Dear Audrey follows veteran documentary filmmaker Martin Duckworth as he cares for his wife Audrey, who is living with Alzheimer’s. What begins as a portrait of daily life gradually expands into a reflection on memory, devotion, and acceptance. Director Jeremiah Hayes allows the narrative to emerge organically, and in so doing, captures moments of striking intimacy. The resulting film resists easy categorization. Dear Audrey is part biography, part love story, and part meditation. And it’s an anchored by Duckworth, whose openness gives the film its emotional weight and lasting impact.

Music: Podington Bear

I never expected to make this list an annual thing, but here I am doing exactly that. Blame the filmmakers. They’ve made so many slyly awesome films over the last 65 some years that I’ll probably be back again next year.

As always, the rules: This list captures ten surprisingly great films that live—or in some cases hide—on the second-tier streamers. You won’t find these films on Netflix, Hulu, HBO Max, or Apple TV. That doesn’t make them any lesser; if anything, it only makes them more precious. These films are not timely or trendy or celebrity-driven. In some cases they are simply old and forgotten. All of them are great.

Let’s go!

Junior (2013): Easily the most endearing film on this list. Eddie Belasco is a 75-year-old theater director in San Francisco who hugs, mugs and argues with his nearly 100-year-old mother, Josephine. Together they are documentary magic. But between the laughs we see the reality: these are the final pages of a love story. Eddie is in denial of his own physical decline and spends his days fretting over a mother he’s emotionally unprepared to lose. Director: Jenna Rosher.

In the Bathtub of the World (2001): Caveh Zahedi is one of the more relentlessly original voices you’ll encounter in documentary. He’s not just okay making friends squirm in the eye of his camera, he seems to thrive on it. In Bathtub, Zahedi resolves to create a video diary of the year 1999. The result is an artful progenitor of YouTube. Zahedi, like Nelson Sullivan before him, shows us the future we didn’t see coming. Warning: A girlfriend may have been emotionally traumatized in the making of this film. Director: Caveh Zahedi.

Dear Audrey (2023): Certain films exist in a magical realm where nothing happens but everything is deeply and brilliantly experienced. Dear Audrey is such a film. This could’ve been simply another well-intentioned film about a family coping with terminal illness. Instead, Dear Audrey deftly weaves past and present in a story about memory, regret, acceptance and love. Director: Jeremiah Hayes.

News from Home (1976): The early structuralist documentaries of the 1960s were often more focused on experimentation than coherence. French filmmaker Chantal Akerman elevated the form in this meditation on her self-imposed exile in early ‘70s New York City. The film moves glacially by today’s standards; this is the opposite of an Instagram reel. But if you surrender to News’ rhythms, the experience is hypnotic. I dare you not to hit reverse at least once during Akerman’s extended shot of a teeming New York street, filmed from a moving car. Director: Chantal Akerman.

An Impossible Project (2020): Ostensibly a film about one man’s mission to save Polaroid’s technology from extinction. If that’s all it were, this would be a compelling enough film. But there are so many layers of the story to explore. For one: the fragility of modern technology. Society will never forget how to milk a cow, but proprietary technologies are but one bankruptcy away from fading into an Atlantis-like rumor—as we see as inventor Florian Kaps struggles to recreate the Polaroid recipe. Director: David Bohnett.

Jack Has a Plan (2021): Director Bradley Berman shows his hand in the very first scene. Jack Tuller is a fifty-something musician contemplating the final hours of his own life. Films of this genre are typically laden with a sense of heaviness and doom, but here Jack has resolved to write his exit before the decline begins. This allows Berman to explore the final chapter of a man actively living—and relishing—the life he is preparing to leave. Director: Bradley Berman.

The Bad Kids (2016): Tucked away deep in the California desert, there is a “continuation school” named Black Rock. This is a school for kids who have stumbled badly on the path to high school graduation. They face the typical challenges: poverty, family dysfunction, behavioral issues. But no kid is too troubled for Vonda Viland, the Black Rock principal who is fiercely dedicated to getting every last kid over the finish line. This film may make you cry at unexpected moments; it did me. Directors: Louis Pepe, Keith Fulton.

Koyaanisqatsi (1982): This sprawling epic would’ve been a big deal in its day. But that day was 44 years ago, and today it plays more like a cry from the past. In 1982, Koyaanisqatsi was a warning. It’s a Hopi word that roughly translates to “life out of balance.” Today, the warning hits differently: that humans don’t heed warnings. Wherever we’re going as a species, we will not be tapping the brakes (or even covering them). Heavy messages aside, Koyaanisqatsi is a mesmerizing cinematic achievement. It deploys original footage, archival reels, speed ramping, and soaring music to lay modernity bare. Director: Godfrey Reggio.

Sam Klemke’s Time Machine (2015): Echoing Caveh Zahedi above, there were YouTubers long before there was a YouTube—or even an internet. In Sam Klemke’s Time Machine we see an ambitious, nerdy young Sam Klemke grow up, grow old, grow strange, find love, lose love, turn gray—all the while talking directly to his camcorder (and even a Super 8 camera early on) as the ‘70s, ‘80s and ‘90s roll on. Director: Matthew Bate.

The Last Race (2018): A film deserving of its own genre, so novel is its approach. Riverhead Raceway is the last remaining racetrack on Long Island, and its owners, now in their 80s, have decided to sell. Will Riverhead survive? Michael Dweck captures the story with the detailed eye of a still photographer (his actual day job). He zooms through the dust and chaos to find in auto racing its own visual poetry. The Last Race has the soul of a city symphony and the heart of a vérité film. Director: Michael Dweck.

Every summer, on the very edge of Chincoteague island, there was a little world called Inlet View. Generations came through: grandparents, parents, kids who grew up barefoot on the sand, all returning to the same sliver of shoreline year after year. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t curated. It was theirs … a working-class refuge built from patched roofs, borrowed tools, and a deep sense of neighborliness.

