Nathan Fielder's three-hour film opus might have captured the cultural zeitgeist—there's already talk of a Best Picture nomination—but these must-see films are just as riveting.
Elizabeth Holmes in Nathan Fielder's You Can See Everything
Elizabeth Holmes in You Can See Everything. Image courtesy of A24.

You Can See Everything, Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim’s explosive documentary about disgraced Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes, opened last week in 855 theaters across the United States and Canada. Despite its limited distribution and its nearly three-hour runtime, the film drew a wider audience than many critics anticipated, earning more than $15 million during opening weekend.

Fielder and Oppenheim’s film, which follows Holmes in the weeks leading up to her 10-year prison sentence, is perfectly calibrated for its cultural moment: through a mix of ultra-tight, wince-worthy crops (you really can see everything) of its subjects’ faces (imminently incarcerated Holmes and her eerily devoted partner, Billy Evans), and a classic Fielder tendency to punctuate a “real life” narrative with moments of rehearsal, the film captures what seems to be a growing cultural appetite for the humbling of the tech overlords.

And although artful documentary filmmaking has waned since its peak in the mid-2000s, the commercial success of You Can See Everything seems poised to reinvigorate the genre from the standard public-television series fare. If you’re feeling inspired to watch some other genre-spanning documentaries, here are the ones to consider.

A still from Godfrey Reggio’s 1982 film <em>Koyaanisqatsi</em> showing five women in matching orange uniforms in front of neon casino signs on Fremont Street in Las Vegas.
Film still from Godfrey Reggio’s Koyaanisqatsi, 1982. Image courtesy of the Godfrey Reggio Collection at the Harvard Film Archive.

Koyaanisqatsi (1982)

Watch On: Youtube or Tubi

Godfrey Reggio’s Koyaanisqatsi tackles a conventional subject through the least orthodox means imaginable. The film develops an entirely original visual language to investigate the toll of industrialization, experimenting with time-lapse and slow-motion video to abstract familiar scenes of urban life until they’re barely recognizable. A haunting score by Philip Glass accompanies this 86-minute montage, but otherwise there is nothing: no interviews, no narrative arc, no voiceover. The film does not need many compositional elements to achieve thematic complexity—its sparseness is disturbing enough on its own.

A man in a cap and glasses stands beside a young man as reporters hold out microphones and cameras, in a still from Michael Moore’s 2002 documentary <em>Bowling for Columbine</em>.
Film still from Michael Moore’s Bowling for Columbine, 2002. Image courtesy of the Criterion Collection.

Bowling for Columbine (2002)

Watch On: Tubi

Filmmakers once took for granted that objectivity was the documentary’s chief virtue. In Bowling for Columbine, Michael Moore, whose directorial debut was Roger and Me, a 1989 breakout documentary, throws this assumption out the window. In the immediate aftermath of the mass shooting at Columbine High School, Moore investigates the cultural drivers of gun violence in America. Rather than downplaying his political agenda, he advances it using every rhetorical strategy at his disposal: Bowling for Columbine features an animated interlude, a montage set to the Beatles’ “Happiness Is a Warm Gun,” and even a confrontation between Columbine survivors and Kmart executives concerning the retailer’s sale of ammunition. 

A still from <em>Eno</em>, Gary Hustwit’s 2024 generative documentary about musician and artist Brian Eno.
Film still from Gary Hustwit’s Eno, 2024. © 2026 Gary Hustwit.

Eno (2024)

Watch On: Rent from Apple TV or Prime Video

Celebrated as an early breakthrough in generative filmmaking, Gary Hustwit’s Eno uses a custom-designed algorithm to select which scenes, music, and interviews from Brian Eno’s life you see, and in what order. Each version of the film is unique, but none of them offers a self-serious portrait of the prolific musician. Instead, we get a cheerful and intellectually ambitious meditation on art, technology, and the passage of time. The unorthodox formal choice is incredibly effective in capturing the essence of Eno’s creative philosophy, which holds that experimentation is more fruitful than careful choreography.

Three children on a playground slide in a still from <em>Seven Up!</em>, the 1964 documentary that followed British children from different class backgrounds.
Film still from Paul Almond’s Seven Up!, 1964. Image courtesy of the BBC and the Everett Collection.

Seven Up! (1964)

Watch On: Buy on Prime Video

Paul Almond’s Seven Up! is the first installment of a documentary project that interviewed a cohort of 14 British schoolchildren every seven years until they reached the age of 70. The creators of the series set out to highlight how socioeconomic disparities affected the participants’ longterm, but they ended up introducing a new paradigm of temporality to the genre. Seven Up! stands as one of the few films to recognize that the essential truths documentarians seek take a lifetime to excavate and cannot be compressed into a two-hour run time.

A still from Kirsten Johnson’s 2016 documentary <em>Cameraperson</em> zoomed in on a person holding their hands in their lap.
Film still from Kirsten Johnson’s Cameraperson, 2016. Image courtesy of the Criterion Collection.

