming off like cheap PR, but Tina Turner’s own articulate insights never restrict this retrospective on her life. If anything, she assists directors Dan Lindsay and TJ Martin in expanding the film’s scope to cover the origins of rock music and the struggles of so many women in the public eye who only ever seem to be defined according to their abusers. Even if Tina is still ultimately a conventional doc that relies on interviews and archival footage, it has a strong emotional core that gives the film a relatively unique psychological edge.

Initially, A Revolution on Canvas is about the Nodjoumi family’s quest to retrieve the patriarch’s missing paintings in post-Islamic Revolution Iran. Necessarily, it goes through Nodjoumi’s troubled childhood and shocking life as a resilient revolutionary. But the documentary eventually evolves into a knotty and heartbreaking tale about family, specifically about the sacrifices the partner of a rebel genius like Nodjoumi has to make to let the other shine. Nodjoumi’s daughter, Sara, confronts her father about his absence during their family’s formative years and, more importantly, shines a light on the sacrifices her mother–the artist Nahid Hagigat–had to make to keep them all afloat. The documentary could’ve easily been a straightforward portrait of Nodjoumi, but because it’s told through such a specifically intimate lens, it’s elevated into something even more relatable and revealing.

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).

It’s Never Over, Jeff Buckley depicts the life of a musician whose time was cut too short. It’s a tale you might have heard before. He fell in love with the guitar at a young age, busked in small cafes and downtown bars, and won over fans and record labels to create one excellent album, but died just before stardom. This documentary depicts this somewhat conventionally. That being said, while it lacks in original approach, it captures the emotions well, understanding what moved Buckley to his craft. Tackling the loss of his father, music as his refuge, and his conflicted thoughts about fame, It’s Never Over unpacks the artist in a deeply personal way.

Though it doesn’t proceed like most animal/nature-centered documentaries that you’ve seen, the Oscar-nominated All That Breathes is instantly memorable in the way it de-centers the human perspective from its all-encompassing study of New Delhi, India. The wildlife rescue team that features prominently in this film still only becomes a vessel through which director Shaunak Sen explores the environmental and political hazards being faced by the nation today. It’s a movie that definitely challenges you to think for yourself, as any talking heads or on-screen explanations are traded for truly stunning shots of New Delhi as a biome teeming with life among the dirt. For those who want their documentaries unconventional, this is excellent stuff.

Featuring cannily edited filmography excerpts and interviews with friends and ex-lovers of Rock Hudson — the Golden Age matinee idol who became the first major celebrity to die of AIDS — this documentary lifts the lid on the closeted gay star’s double life. Though its first third draws chiefly on biographers to paint a serviceable picture of the homophobic context Hudson rose to fame in, it’s in later interviews with members of his inner circle that the film comes to life. These contributors give us a more closely informed picture of Hudson, who seemed to accept Hollywood’s compromise: he could live out his professional dreams so long as he didn’t rock the boat.

Some aspects of the film’s approach do raise an eyebrow, such as a risqué conversation that seems to have been surreptitiously recorded. These inclusions lend the film a tabloid scoop’s salaciousness in places, but, thanks to its final third, it’s largely a touching testament to Hudson. As it movingly argues, however reluctant he was to disclose his diagnosis (and, in doing so, his sexuality), he played a pivotal role in changing the tide of public attitudes towards AIDS, and thus to fundraising efforts — making him an unwitting LGBTQ+ hero.

If you’re familiar with the upscale Chinese restaurant chain owner, or that Chinese boy in old 60s British films, or with his paintings, Aka Mr. Chow might surprise you because they’re one and the same. Born with two names, Zhou Yinghua and Michael Chow, Mr. Chow is just so cool that telling his life story is already interesting. From the tough immigrant experience, living alone as a boy, to his current worldwide success in film, food, and painting, it’s interesting to know that it’s possible. But the documentary dives into it, using the film medium to mirror his own creative style and artistic sensibilities. The film is able to link each of his opinions, not just with his life, but also with the historic changes in his home country. It’s an intriguing approach, if a bit superficial in certain areas, but it’s very entertaining.

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.