And then one day it wasn’t.

In this episode, filmmaker Amy Nicholson joins me to talk about Happy Campers, her lyrical, quietly devastating portrait of the final summer at Inlet View. Nicholson didn’t just observe this community. She lived in it, fell in love with it, and eventually watched it succumb to the economics of development. What began as a simple fascination with a hidden campground became a meditation on class, belonging, and the kinds of American communities we rarely see onscreen.

Music: Greenred Productions

So we meet again. This is my third end-of-year list of documentaries that are slightly off the beaten track. If you’re not familiar with these lists—or my so-called “methodology”—let me explain it this way: There are plenty of docs that should be good, and that you expect to be good. They are well-financed, polished, topical. They may impress, but they’re not likely to surprise.

On the other hand, there is a raft of lesser seen films out there: the obscure, the quirky, and the under-marketed. Some of them were likely admired in their day, but the passing of the years—coupled with the emergence of Netflix culture—have left them looking dowdy by today’s standards. Of course, choosing among such titles can be a roll of the dice. I’ve lost many an evening to a clunker, and many other times the long shots are just OK. But when I find a gem hiding among the endless rows of docs on Tubi, I get downright giddy.

For the record, I logged a number of excellent, more polished docs in 2024. Secret Mall Apartment, Death and Taxes, and 20 Days in Mariupol spring immediately to mind. Alas, this list is for the misfit toys of documentary streaming.

Confessions of a Superhero (2007) The late aughts were an underrated era for doc films, marked by minimalist production, mini-DV camcorders, and quirky outcasts for subjects. If King of Kong had been focused not on arcade gamers but folks who dress up as cartoon characters and panhandle on the streets of Los Angeles, this would be the result. The vibes are immaculate. This film won’t change your life, but it doesn’t need to. Ordinary people are fascinating. Director: Matthew Ogens

The Big Lonely (2014). Breathtaking in its intimacy and honesty. Director David Manougian does most of his work before and after production. In between, he hands the camera and creative direction to his subject, a fiftysomething homeless man living alone in the deep woods of rural Oregon. Ten years after the fact, the film feels like a message in a bottle … if it were somehow possible to slip an 82-minute feature film into its mouth. Director: David Manougian

No Sex Last Night (1996). The opening minutes feel like an overambitious art project. But No Sex’s rhythms kick in swiftly, and soon we are in the back seat of a vintage car road-tripping toward romantic disaster. Sophie Calle often lays video stills atop continuous audio. I found this off-putting at first, but ultimately surrendered to its hypnotic effect. A former girlfriend once likened the final months of a romantic breakup to toppling a vending machine. “You don’t just push it over. You have to rock it back and forth.” Calle and Shephard agree. Directors: Sophie Calle Greg Shephard

Racist Trees (2022). This entry is an exception. It’s of recent vintage and beautifully shot, but its story is quirky enough for inclusion. Sara Newens and Mina T. Son explore how a simple row of tamarisk trees in Palm Springs came to symbolize something more than innocent urban planning. Whereas American racism is often ugly, overt and even criminal, the racism here is layered, complex, and engrossing. I also admired that in an era where films about race lean toward didactic, Racist Trees trusts viewers to reach their own conclusions. Directors: Sara Newens, Mina T. Son

Symbiopsychotaxiplasm (1968). First, let’s get this out of the way: this is not actually a documentary. Or is it? It all comes down to how we define the word. Classifications aside, Symbiopsychotaxiplasm—a mash-up that means, roughly (I think), “the circularity of the environment and the human psyche”—is brilliant. Bill Greaves captures a film crew shooting a movie in New York’s Central Park while privately deliberating whether Greaves himself has any idea what he’s doing. The crew bandies about the possibility of mutiny, or an intervention, or … well, something! It’s all too good to be true, but also too good not to be true. Or is it? Director: William Greaves

Journeys with George (2002). Before George W. Bush became the lightning rod at the center of two wars and the Great Recession, he was a freewheeling presidential candidate in the dying moments of pre-9/11 America. The Dubya we see through Alexandra Pelosi’s omnipresent camcorder is unguarded, flirtatious, charming, inappropriate, and far savvier than the guy who would soon dominate American politics of the 2000s. Alt title: The Frat Boy Who Would Become King. Directors: Alexandra Pelosi, Aaron Lubarsky

Bright Leaves (2003). A confession is in order. I’d never seen a Ross McElwee film before 2024. This borders on an unpardonable sin for a guy running a web site about documentary films (as penance, I ripped through McElwee’s full catalog in two weeks). It’s difficult to describe McElwee’s work. His films are personal meditations, tied to broader themes, and in his narrative the personal becomes universal. Sherman’s March is McElwee’s best-known work, but I chose Bright Leaves because it’s the film I saw first—and the one that made me fall in love with McElwee. Director: Ross McElwee

Crumb (1994). Terry Zwigoff was famously in therapy when he pitched this film to his friend and famed cartoonist Robert Crumb. Crumb consented, partly out of friendship, and a masterpiece was born. In Crumb, we get an intimate window into the world of a creative genius. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the strangely charismatic Crumb and his reclusive brother. The gorgeous 35mm photography doesn’t hurt either. Robert Crumb is an original, and so is Crumb. If Zwigoff has influences, they are deeply internalized. (As an aside, one can easily draw a line between Crumb and a later Zwigoff classic, Ghost World.) Director: Terry Zwigoff

Chronicling a Crisis (2012). A strange, seemingly directionless film that nevertheless leaves an emotional mark. Filmmaker Amos Kollek has hit a plateau in a previously successful career, and here we see him grasping for direction, meaning and love. The film is a patchwork quilt of characters, scenes and themes that somehow, in a feat of creative alchemy, just works—perhaps because Kollek’s voice is so unique and his filmmaking chops so powerful. Director: Amos Kollek