Cameraperson (2016)

Watch On: HBO Max or Kanopy

What is the difference between raising awareness about an issue and exploiting the suffering of those affected by it? How can we trust what we see in a documentary when we know that the presence of a camera must have skewed its participants’ behavior? These are the kinds of thorny questions Kirsten Johnson raises in Cameraperson, an autobiographical film that melds together clips from her previous projects and videos of her mother dying of Alzheimer’s. Though Johnson has more than 25 years of experience deciding what belongs in the frame, Cameraperson shows that her greatest strength may be revealing what lies just outside it.

A still from Spike Lee’s 2006 documentary <em>When the Levees Broke</em> showing a car, an armchair, and debris crushed against a damaged house after Hurricane Katrina.
Film still from Spike Lee’s When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, 2006. Image courtesy of HBO.

When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts (2006)

Watch On: HBO Max

Of all the films featured on this list, Spike Lee’s documentary on Hurricane Katrina is perhaps the only one to borrow dramatic techniques from fictional narratives to the same extent Fielder does in You Can See Everything. Divided into four acts, the film has the pacing and structure of an opera or a classical Greek tragedy. Terence Blanchard’s moving score draws on New Orleans’ jazz inheritance, and with its wailing solo trumpet, it becomes almost a character in its own right. While much of the film strikes an elegiac tone, the final act gives way to a defiant celebration of Black life, a tonal shift that evokes the tradition of the jazz funeral.

A man crouches in tall grass, pointing toward the camera, as a grizzly bear grazes behind him beneath snow-capped mountains in Alaska, in a still from Werner Herzog’s 2005 documentary <em>Grizzly Man</em>.
Film still from Werner Herzog’s Grizzly Man, 2005. Image courtesy of the Criterion Collection.

Grizzly Man (2005)

Watch On: Youtube, Tubi, or Kanopy

Werner Herzog’s Grizzly Man more closely resembles a Socratic dialogue than it does a traditional nature documentary. The film assimilates haunting self-taped videos that wildlife enthusiast Timothy Treadwell made during his summers living with Alaska grizzlies and impassive narration from Herzog, who questions Treadwell’s romantic view of nature. Although he is quick to deflate his subject’s lofty philosophical claims, Herzog has a great deal of empathy for Treadwell. At the end of the documentary, he puts on a pair of headphones and, with a sense of grim determination, listens to the last recording Treadwell made, which inadvertently captured his dismemberment by grizzlies in 2005.

A woman with auburn hair in a blue top sits on a sofa in a dimly lit living room during an interview, in a still from the 2019 Netflix docuseries <em>Don’t Fuck with Cats: Hunting an Internet Killer</em>.
Film still from Don’t Fuck with Cats: Hunting an Internet Killer, 2019. Image courtesy of Netflix.

Don’t Fuck With Cats (2019)

Watch On: Netflix

Hear us out. The virality of Don’t Fuck With Cats cemented the inevitable convergence between the rabidly popular true crime genre and documentary filmmaking. Mark Lewis’s three-part docuseries follows internet sleuths Deanna Thompson and John Green as they use digital clues to track down the murderer Luka Rocco Magnotta. Lewis’s insight was that today’s audiences might be interested in criminal investigations that unfold not in police stations or in morgues, but across cyberspace. His series raises an eerie question: are true-crime viewers complicit when their attention emboldens a criminal who craves notoriety?

Backup singer Lynn Mabry and David Byrne performing onstage in a still from Jonathan Demme’s 1984 concert film Stop Making Sense.
Lynn Mabry and David Byrne in Jonathan Demme’s Stop Making Sense, 1984. Photography by Jordan Cronenweth and courtesy of A24.

Stop Making Sense (1984)

Watch On: Rent with Apple TV, Prime Video, or A24

It is easy to forget that Stop Making Sense is the prototype for the concert film as we know it today. But when Jonathan Demme set out to film the Talking Heads during its four-night stint at the Pantages Theatre in Hollywood, he made a number of choices that seemed unorthodox at the time. The documentary is almost entirely made up of live concert footage, with no backstage interviews and no shots of the crowd until the very end. Although bassist Tina Weymouth has said that many of these decisions were made to avoid drawing comparisons to This Is Spinal Tap, they nonetheless helped to define a new subgenre of the documentary that encompasses everything from Shut Up and Play the Hits  to Summer of Soul. 

An overhead shot of a man in a blue shirt and khakis lying on a sidewalk, his face covered by a fallen air conditioner, in a staged death scene from Kirsten Johnson’s 2020 documentary <em>Dick Johnson Is Dead</em>.
Film still from Kirsten Johnson’s Dick Johnson Is Dead, 2020. Image courtesy of the Criterion Collection.

Dick Johnson Is Dead (2020)

Watch On: Netflix

In this so-called “living obituary,” Kirsten Johnson contends with her father’s dementia diagnosis by rehearsing his death in fanciful and sometimes even outlandish ways. Johnson’s father indulges her ideas: early in the film, he gamely collapses when a prop air conditioner falls on his head. Ultimately, Dick Johnson Is Dead transcends its macabre premise, as the collaboration of staging these scenarios becomes a way of escaping and processing grief.

 

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