A documentary told entirely through animated avatars can be a hard sell, but instead of playing into the expected jokes, director Joe Hunting takes this digital environment extremely seriously, and that makes all the difference. He doesn’t downplay how absurd it is to see what are essentially 3D characters going on dates and having bellydance classes together, and yet Hunting still takes time to emphasize how freeing this virtual existence is for all involved. It’s disappointing that the film never addresses the many real concerns people have about purely online relationships (deception, exploitation, and abuse, among others), but as a positive and perhaps overly romanticized view of this new, 21st-century social space, the documentary remains fresh and vital.

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.

In the 1970s, at the height of the women’s liberation movement, there emerged a publication that sought to bridge the gap between activists and everyday women. Led by Gloria Steinem, Ms. magazine brought the revolution to women’s doorsteps—it reminded them of their rights, empowered them to stand up for themselves, and encouraged them to live full, independent lives. Dear Ms. is a beautiful tribute to the magazine, as well as a timely reminder of how powerful women’s voices can be. The documentary is divided into three parts, each of which discusses iconic issues Ms. magazine has released over the years. The first part tackles race and intersectionality; the second, sexual harassment; and the third, pornography. The film welcomes both praise and backlash, celebration and criticism—there is nuance, yet it still feels incomplete at times. Dear Ms. sometimes feels like a visualized Wikipedia page, repeating what has already been said in the past. But its messages are so potent and relevant to today’s atmosphere, it’s quite easy to look past those gaps and just enjoy the documentary for what it is.

Even if it doesn’t provide the most comprehensive information about treatment and care for multiple sclerosis (MS)—especially for those who can’t afford a ridiculously expensive stem cell transplant—this isn’t really the point of Introducing, Selma Blair. This is still mostly a biographical documentary about a (self-confessed) “not-so-famous” celebrity, who gets to be incredibly honest about some of the privilege she enjoys, and how that privilege still doesn’t make MS any easier. Blair’s determination, her sense of humor, and her articulate way of expressing herself keep the film from descending into total sadness, but it also never shies away from the uglier, more difficult parts of her journey.

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.

The Weight of Gold is an extremely impactful insight into what goes through the mind of the highest performing athletes in the world, and focuses how their governing body (the US Olympic Committee) disregards care about their mental health. While it could benefit from going even deeper at times, it does benefit from having some narrative surprises in store—rarely seen in a documentary of this nature. When you least expect it, that gut-punch of a reveal at the end will truly shock and sadden viewers, and will leave one thinking about the film for ages to come.

As a psychological profile of its subject, this documentary about the so-called “mastermind” behind the Bling Ring burglaries isn’t as rigorous as it should be — but as a portrait of that hyper-materialistic era and our never-ending obsession with fame, it fares much better. Rachel Lee was identified as the “ringleader” of the teenagers’ crime spree by some of her accomplices but had never spoken in public until this documentary. That suggests a juicy exposé; in line with this impression, Lee initially presents as starkly self-aware. However, our trust in her ability to give us a truly honest account soon crumbles as she lists off rather weak reasons for her crimes: her middle-class upbringing and parental divorce (though her teenage experiences with drug abuse are more plausible explanations).

Though the film points out the logical flaws and inaccuracies in Lee’s account, it never really takes her to task for them, compromising the rest of her contributions. What is more incisive is its treatment of ancillary figures in the scandal (a fame-obsessed investigating officer and a Bling Ring victim-influencer) — examples which, coupled with the doc’s examination of the flashy excess of the ‘00s, lay out a much clearer picture of the kids’ motivations than much of what Lee offers.

Erin Lee Carr, the director of Britney vs Spears, returns with a scoop. Ringleader is not just another pop culture doc, because it features a first-time interview with the young woman at the center of The Bling Ring robberies in Hollywood, Rachel Lee. But this is not the kind of film that tries to pick the brains of a perpetrator. Instead, the director positions herself as a journalist in front of her subject and questions her frankly, an approach resulting in amusing frankness. However, the rest of the doc feels too formulaic in the way it stitches together personal archive footage that is more or less neutral. Banking too much on exclusivity when it comes to the interview, already clouds it with expectations. One is led to ask whether Lee is good, bad, repentant or sociopathic and project onto her such qualities—a move which invites a similar fascination with celebrity life the film tries to untangle.