Mur Murs (1981). I struggle to articulate why I love this film so much. A summary could never do it justice. Its ostensible focus is the murals of Los Angeles, but legendary director Agnès Varda is after something deeper here. She uses the murals as a portal into a creative underworld known only to locals and urban explorers. Varda’s energy can be felt in every scene, and her subjects are quirky, lovable and entirely of a different time. It all combines into a priceless time capsule of Los Angeles—if you had wandered beyond Wilshire Boulevard and the Hollywood sign. Director: Agnès Vardas

And so it was. Another year of searching for documentary gems. It was a tougher job than in years past. I burned through so many films in the pandemic years that the pickings seemed thinner in 2023. Granted, that may seem hard to believe, what with the seemingly infinite doc offerings available for streaming. But once you filter out the band docs, celebrity docs, issue docs, and crime docs—as I tend to do—the list thins out pretty quick. I have nothing against bands, celebrities, or issues, but those categories are less likely to surprise and delight. So I look elsewhere.

Where did I find this year’s gems? Primarily Tubi.tv and the doc channels on Amazon Prime (Topic and Docurama, if I recall). But others came by way of a savvy publicist, YouTube, and a small underrated service called TrueStory.

But let’s get on with it. Here are 10 off-the-radar docs that delighted me in 2023. (Note: Films discussed in the Talking Documentary podcast are not included. My affection for those films is already established, I hope.)

Zo Reken (2021): A film set inside of an SUV moving through the streets of Port-au-Prince. Director Emanuel Licha blurs the lines of documentary by deploying his fixer as a local aid driver at the wheel of one of the most powerful and reviled symbols in Haiti: the Toyota Land Cruiser. Picasso said art is a lie that enables us to see the truth. In Zo Reken, Licha’s semi-choreographed interactions with real Haitians captures a reality that a dozen TV news crews never could. Director: Emanuel Licha.

Tchoupitoulas (2012): The Ross Brothers strike again with a film that’s half documentary, half lucid dream. The beauty of small moments is on full display here, as are the fleeting days of youth. The stars of Tchoupitoulas are three young boys roaming New Orleans in an all-nighter that would make Richard Linklater proud. The boys supply innocence and wonder; the Big Easy supplies everything else. The scene of the boys exploring an abandoned ship might stay with you forever. Directors: Bill Ross IV, Turner Ross

City of Trees (2015): A quiet monument to a critical aspect of a good documentary: access through trust. Brandon and Lance Kramer patiently follow a D.C. non-profit whose visible purpose is to refoliate the city’s barren parks, but whose underlying mission is to provide second chances to residents who’ve already blown through a few. It’s impossible not to fall in love with these young men as they strive toward lives of purpose and respect. Directors: Brandon Kramer, Lance Kramer.

Canners (2015): Decades ago, director Manfred Kirchheimer explored the wordless, unpeopled backdrops of New York’s subway system. In Canners, Kirchheimer adds words and people to the mix, aiming his camera on New Yorkers who collect and sell recyclable cans for a living. His subjects are charismatic and upbeat, and their views on life strikingly perceptive. Director: Manfred Kircheimer.

Art and Craft (2014): There are so many documentaries about art hoaxes that we might need to create a new sub-genre. But Art and Craft stands apart from the others. Its premise is as sly as its antagonist. Or … is he actually the protagonist? You’ll have to decide for yourself. Painter Mark Landis does not deceive for material benefit. His payoff is more complicated than that. Directors: Mark Becker, Sam Cullman, Jennifer Grausman.

Mall City (1983): This is not a documentary so much as a time capsule. The year is 1983, the setting Long Island. A group of NYU film students descends on Roosevelt Mall with camcorders, and a slice of American history is captured forevermore. Mall City provides ample opportunity to celebrate (or lament) the myriad ways American culture has changed over the last 40 years. It’s also serves as an inadvertent love letter to the once dominant, slowly vanishing suburban mall. Director: Hugh Kinniburgh.

Carts of Darkness (2008). Subcultures are fertile ground for documentary, and Carts of Darkness checks that box in a big way. The film’s focus is the aimless men who race grocery carts down the impossibly steep hills of north Vancouver. But this is really a film about addiction, homelessness, community, and the social constructs we buy into … or don’t. Carts of Darkness is gritty, unpretentious, and strangely inspiring. Director: Murray Siple.

The Penny Black (2021): A genre-busting film involving a rare stamp collection and a disappearing neighbor. The Penny Black is a film about a mystery, and a film about the film itself. The two combine better than you might expect. The behind-the-scenes conversations that occur in a typical documentary production become, in this case, the bulk of the film itself. The result is fresh and engaging. Director: Joe Saunders.

Gramma and Ginga: The Movie (2021): The shortest film on this list and also the funniest. In Gramma and Ginga, sister centenarians bicker and badger, trade stories about the past, and become unlikely celebrities in the final chapter of their lives. It’s a bittersweet viewing experience. We know these colorful ladies are not long for the world; these 15 minutes are their final 15 minutes. But they seize their moment and we are powerless but to laugh along with them. Director: Jennifer Steinman Sternin.

Havana, From On High (2019): A bookend to the first film on this list. Whereas Zo Reken views a chaotic Port-au-Prince through the windshield of an SUV, Havana, From On High trains its lens on Cubans who live on rooftops. The streets below teem with traffic and tourists, but the rooftops are a peaceful stratum between earth and sky, and the people up there are thoughtful, even philosophical. Havana is a ruminative film where topics and themes only marginally overlap. The setting is the common thread, and it’s a sublime one to boot. The cinematography and vibes are otherworldly. Director: Pedro Ruiz.

