The filmmakers question the conventions of documentation with work that seeks transparency and authenticity outside of the fiction–nonfiction dichotomy.
On the murder of a performance artist set out to heal a war-torn world.
Decade of Fire is a remarkable tale of the Bronx’s rise from ash, standing to set the record straight about the fires that ravaged the borough in the late ’60s and ’70s.
The filmmaker on her 1995 film BloodSisters documenting San Francisco’s leather-dyke scene.
Mexico City’s sonidero scene finally gets the documentary it deserves.
Cypriano’s documentary Born to Be follows the profound journeys of several patients and doctors at the Mount Sinai Center for Transgender Medicine and Surgery.
A final, reflexive work from the godmother of the French New Wave.
I never made a decision to become a film editor—or, in any case, I didn’t decide upon it at a young age and follow a single career path.
The two Chinese-born filmmakers reflect on Wang’s new documentary One Child Nation and her unique approach to blending the personal and political.
A film about departures, the kind without return.
The pioneering filmmakers discuss morality and dissent in Hara’s highly subjective documentaries: “It takes a toll to discover what binds your heart to the subject.”
The Singaporean filmmaker on migrant labor; visitations; and his recent work, A Land Imagined.
The filmmakers take an unexpected approach to documenting people in the final stage of life.
The artist and documentarian on capturing the vernacular South.
The insurgent Argentine documentarian’s retrospective screens at Anthology Film Archives from February 22 through 28.
Featuring selections by Sasha Bonét, Lisa Borst, Nicholas Elliott, Mark Harwood, and more.
The director of The Rest I Make Up reflects on the life and companionship of María Irene Fornés.
The two filmmakers probe the ethics and surprise of documentary.
Films that combine documentary and poetics.
Huddled in front of a suite of bulletin boards filled with military charts, folding his fingers over papers as if they were slices of pizza, licking his lips, jowls quivering—this is Senator Joseph McCarthy as he appeared live on ABC in 1954 as part of the 36-day, 188-hour televised extravaganza that would come to be known as the Army-McCarthy Hearings. He’s berating a colonel, insinuating that “phony charts” have been submitted to the floor of the Senate. “The television audience,” he yells, “they are the jury in this case.”