From its title and premise, the hope for this kind of documentary would be for it to show some respect for the people who died from the Floridian opioid epidemic. At the very least, the film should dissuade people from the crimes documented here, by emphasizing the consequences of these actions. American Pain does not do this. It’s interesting to view how quickly the business gets out of hand for these unethical entrepreneurs – director Darren Foster reveals each development with enough style and flourish to be entertaining – but the film is clearly more fascinated with how the twins got away with drug dealing for so long. It’s a fun watch… if you forget people died from the events of this film.

Alexandra, daughter of Nancy Pelosi, has been working as an documentary filmmaker for HBO for more than 20 years now and the theme of her newest work does not surprise. Turning the camera on several Jan Sixers, she asks them about that day, and whether their belief in Trump and the conservatives has changed following their jail time. Her way of being in the film, though, is very present: physically and with her voice. Pelosi places herself not just as an interviewer, but as an interlocutor, probing their statements and more often than not exclaiming “You still believe in X?!” in one way or another. The Insurrectionist Next Door is colloquial, it’s comedic tragedy with a hope to bridge the gap between two opposing political beliefs: a synecdoche for America as a whole.

To call Going to Mars a somewhat shapeless documentary isn’t a criticism. If anything, its flexibility of structure feels entirely appropriate for the woman at its center, who doesn’t necessarily defy categorization so much as she remains on the pulse of history as it continues to shift in unexpected ways. Nikki Giovanni is a person who knows who she is and knows that she stands for the essential dignity of Black people, and it’s inspiring to see how she not only remains hopeful and articulate through every critical moment, but that she insists on being ambitious for what Black people deserve to achieve in the future. As her son tells her at a speaking engagement, Giovanni doesn’t just dream of going to space; she feels that it is her people’s imperative to be there.

Directors Joe Brewster and Michèle Stephenson tell her (still ongoing) life story in a strikingly impressionistic way—cleverly playing with archival footage, but more importantly having Giovanni’s candid words blending seamlessly into her poetry. This is a credit to how connected to the milieu Giovanni’s work actually is, of course, but the film does a very good job defining her as someone who can bring beauty and grace out of every experience.

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.

If you’ve ever been puzzled by “Greek life”, this documentary will go some way to demystifying that somewhat baffling phenomenon of American college culture. Bama Rush follows four hopefuls as they “rush” the University of Alabama’s sororities, a TikTok-viral weeklong recruitment process so cutthroat some candidates spend months preparing for it. The documentary digs deep into why these young women put so much time, energy, and money into joining what the film hints is a largely unforgiving and reductive element of campus life. What it finds is pretty affecting: they’re really just looking for acceptance and belonging.

Threaded throughout are director Rachel Fleit’s reflections on her own history with those motivations, having grown up with alopecia. Though it does illustrate that rushing isn’t so dissimilar from other quests for acceptance, this parallel is sometimes clunkily drawn — and can seem somewhat self-indulgent in places, given the documentary’s comparatively surface-level exploration of more systemic issues. A late development shifts Bama Rush into an even deeper self-reflexive mode, as the film itself becomes a contentious issue in the process it’s documenting. Despite its flaws, turns like this — and its participants’ extraordinary candor — help make Bama Rush an often illuminating look into an opaque world. 

Last Stop Larrimah is the rare true-crime doc in which not a single tear is shed throughout its substantial two-hour runtime. That’s because the assumed-dead 70-year-old around whom it’s centered had a lot of enemies: nearly all of his neighbors in the titular tiny Outback outpost he lived in, in fact. As the doc reveals, Larrimah — population: 10 (11 before Paddy Moriarty disappeared in 2017) — was a pressure cooker of big personalities roiling with animosity. 

Given the town’s tiny population, the film has the uncommon privilege of being able to explore the potential motives of every possible suspect — and it does, diving into vicious feuds over meat pies, hungry pet crocodiles, and the million grievances Paddy’s neighbors apparently harbored. But, though it presents all motives as equally plausible, it turns out one explanation is much more likely than the rest. That’s the problem here: like so many other true-crime docs, by the end, you can’t help but feel that the journey this takes is ultimately exploitative. Though it’s an entertaining portrait of eccentric Aussie characters, the film is much too devoted to doing just that — entertaining — at the expense of all its participants (including the unremarkable local police, for some reason), and so its late pivot into emotional profundity feels markedly insincere.