Given today’s combative political environment, why would anyone want to watch a film about government? Well, because Brandon and Lance Kramer made it. Brothers and filmmakers, the Kramers have carved out a space in documentary that’s reflective and thoughtful in an era where loud and combative rule the day. In “The First Step,” the Kramers show that government still works when everyday citizens look beyond superficial differences and recognize their shared humanity. The film successfully follows up on their excellent 2015 film, “City of Trees,” a winning observation of how taxpayer programs really look at ground level … and how they change lives.

Intro and outro music by Podington Bear.

Even as a young boy growing up in Alaska, David Holthouse was fascinated by newspapers, storytelling and life on the margins. His ability to blend into his surroundings led to a career as a self-styled gonzo journalist. Holthouse did his best work on the inside, infiltrating groups as varied as neo-Nazis and crystal meth addicts. But as the media landscape changed, so too did Holthouse. He now applies his unique perspective to the world of documentary film and has produced a number of popular movies and series on major streamers like Hulu and Netflix, including “Sasquatch” and “Night Stalker.”

Morgan Elliott is a documentary filmmaker and long-time resident of the so-called “North Country” of New York. Going back to his childhood, Elliott had heard the story of Potsdam’s famous toilet garden, the self-styled protest of a resident who claims the village government has mistreated him. The toilets are revered by some, and reviled by others. Elliott waded into the dispute during the pandemic’s early months and emerged with a story that is at once quirky and profound.

Intro and outro music: Podington Bear

I recall the moment I encountered the thumbnail image for Just Dave. It was curious and different, and it hinted at something esoteric … and possibly wonderful. I’m a sucker for unknown films that punch above their weight and get pushed into the world by determined solo filmmakers

Of course, these films are as common as black squirrels. I mine the streaming services in search of these rare gems, but those efforts go fruitless most of the time. It’s hard to find undiscovered magic in 2023.

If I’m being honest, the opening minutes of Just Dave didn’t fill me with hope. From the film’s first beat, I sensed no urgency, intrigue, or even structure. I was watching an older guy shuffle around his apartment, variously showering, cooking dinner on a hot plate, and talking about his past.

Who was this guy? And why should I care?

But then a funny thing happened. A few minutes turned into six or seven, and Dave started to win me over. As did director Viktor Dudchenko’s simple, confident camerawork. This was a film set in a universe where three-act structures, conflict, and inciting incidents don’t exist … and don’t need to.

This was a film determined to be itself. And nothing more.

But for Just Dave, that’s more than enough. This is 59 minutes of sublime portraiture. Its subject, the Los Angeles artist David Fortin, is textured and vulnerable. And its director, Dudchenko, is confident enough to let Fortin guide the way and to allow Dave’s quirky living space—packed with art, tchotchkes, musical instruments, and lots of memories—speak for itself.

Turns out Dudchenko and Fortin had been friendly for a couple of years. Dudchenko saw something extraordinary in his friend. They had discussed doing a project of this sort, but life kept getting in the way. And then March 2020 rolled around.

“I had a lot of projects before Covid but when Covid hit, all of my [video] projects were canceled,” Dudchenko told me. “I would say like for a time I lost my job. I [started] delivering pizza just to pay my bills, and I was like, okay, now I have time to work on this project.”

Dudchenko is at a special point in his evolution as a filmmaker. He’s experienced enough to know his way around a shoot, but he’s early enough in his career that filmmaking remains a process of discovery. From the non-standard 59-minute running time, to the lack of any secondary characters, to the continuously repeating musical motif … Dudchenko is, for good or bad, making his own film.

“It's hard to explain,” Dudchenko said. “I just got this feeling, I need to do [this project]. It doesn't matter [if people] like it, and it wasn't like a project for money. I just use what I have around me, and it came out how [it] came out.”

Dudchenko was born in Russia and moved to the U.S. in 2012. His English is halting as you might expect, and you sense that he’s early enough in his American experiment that he still sees the culture through Russian eyes.

It’s that outside perspective, coupled with the constraints of low-budget filmmaking, that gives Just Dave its singular and ephemeral vibe. This film, in other hands, might look and feel quite different. As it is, the film is reminiscent of one of those college all-nighters when you meet someone intriguing and stay up until dawn talking.

Fortin is subtly magnetic, colorful, and inexhaustible. He is André Gregory in My Dinner with Andre, holding forth on life, love and art without needing much in the way of prompts or encouragement. Thankfully, Fortin holds us the entire way.

In an age when documentary film has become increasingly corporatized, Dudchenko’s film gives me hope. His pizza delivery backstory isn’t a cute marketing twist. It’s real life. It speaks of a filmmaker surviving by any means necessary. It also speaks of a filmmaker dialed into his own internal compass. This is not a guy supplicating in the hallways of Netflix, where filmmakers jockey for the next lucrative six-episode series. That is documentary as commodity. What Dudchenko is doing is far more elemental and oddly self-referential. It is documentary as … documentary. The pure stuff.

The odds of a film about David Fortin getting green-lit by a Netflix executive would be, in the words of late Oakland Raiders announcer Bill King, “75 million to a half.” Fortin has never trended on Twitter. He didn’t kill anyone and he doesn’t train exotic animals. He doesn’t have 17 kids or bounce around in a wackily performative family. He’s simply a guy who lives alone, who introspects readily, and whose only artifice in Just Dave is allowing a filmmaker into his space.

I’d like to think Albert Maysles would love this film. That he’d see in Dudchenko’s film some tip of the hat to Maysles’s 1976 classic Grey Gardens. Ordinary people can make for fascinating films. No other ingredients—or Netflix executives— are required.

So there I was, sitting in my car in the driveway, trying to get my mind right. I’d just wedged three bags of video gear, three softboxes, a duffle of clothes, a 13-year-old dog, and an oversized dog bed into my Honda Pilot. I put the key into the ignition and paused for a good long moment. “I think we’re ready,” I muttered, ostensibly to my dog. But I probably just needed to say it out loud. Saying is believing, right?

