When documentaries center on one person, breadth is often sacrificed for depth. Thankfully, for the most part, three docs at this year’s SXSW are structured less in a way to speedily run through the greatest hits but to create a space for their subjects to meditate and ponder at their leisure. Some are more successful than others, but it’s refreshing to see titles that attempt to slow down and be ruminative amidst trying to expansively educate. I’m grateful to have walked into a theater to see these films, knowing next to nothing about the subjects featured, and now walking away as a new admirer.
Director Steven Feinartz’s “Are We Good?” is a retrospective of stand-up comedian and podcast trailblazer Marc Maron, and as one might expect from listening to Maron on his podcast, it’s equal parts humorous and sorrowful, often all at once. While Maron does recount his backstory about how he got into standup and how he helped pioneer the podcasting medium, it narrows its scope to focus on a particular inflection point in Maron’s life.
The loss that catalyzes Maron’s existential musings is the death of his partner, Lynn Shelton, in 2020. Lynn was a talented filmmaker, and, in the aftermath of her passing, we see Maron craft shows to help process his sadness. He often questions whether or not he should be doing comedy and if it is dishonoring to Shelton to base his new routines around the agony of her passing. This exploration is what makes “Are We Good?” more thoughtful than other documentaries that may have just been tempted to play the greatest hits; at its crux, it’s a somber exploration of how humor can help us make peace with the pain we feel in the world. “Humor [makes the pain] feel like it’s not wasted,” as Maron says. When it revels in that reality, “Are We Good?” is at its most resonant, showing how laughter can be a dignifying way to respond to grief.
The film tries to coast on Maron’s personality to mixed results; Maron is caustically funny and, if anything, his unique streak of dark humor is only more relevant given our world (“Let’s end on something more upbeat … there’s a reason not to have children,” he says as concludes a live show). It’s also evident that Feinartz and Maron have a comfortable relationship as in many sequences as Maron talks directly to Feinartz and jokingly questions the validity and importance of the footage that they’re shooting. It’s meant to give the documentary a lackadaisical ambiance, but I got the sense that while Maron was vulnerable, it never went to places that he wasn’t already comfortable disclosing on his podcast or in other mediums. There is a sense of curation, as if what we witness is being framed as an exclusive uncovering of Maron’s thoughts, but it all feels too put together to be organically messy. Furthermore, it isn’t a spoiler to say that in the aftermath of Lynn’s passing, he’s been able to find love again in his relationship with his present girlfriend, Kit. While it’s touching (and speaks to the film’s overall themes about making peace and moving on), her inclusion in the documentary, a revelation that comes at the film’s end, feels a bit jarring given we’ve spent the majority of the documentary mourning with Maron and reminiscing how Shelton’s loss devastated him so holistically.
Yet as the film reminds us, grief is a process, and I can see a documentary like this as being just one step in the beginning of Maron’s own outworkings of these thoughts, a first draft as he grows more comfortable in letting loose. It’s an honor to be on the journey with him.
I wish all documentaries that focused on sports figures were like Julie Anderson and Chris Hay’s “I’m Carl Lewis!” which find ways to center the voice of its subject yet do so with a posture of invitation and sensitivity. Whereas so many documentaries will be content to preach at you, convincing through clever edits and grandiloquent talking head interviews that a given figure is interesting and worth your time, Anderson and Hay inherently understand how special and fascinating Carl Lewis is and structure the documentary in a way that lets Lewis’ words speak for themselves, rather than feeling the need to over curate.
Lewis is a nine-time Olympic gold medalist and while his skill and talent on track and field were undeniable, he was crucified in the public eye for his refusal to fit the preconceived notions and mold of how a Black athlete should act. The exclamation point in the film’s title is a fitting addition as well; Lewis was someone who was unapologetically himself and refused to play the game of false humility that was expected of athletes at the time in the 1980s. His willingness to operate in a space of ambiguity around his orientation and identity was another source of contention; taking inspiration from someone like Prince, Lewis operated with a fluidity and free-flowing spirit that went against a society that wanted clean-cut categorizations for their male athletes. He paid the price for being true to himself, often being typecast as arrogant, cocky, and difficult to work within the public eye when the reality was much more nuanced.
“I’m Carl Lewis!” represents a way for him to take back his power and tell his story in his narrative. It’s particularly vindicating given that the tools of the media and screen once used to suppress his sensitivity, thoughtfulness, and character are now the very ways where people can get to know the real him again. The film is not just a reintroduction but a channel for righteous rebirth for Lewis to finally tell his story on his terms. Hay and Anderson’s film moves throughout the high and low points of Lewis’ life, showing how despite the negative press he may have levied against him, Lewis never stopped being himself and by extension, helped inspire others to do so as well.
I’ve not yet been to a live show of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” (cue the “virgin” clapbacks in the comment section), so I went into “Strange Journey: The Story of Rocky Horror” with an equal mix of excitement and curiosity. Like the show its profiles, it hums with an energetic and vivacious hunger and gratitude for life, although given how subversive and transgressive its film was, I wish it could have embodied some of that iconoclasm in its structure. The film traces the people who have been impacted by the film since it premiered in 1975 and everyone from show creator Richard O’Brien, musical director Richard Hartley, and stars like Tim Curry and Susan Sarandon return to give talking head interviews about working on the production. For die-hard Horror-heads, the information featured here is probably a known quantity, but for a neophyte like myself, I found the journey enlivening, from leaning how O’Brien’s relationship with his father influenced the production to particular ways the film had an impact on the queer community (and how it continues to remain a staple).
How “Strange Journey: The Story of Rocky Horror” avoids being self-congratulatory is when it takes pauses from recounting the show’s lore and history to focus on the impact the show has made. Of particular note is an anecdote from drag queen Trixie Mattel, who shares how viewing the show gave her the freedom to explore drag even though she grew up in a rural town. There are many anecdotes scattered throughout the film, and it speaks to why the show has been so enduring and popular. It’s not only that it’s a damn good time but at its core, it’s an invitation for people to dance, be free, and find safety with a group of strangers who all want the same. Spaces of transgression and safety have never been more important (or in scarce supply) than now, and at its best, “Strange Journey: The Story of Rocky Horror” offers that same playground for its viewers to experience.