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.

Composed of archival footage of the titular musical legend and testimonials from those who worked with him or whose lives were profoundly impacted by his courage, Little Richard: I Am Everything feels comprehensive but is also oddly lacking. The documentary makes a bold, confident claim: that all popular music today can be directly traced to his work. And when the film lets itself get into full music nerd mode, it’s easy to be convinced. But after you accept that perspective on Little Richard, the rest of the movie seems like it’s just spinning its wheels, covering key moments in the artist’s life and career without really challenging or substantiating long-held ideas about him.

Chief among these is Little Richard’s shifting feelings toward his own queerness—proudly expressing his true self one year, then openly denouncing his own homosexuality the next. This subject matter is ripe for difficult but insightful analysis, which the film just never gets around to. It begins to feel like the believes there is no more discussion to be had about him. And that may very well be true; he deserves the flowers that were denied him for so long. But this attitude doesn’t necessarily make for the best documentary.

In Cameraperson, documentarian and cinematographer Kirsten Johnson creates an incredible patchwork of her life—and her life’s work. Johnson has been behind the camera of seminal documentaries like Citizenfour, The Invisible War, and The Edge of Joy. Here, Johnson stitches together fragments of footage, shot over 25 years, reframes them to reveal the silent but influential ways in which she has been an invisible participant in her work. 

In one segment, Johnson places the camera down in the grass. A hand reaches into the frame briefly, pulling up weeds that would otherwise obscure the shot. Cameraperson is a must-see documentary that challenges us to reconsider and reflect upon how we see ourselves and others through the camera lens, and beyond it.

Asif Kapadia, the genius of biopics who gave us Senna, is back with this documentary on an even bigger sports personality: Argentinian soccer player Diego Armando Maradona. Considered as possibly the best soccer player of all time, Maradona’s footage on the pitch is pure wizardry, and you’ll feel that way whether you are a soccer fan or not. But that’s not the focus of this documentary. What happens outside the pitch is more interesting: from Maradona’s modest beginnings to the passionate hatred (and love) that entire countries develop of him. And it doesn’t make his story less interesting that during his time in Naples he was affiliated with the mafia.

This is an excellent documentary that distills 500 hours of footage into 2, giving you all you need to know about a character who captured the imagination of a big part of the world for decades. 

The question mark in the title represents the central idea of this fascinating documentary: what if worshipping Satan is the only way of ensuring religious freedom for everyone?

That’s what a group of young members known as The Satanic Temple believe, led by a determined and well-spoken Harvard graduate. They embark on a journey across the U.S. to challenge corrupt officials and the prevalence of religious biases in government agencies. They always request that their belief system (Satanism) is given the same favorable treatment as Christianity, effectively proving that authorities will really only accept a show of religion if it’s one religion: Christianity.

But their intoxicating energy comes with costs: divisions within the organization and growing pains. This documentary perfectly illustrates not only a misunderstood religion (in the documentary it’s referred to as “post-religion”) but the difficulties of establishing grassroots movements in general.

True to form, this documentary about the famed Japanese animation studio enjoys lingering in the ordinary day to day experience of working there. There’s no question that it’s of interest for fans. Documentarian Mami Sunada helpfully introduces some of the faces, the films, and the history of the company while on her visit. However, even non-fans would be intrigued by the creative process, by the mindset and philosophy revealed by their conversations. As the team works on their 2013 slate (The Wind Rises and The Tale of Princess Kaguya), the film reveals how their process pushes them to reckon with the larger scheme, willing their ideas into creation in spite of the difficult world around them. The Kingdom of Dreams and Madness is quite something to behold.

In Amy, Kapadia eschews talking heads for something more intimate: home videos, photographs, and phone messages from Winehouse’s earliest and closest friends, which he stitches together to reintroduce a version of the singer that has, up till this point, been ignored by the public. It’s an attempt to reverse Winehouse’s vilified public persona, not by denying her struggles with drug and alcohol abuse, but by showing as many parts of her as possible. The musical prodigy, jazz fanatic, and sweet friend, as well as the troubled soul, hurt child, and obsessive lover. She’s far from perfect, but she is human, not some punching bag caricature the media has made her out to be. Though Kapadia’s methods sometimes get a little too close for comfort (using phone messages intended for her friends and private clips of her being high feels borderline voyeuristic), they also feel necessary in reclaiming an identity that’s closer to her true self. During these questionable moments, Amy feels not just hard but wrong to watch, but that discomfort is also the point. It should be unsettling to get to know a real person.