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But was I actually ready? Not completely, as it turns out.

I was about to depart on a 19-day, 5,000-mile documentary trip that would take me from my home in Durham, NC, all the way to Durango, CO, by way of Minneapolis to the north and Santa Fe to the south. I had scheduled seven interviews in seven locations. If anything were to go wrong—say, my 17-year-old car spitting the bit, or my dog (who has adrenal cancer) having a medical emergency—weeks of careful planning could go up in smoke.

I should mention here: I’m a solo filmmaker. Also, sort of a fledgling one.

To be fair, I’m no stranger to cameras, interviewing, or writing. I started out as a newspaper reporter. I know how to dig around, formulate questions, and play dumb to get an interviewee to open up. I also ran a freelance video production business for a few years. So I’m not without skills.

But a full-fledged documentary project is a different beast. And one I’ve been preparing myself to undertake for several years now.

How does a middle-aged career refugee learn to make a documentary film? Well, not NYU film school, that’s for sure. Who’s got the time and money for that? Happily, in 2023, there are so many ways to learn filmmaking, many of them free, and many of them good. My recipe: a steady diet of YouTube videos and a side order of talking to experienced filmmakers on the Talking Documentary podcast. (Oh, and a pandemic void that screamed to be filled … by anything.)

It’s not NYU film school, but it works. And the price is right.

But it’s time to stop learning and start doing. To take my shots and take my licks. And, hoo boy, did I ever take a few licks on this trip. I committed at least one painful mistake in all seven of my interviews. Was it painful? Oh, hell yes. But there’s no learning like painful learning.

Let’s switch into present tense, hit the road, and revisit some of my follies.

Day 3: Chicago, IL - I get things going on a cold, gray morning on the outskirts of Chicago. I’m interviewing Dave in my room at the Comfort Suites. The hotel is a mixed blessing. The upside: I got to set up the night before. The downside: the hotel walls might as well be sheets held up by clothespins. I had set the interview for 9:30 a.m., hoping we’d find the quiet spot between guests departing and maids spinning into action. It’s a cute plan that fails completely. Turns out I’m on the same floor with a pack of jubilant teens who have nothing better to do than walk up and down the hallway. Over and over. I stop Dave mid-sentence every time this happens. At one point Dave suggests putting a towel at the base of the door. I ask him if he wants to join me on the road. I need a first A.D. Dave declines. The towel helps. We muddle through.

What I learned: Conduct hotel interviews in the early afternoon, and also … do better research on the hotel. The Comfort Suites where I shot this interview had faux wood floors (it was a pet-friendly room). The sound is harsh and reverberant. Good thing I brought moving blankets.

Day 5: Mora, MN - The drive across Wisconsin is relentlessly cold, gray, and windy. I’m reminded that in the upper Midwest, April doesn’t mean what you think it means. My next interviewee, Tom, lives in a cabin deep in the Minnesota woods. It has snowed recently. A lot. Tom’s driveway is blocked by plowed snow, so we’re forced to posthole my gear 75 yards through knee-high drifts (looking very much like Steve Buscemi burying the suitcase of cash in Fargo). The interview setup goes relatively well, though I have to avoid all windows in my shot (my Amaran 200x can’t overcome the intense light bouncing off the blanket of snow). I settle for an imperfect backdrop of wood paneling and an abstract painting of orange trees. But this is a documentary, not Lawrence of Arabia. It’ll do. But disaster strikes halfway through the interview. I note with horror that my C70 is no longer recording. The SD card I thought was formatted is in fact … not. I lose 12 minutes of the interview. I mumble to Tom that we have a small problem, but I find another card and keep things moving. I’m crying inside but I remain outwardly chipper. As I learned from filmmaker Bryce NcNabb, my No. 1 priority is keeping the interviewee relaxed and engaged (or at least the top priority after removing the lens cap).

What I learned: Don’t trust your recall. Trust your eyes. Create a pre-roll checklist that you run before every interview. I’m going to check the top left-hand corner of my monitor before each interview (if it doesn’t say 131 minutes of run-time, something is wrong).

Day 6: Minneapolis, MN - One fun aspect of this trip is sizing up random spaces and figuring out where the interview will happen. This process has to happen quickly because, as a solo filmmaker, I’m responsible for getting everything in place: sound treatment, multi-point lighting, framing and composition, double-system sound, and on and on. There isn’t time to try multiple setups. You make your assessment and get going. Today’s interview with Gail takes place in a tiny house near downtown that she rents on Airbnb. I set up swiftly—this is my third interview, and I’m starting to find my rhythm. The interview proceeds smoothly for the most part, but we’re along the flight path into Minneapolis−Saint Paul International Airport, so we’re forced to pause frequently. But that’s the gremlin I know. The gremlin I don’t? When I review the footage afterward, I note several instances where the image vibrates. Gail was a bit fidgety and sporadically bounced her right knee. I noted this in real time. What I didn’t note was the spongy floorboard beneath the tripod. When Gail’s knee bounced, so did the camera. Egad.

What I learned: Travel tripods are marvels of technology (my carbon-fiber model weighs only a few pounds and collapses to 20 inches). But lightweight can be a liability. For all its virtues, feather-light gear is vulnerable to its environment. Of course, most tripods feature a hook beneath the fluid head. Hang the sandbag there, stupid.

