If you’re not a nonfiction film buff — maybe even if you are — you may not know Ross McElwee’s name. But if you’ve ever watched a documentary, listened to a podcast or binged a season of reality TV, you’ve probably seen his fingerprints. It’s no exaggeration to say he’s one of the most influential filmmakers of the last half-century.
McElwee’s latest (and maybe best) film, “Remake,” is in theaters now. But his 1986 movie, “Sherman’s March,” which sits somewhere between a comedy and an existential crisis, was his breakthrough, winning the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance and establishing him as a major innovative voice. (A 40th anniversary restoration recently opened in theaters to coincide with “Remake.”)
Ostensibly, “Sherman’s March” is about Gen. William T. Sherman’s 1864 military campaign. After a rocky breakup, McElwee sets off with his camera to follow Sherman’s path. But he keeps getting sidetracked, because his parents and family friends are determined that he’ll meet a nice Southern girl and settle down.
When I first watched “Sherman’s March,” years after its initial release, I was startled to hear echoes of some of my favorite filmmakers in this much older film. His influence was apparent in several other mediums as well, from long-form podcasts to bizarre television series. Artists as unalike as Ira Glass, Michael Moore and John Wilson have proclaimed a debt to McElwee’s work.
There are many grooves to McElwee’s cinematic fingerprints, but five of them show his wide reach.
The Story That Goes Off the Rails
McElwee’s films start in one place and spin unpredictably outward. In “Bright Leaves” (2004), a homesick McElwee sets out to visit North Carolina, but quickly becomes obsessed by an obscure old movie supposedly based on his tobacco magnate great-grandfather, and his documentary becomes an exploration of Big Tobacco’s grip on smokers. “Photographic Memory” (2012) begins as a meditation on his fractious relationship with his son but turns into a reflection on photography’s role in keeping memories.
Where these movies start is not where they end up, though they don’t stray inordinately from the starting point. But crank up the absurdity and you get Nathan Fielder’s work. In “Nathan for You” and “The Rehearsal,” Fielder begins in one spot — trying to “fix” a failing business or helping someone rehearse a first date — and then gets derailed with elaborate, outlandish solutions. The joy, and sometimes darkness, comes from seeing where he’ll land.
Wilson’s series “How To With John Wilson” (Fielder is an executive producer) also seems at times to be directly quoting McElwee’s work. In episodes about mundane things — scaffolding, small talk, cleaning your ears — Wilson also begins in one place and ends in another with bigger existential stakes.
The Deadpan Narrator
Near the end of “Bright Leaves,” McElwee walks across a desolate backyard in a wide shot. “I find myself adrift,” he says in voice-over, “dogged by doubts as to my family’s cinematic legacy.” It’s meant to be pensive, but a small dog runs up and nips at his heels, and the narration continues. “Dogged, in fact, by a dog — this small hound that came out of nowhere has ruined the shot.”
Some observational documentarians forgo narration, but McElwee constantly explains what he’s doing and thinking. Frequently, he juxtaposes his narration with the image, imbuing everyday objects with wit.
Wilson also uses his own life as fodder, and makes liberal use of wry voice-over that creates visual puns and jokes. In a sequence about the New York real estate “boom,” we hear him say, “Might as well figure out if it’s a good idea to invest in real estate.” Onscreen, a group of New Yorkers stands around a building that seems to have recently imploded.
The Confessional Vlogger
In “Sherman’s March,” McElwee frequently talks to the camera about what’s going on, sometimes noting that he’s speaking quietly because he doesn’t want to wake someone. He reflects on his feelings, asking what he should do next and whether this project is worth his time.
We know this technique: It would be picked up by reality TV shows like “The Real World,” “Big Brother,” “Survivor” and dozens more. Contestants provide commentary via video diaries or interviews with producers, sometimes to ridiculous or poignant effect. With the advent of web video, the same visual language would be echoed by vloggers, influencers and streamers, whose audiences tune in by the millions as they narrate their everyday lives, straight to camera.
The Self-Implicating Storyteller
McElwee’s movies often tap into “big” issues — anxiety in the nuclear age, the tobacco industry — but they’re also intensely personal. People from his life recur across his films, including his wife, his children and his parents. And because he is always the protagonist, he frequently reflects on his own role in the story he’s telling, confessing conflicted feelings about the ways in which his life and actions have been entangled with others.
McElwee pioneered this kind of memoir-driven documentary storytelling, but his heirs are many. In audio, shows like “This American Life” and “Serial” (now part of The New York Times Company) use the same self-implicating tactic, bringing the narrator into the story, reminding us that no investigation is truly objective. Michael Moore asked McElwee for advice on his early film “Roger & Me,” and his subsequent films have been highly participatory, as has the work of scores of filmmakers since.
The Questioning Filmmaker
Some directors try to make the viewer forget the camera exists, but McElwee is constantly reflecting on the role the camera plays in his own life, wondering if it is a welcoming presence or a barrier between himself and others. “It seems I’m filming my life in order to have a life to film, like some primitive organism that somehow nourishes itself by devouring itself,” he says near the end of “Sherman’s March.”
He prefigures later filmmakers who would make genre-defining work: Sarah Polley’s “Stories We Tell” (2013) and Kirsten Johnson’s “Cameraperson” (2016) both examine not just the narrator’s relationship to films, but also the way that looking at and interpreting images can alter our perceptions of ourselves.
The best lesson any filmmaker could take from McElwee could be this: You may always be questioning what you’re doing with your life and art, but that may be the most honest approach.
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