A wonderful homage to the woman, actress, and mother based largely on her own archives and interviews with her four children. Bergman was an avid photographer, filmographer and letter writer. What emerges is a loving portrait of an adventurous, driven, complex, and loving woman. Not to be missed.

Though the drag scene is alive and well today, Paris is Burning is an important reminder that it didn’t always used to be that way. Over the course of seven years, Director Jennie Livingston leads us underneath the crime-ridden streets of 80s New York, where a glittery drag subculture is flourishing, despite all odds. Leading the community are the so-called mothers, the best performers and most fashionable of them all, tasked with inspiring and caring for newcomers. Nevermind that they’re shunned by society and suffocated (sometimes literally) by hateful homophobes and racists; when there is a ball, all that matters is that they strut, dance, and put on the best damn show of their lives. What they do is art, and Livingston makes sure to exalt the craft and pride that goes into it. At the same time, intimate interviews with iconic queens like Pepper LaBeija and Willi Ninja reveal the heartbreaking nature of the community. Most, if not all, have endured some form of abuse, and many risk their lives to earn a decent living. But again, Livingston refuses to reduce them to pure tragedy; she gets them to share their wonderfully big dreams, then gets us to hope along with them that they might just come true.

Don’t be fooled—despite being a three-hour documentary, Hoop Dreams is just as thrilling, heartbreaking, and cinematic as any sports film out there. Unlike them, however, Hoop Dreams is less of an uplifting feel-good story than it is an honest and sobering look at how the education system has failed Black communities. It’s not a complete downer, though, since we follow two hardworking and inspiring boys committed to lifting their families from poverty. While more privileged players can afford to treat basketball as a hobby, to Arthur and William, basketball is a lifeline, a rare chance to enjoy better opportunities and give their families a better life. Imagine carrying that on your shoulders while training, studying, looking for colleges, and surviving teenhood. It’s a lot, but director Steve James weaves it all beautifully. James divides the chapter into freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years, following Arthur and William as they start on the same footing, diverge and live parallel lives (one in private school, the other in public), and eventually meet again during their final years in school. Their journeys are riveting, not least because we also get to know their families, friends, hopes, and dreams. This is riveting cinema, as socially conscious as it is competitively thrilling.

When Castro took over Cuba in the 1950s, Havana’s nightlife shifted as clubs and casinos were closed down, leading to certain traditional step-based genres like son, bolero, and danzón to decline. A few decades later, prominent American musician Ry Cooder travelled to Cuba with his friend documentarian Wim Wenders, to pay homage to traditional Cuban music in an album and its respective documentary. Wenders weaves in illuminating interviews and shots of Cuba today in between the band’s Amsterdam and Carnegie Hall performances, with a certain intuition that makes each song feel like a triumph. While the documentary does focus more on Cooder, Buena Vista Social Club is a delight to watch, even with its 90s digital grain.

This documentary… man, where do I even begin? It captures the lives of the Friedmans and how their world turned upside down when their father, Arnold, and brother, Jesse, were both convicted of sexually abusing children. The filmmaker interviews victims, family members, and experts to strike you with the two sides of the story. The Oscar nominated film shows real footage from the family which makes it even more of an authentic experience. I won’t tell you much more about it- but let me just say, this documentary will leave you speechless.

After the 1975 release of the Maysles brothers’ Grey Gardens, Big and Little Edie Beale’s story captivated viewers and spawned a musical and a dramatized biopic about the reclusive, impoverished socialite mother-daughter duo. The Beales of Grey Gardens is a compilation of the remaining unreleased archival footage, released after the death of both subjects and David Maysles. For those unfamiliar with their story, the film might feel a bit random and contextless. But for Beale fans, and those familiar with their first documentary, this sticks close to the classic cinema vérité style of the Maysles, while also uncovering other sides of these interesting, eccentric former socialites, becoming a lovely tribute for them and their fans.