Day 8: Orchard, NE. More rain and wind across Iowa. My diet is deteriorating on the road, and I go looking for green powder in Sioux City. I’d have had better odds of finding a subway train. But the sun is shining when I arrive at AJ’s farm in the northeastern corner of Nebraska. AJ is not only my interviewee, she is my host as well—and a talented one at that. She plies me with an array of homemade treats. Life is good. The interview promises to be a good one as well. I feel relaxed and less rushed, and I choose a shot against a bookshelf that features interesting lines. But it’s a tight space, and I’m forced to position myself behind the camera (where normally I’m astride it). This forces me to lean slightly to make eye contact with AJ. And in turn, AJ does what humans tend to do: she mirrors my body language. I adjust her several times during the interview, but we continue to struggle with the setup. Also, AJ’s eyeglasses betray the presence of a distant window as well as the egg crate diffusion on my key light. Ugh.

What I learned: Slow down, Scotty! Take care of the basics! If your interviewee is wearing glasses and there’s a window behind the camera, you must cover it. Full stop. Duvetyne and clamps are our friends. Also, if you don’t have enough space for you and the interviewee to sit naturally, find a different setup. What feels awkward in real life can look even more awkward on camera. The viewer will know something isn’t right even if they can’t put a finger on it.

Day 13: Durango, CO. Somewhere around the Nebraska-Colorado border, I cross back into spring again. The sun returns to the sky and the winds subside. I skirt the Rocky Mountains to the south and arrive in Durango just before sundown. Durango is probably the toniest, grass-fed mountain town you’ve never been to. Mike and I feast on burgers and ice cream sandwiches. It’s the meal of high achievers everywhere. I arise with gusto the next morning. It’s a brilliant, sunny day on Mike’s 17-acre ranch. There is no excuse for imperfection today. I’ve had a full day to explore the space I’ll be setting up in. Alas, fifteen minutes into the interview, I notice a tree lamp growing out of Mike’s head (he had moved the lamp slightly while getting to his chair). I reposition the lamp mid-interview, which creates a minor continuity issue. But that seems like the lesser sin here. At least Mike doesn’t wear glasses.

What I learned: Again, slow down! The talent agreed to sit for an interview, so they’re likely fine if you take an extra 5-10 minutes to ensure no lamps have gone for a walk. Both parties are invested in looking great. Take a deep breath and get it right.

Day 14: Santa Fe, NM. This is by far my trickiest shoot. Brad is squeezing me in between two business calls a few hours apart. I have 30-45 minutes to set up (and less than that to break down). There is no margin for error, so I immediately make one. I choose a setup that proves impossible (a chandelier hangs where the key light needs to be). Nothing to do but reverse the shot and rearrange the gear. Brad reappears ahead of schedule. He’s making polite conversation and I’m trying to participate. But I’ve made mistakes even without distractions, so I have to focus right now. I keep adjusting the key and tripod, an inch here, a foot there, muttering as I go. I cannot get the shot I want. Brad is also a filmmaker. He encourages me not to rush, but I feel the pressure anyway. I don’t like my shot and I don’t know how to fix it—not quickly, at least. I’m rushing, which flusters me, and that in turn slows down my thinking. Slow is smooth, and smooth is fast … as the saying goes. I’m moving fast and bumpy and getting nowhere fast. I finally decide good enough is good enough. Not surprisingly, a few minutes into the interview, I notice yet another problem in the background. Two straight days, two straight lamps in a bad spot. I also notice afterward that Brad has deep-set eyes. I needed to lower the key to properly illuminate them. Sigh.

What I learned: For the love of god, slow down! Better to run out of time than have the entire interview compromised. As for my struggles with run-and-gun composition, I suppose I’ll just have to improve through time and experience. Thankfully, Brad was an amazing interview and will make up for my shortcomings.

Day 17: Murphysboro, IL. I’m now in the home stretch. I rip across New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri in two days. I haven’t stepped on a scale in three weeks, but my knees tell me I’ve gained five pounds. I should wake up early and go for a run. Instead, Mark and I go downtown to Faye’s, where we dispatch homemade biscuits and gravy and a pretty pink cruller (only three days to go, might as well lean into my decay). As in Durango, I have a full day to explore my interview space and plenty of time to set up. But either out of fatigue or complacency, I don’t fully capitalize on this. First, I choose to shoot against a fireplace, which doesn’t provide much color contrast. I also overlook a reflection on the metallic fireplace thingy (what do you call that?). Perhaps I saw it and got distracted. Regardless, as the interview proceeds, I keep seeing that hot spot in the monitor and it bothers me. I pause the interview so I can identify the source and fix it. The other issue I run into: Mark is a passionate guy and quite demonstrative at times. He gets so excited that his arms and legs rattle into the stand that holds the key light. I reposition it further away but wonder if this will introduce a continuity issue.

What I learned: No excuse for that hot spot. I continue to optimize for the interviewee’s experience, which leads me to conclude, “This is good enough … let’s not keep them waiting.” I’m not exercising the artist’s prerogative to get everything “just so” and my images are suffering for it. I need to develop more confidence and start only when I’m ready—not a second sooner. I’ll bet Picasso never rushed. As for the gesticulating interviewee, well, that’s just one of those things. I’m traveling with a smaller softbox (25 inches) for logistical reasons, so it’s doubly important I position the key light just out of frame (close light is soft light, after all).

Epilogue: After my final interview, I still had 700 miles of driving to get home. Plenty of miles to reflect on the whirlwind of the previous three weeks. It went by impossibly fast. Time moves swiftly when the brain is constantly at work, in this case processing the logistical demands of moving a small filmmaking operation (and a senior dog) into and out of 16 spaces in 18 days.

Still, I have to get better at slowing and quieting my mind. Filmmaking is as much a mental game as a physical one. Fatigue is a factor as well. Three weeks is a long time to stay sharp when you’re living out of a car and choking down Subway sandwiches in random parking lots.

My next documentary trip will take me up the California coast as I interview more veterans of the last great newspaper war. That trip will involve plane travel. That will be a whole new realm of logistics to learn about.

