But mere minutes after firing it up on Netflix one recent evening, I was confronted with my current pet peeve arising from the explosion of documentary filmmaking over the past decade or so. Figueroa and Knutson had taken one of the more protean figures of the second golden age of American movies, and sat him down, lit him, trained a stationary camera on him, and started interviewing him. Then they went out and corralled Spielberg, Scorcese, Lucas, and a host of other Hollywood Young Turks-turned-silverbacks and did the same to them. And then they took their copious footage of talking heads, intercut it with scans of old photos, and called it a movie. The chair had struck again.