How did this trip sharpen me as a filmmaker? Too early to know. I can only trust that it did. Making documentaries is like anything else in this life: a journey toward the unknown, undertaken with hope.

-30-

One week ago, late on a Friday night, I found myself on a stretch of I-57 in southern Illinois when my gas light began to glow. No problem. I was on an interstate. Gas stations abounded. But when I searched for gas on Google Maps, the results were grim: the closest station was 37 miles away.

I weighed my options as I churned north at 70 mph. Should I keep plowing up the highway and pray the 86 octane gas I bought in Oklahoma would keep me going for 37 miles? That seemed like a long shot. Or should I take the next exit at Cairo, IL, and search for a small station that had somehow eluded Google’s algorithm?

Then it hit me. I’d been to Cairo before … kind of. I’d seen the town in a YouTube video created by a former radio guy named Chris Harden. Harden’s eponymous channel documents the unsung towns of America with car-mounted GoPros and hard-boiled narration. The video I’d seen was titled, “Is THIS the SADDEST Town in America?” It portrayed Cairo as a bleak, desperate sundown town.

I swallowed hard and took the exit anyway.

As I floated down the dark main drag of Cairo, I saw ramshackle convenience stores and groups of men loitering beneath sodium lights. But no gas stations. Which in my heart of hearts, I already knew. Because Chris Harden told me so.

“Cairo is a place I've been fascinated with for a long time,” Harden told me when I talked to him in late 2021. (Our conversation was intended for the Talking Documentary podcast but didn’t quite fit the format.) “I was fascinated by the fact that Cairo used to be a bustling city … it once had a ton of people living in it and now it’s just getting empty.”

Documenting towns like Cairo is Harden’s passion. It started as a hobby, evolved into a pandemic side hustle, and now is Harden’s job as a full-time YouTube creator. Rural anthropology might seem a curious pasttime for a guy in his 20s. Harden is normal enough to be married yet strange enough to spend weekends crisscrossing the streets of places like Keokuk, IA and Nicodemus, KS. (My kind of strange, mind you, but strange nonetheless.)

“When I was bored as a teenager, if I wasn't looking up sports stuff, I’d be looking up stuff on a map just out of curiosity, “ Harden said. “There are a lot of towns scattered across America that people just don't know about. And nobody's making videos about these places on YouTube. My channel is a library of all of those places.”

Harden’s work is gripping for a person like me: nerdy, curious, and a lover of things forgotten and unloved (which describes many towns in the middle of America). So it stands to reason that Harden’s journeys through crumbling heartland towns provide a strange dopamine rush. But these videos are not travelogues … not by a long shot. You won’t see shots of parks or glittering hotels. Instead, you’ll see a locked-off shot from Harden’s car as it weaves up and down ordinary American streets. The sights to be seen here are a chubby shirtless guy mowing his lawn. Or an abandoned gas station. Or a collapsing shed. This is America writ small.

Harden’s tours are simple, prosaic and wholly satisfying. The America he explores is the America you don’t see in the media. It’s the America of Fake It So Real, Robert Greene’s excellent documentary on small-town wrestling.

I should note that Harden understands the nature of what he’s capturing. Yes, these towns are fascinating (urban decay is catnip to a certain set, as the 1.38 million subscribers of Proper People will attest). But for many towns Harden visits, the future looks bleak. These are towns laid low by economic forces beyond their control and that may never reclaim past glory.

To capture these complicated backstories, Harden researches each town and adds a narrative track to provide historical context. Harden doesn’t spin these places into something they’re not. His commentary is blunt and unsparing.

“I know from living in southern Indiana that drugs are a huge problem in every rural area in America,“ he said. “It just is. It's destroying a lot of hope that these places can have in the future. It will be interesting to see how many of these towns still have a population close to their peak 40 years from now.”

Documenting small towns is no passing fancy for Harden. His channel features 285 videos as of April 2023, and he claims he’s in this for the long haul. “It's turned into a thing where I'm trying to go everywhere in this country and I think it's possible. It's an ambitious goal but I think it's definitely possible.”

I hope he gets there. As a lover of back roads and small towns, I find Harden’s work reassuring. It honors the existence of rural America. Without small towns, America would be different country. And a lesser one.

BTW, I did find gas the night of my “second” Cairo visit. I had to cross the terrifyingly narrow Cairo Ohio bridge into Kentucky and eventually ran into a station near Wickliffe, KY. Inside, I found the weary owner mopping the floor. He shooed me away from the bathroom. “I just sprayed bleach in there,” he said with a shrug.

Harden hasn’t chronicled Wickliffe just yet. But give him time.

The Book Keepers tells the story of Phil Wall’s mother, Carol, a gifted writer who dreamed of becoming a published author and who finally achieved her goal … just as her long battle with breast cancer took a turn for the worse. Carol was unable to tour with her new book and passed away shortly thereafter. Her husband, Dick, did what a loyal husband would do: He went on the book tour in her place. Her son, Phil, did what a filmmaker does: He picked up his camera and followed along. Wall processed his own grief by following his dad's journey to understanding his new life as a widower. Wall also captures intimate behind-the-scenes conversations with his dad, who later pursues an unexpected course that leads to delicate and surprising moments.

Intro and outro music: Podington Bear

Only a small handful of the YouTubers I watch are straightforwardly sublime.

Meet Bryce McNabb. McNabb is a filmmaker out of Atlanta, Georgia, who operates a criminally underwatched YouTube channel called McNabb Storytelling. Most of his content is focused on non-technical topics like story development, branding, and promotion. But McNabb occasionally tackles the technical aspects of the job, and this is where, in my opinion, he shines. McNabb’s pragmatic approach to filmmaking results in some insanely useful tips.

I recently watched two such McNabb videos and wanted to share them with my audience. In this first video, McNabb shares how he packs his entire filmmaking operation into two carry-on bags. This might not impress you. But if you’re organizationally impaired like me, I think you’ll view this with awe.

In the second video, McNabb throws open those carry-on bags and sets up an interview space inside his Las Vegas hotel room. There is nothing fancy in McNabb’s approach, but he extracts every ounce of utility from the limited gear on hand. Filmmaking, after all, is about getting the shot, not about looking good—or “professional”—while you’re getting it.

Your viewers, after all, will never see the beauty (or grittiness) of your sausage-making operation.

What are your tricks for traveling light and shooting even lighter? I’m always looking for ways to cut a few hundred grams from my traveling kit. Hit me.

Some 20 years ago, New York filmmaker Zachary Levy went looking for a story that would become his first documentary feature film. He wound up finding the personality of a lifetime in Stanley Pleskun, a New Jersey scrap metal hauler with a colorful side hustle. In Levy’s 2009 documentary Strongman, Levy contributes an enduring character to the canon of vérité filmmaking.

Intro music: Arne Bang Huseby

Outro music: Jahzzar

As host of the podcast Talking Documentary, I watch quite a few documentaries. And by quite a few, I mean way too many. My Letterboxd account confirms the astounding tally from last year: 153 films. I’m not kidding.

That’s what a good, solid Omicron wave will do for you—along with access to far too many streaming services.

I encountered all sorts of films on the road to 153. Many were good, a handful were great, and a few were … not so great. You might assume I carefully hunt for films that are acknowledged to be great—or at least very good—but that’s actually not the case. No, I’m on the hunt for films with the potential to surprise me. The surprising films come in many shapes: the ones on Tubi.tv with amateurish poster images; the ones with worrisome IMDB ratings; the ones on rando subjects.

What those films have in common is their potential to exceed expectations. And when they do, the experience is delightful.

So here they are: the 10 films that surprised and delighted me. (Note: I am not including films whose directors I interviewed for the Talking Documentary podcast.)

Los Reyes (2018): A Chilean skate park is the setting for this charming observational doc. Two charismatic street dogs are the stars here, with humans providing a thematic—and mostly aural—backdrop. Some films work in an ineffable way. Los Reyes is one of them. If you don’t fall deeply in love with Chola and Football, I’m going to assume you’re a cat. Directors: Bettina Perut, Iván Osnovikoff

Dark Days (2000): More than two decades ago in New York City, a resilient band of homeless created a parallel universe beneath the surface of the city. The denizens of Dark Days are laid low by the usual problems of the homeless, but the industriousness with which they transform their dank underworld will leave you cheering. Director: Marc Singer

The Joneses (2016): There has been a surge of transgender films in recent years, and the best ones present their stars as complex humans who just so happen to have switched genders. This is the case with The Joneses. Yes, there is plenty here about the path 74-year-old Jheri Jones walked to become a woman. But this is ultimately a story about family and love, and it’s there that the film shines. Director: Moby Longinotto

Minding the Gap (2018): Hollywood created a sub-genre from the coming-of-age story, but its offerings are often a bit too tidy. Minding the Gap gazes a bit more deeply at the process of growing into adulthood. The cinematography is stirring and elegiac, but don’t be fooled. There is struggle at the heart of this film, and a bit of darkness, too. But director Bing Liu, filming his own friends, does not flinch. Director: Bing Liu

Saint Cloud Hill (2019): A homeless encampment is many things. Visually sumptuous is not one of them. Saint Cloud Hill renders an unrepentant band of Nashville down-and-outers on a richly hued canvas, but never romanticizes the hardships they face. Homeless people are often portrayed as helpless and embittered, but in Saint Cloud Hill they are fierce, resourceful and independent. Directors: Sean Clark, Jace Freeman

Aspie Seeks Love (2015): There aren’t many films about Asperger’s Syndrome, arguably because the affected are not typically expressive or charismatic. Enter David Matthews, who lives life on the spectrum but is nonetheless sly, funny and self-aware. In Aspie Seeks Love, Matthews is on the prowl for a woman who can see the loving soul behind his stiltedness. We wince and cheer as he proceeds. Director: Julie Sokolow

Santoalla (2016): A film that smolders more than crackles and doesn’t build tension so much as unpack it slowly, carefully. This is a story of neighbors gone wrong in the most uncomfortable of settings. The film’s northwestern Spain setting is rendered initially as picturesque and benign, but morphs over 83 minutes into a scene of menace. Santoallo whispers a simple truth: What we don’t know is more terrifying than what we do. Directors: Andrew Becker, Daniel Mehrer

Nobody’s Business (1996): Back when documentaries were still the province of PBS and film festivals, Alan Berliner made a remarkable film. This is ostensibly a film about a son pursuing the story of his father’s life, but it’s Berliner’s manic energy that distinguishes the film. The story is fine and the father-son pairing entertaining, but the filmmaking is indelible. This film would still be edgy and daring in 2023. Director: Alan Berliner

Who Let the Dogs Out (2019): Doc films generally fall into two categories: films that document stories as they unfold, and films that tell stories already completed. Who Let the Dogs Out is a master class in the latter. Brett Hodge carefully spools out the story of a five-word musical phenomenon and the meandering backstory that preceded it. Hodge knows exactly where he’s going, and you don’t. The result is a triumph of construction. Index cards were harmed in the making of this film. Director: Brett Hodge

Last Days of Chinatown (2017): A meditation on the remaking of a Detroit neighborhood (and not for the better). Nicole McDonald’s narration is lyrical, her distress poignant. In Last Days of Chinatown, McDonald decries the siren song of urban redevelopment and the invisible toll it takes. Every shiny new building harbors a dark secret, and McDonald is here to take names and tell tales. Director: Nicole McDonald

Intro Music: Lobo Loco

Outro Music: Kevin MacLeod