You Can See Everything review: Keep Your Friends Theranos

Elizabeth Holmes in You Can See Everything

Elizabeth Holmes is a fraud. Nathan Fielder is a freak. Those may sound like vicious accusations, but in Holmes’ case, the charge has been substantiated by a federal jury, which found her guilty in 2022 of swindling investors. As for Fielder, you need only watch a few minutes of any episode of his television work to learn that he’s painfully, pathologically awkward. They would seem to make strange bedfellows. But one of the insights of You Can See Everything, the brain-scrambling documentary that Fielder has made with Lance Oppenheim, is that people can be difficult to pin down, and can surprise you if you make an effort to understand them. Sometimes that effort involves questioning your own assumptions. And sometimes it means following them around with cameras for a solid month.

I’m being more literal than you might think. As a matter of nuts-and-bolts production, You Can See Everything is notable for the startling degree of access that Holmes and her partner, Billy Evans, have granted to the filmmakers. The brunt of the movie takes place in their Del Mar beach house, chronicling the 34 days preceding Holmes’ scheduled surrender at a federal prison in Texas. The couple’s ostensible rationale—which reflects either brazen confidence or breathtaking naïveté—is that an unvarnished depiction of their home life will combat the media’s prevailing narrative of Holmes as a conniving huckster: the reckless woman who duped credulous financiers into believing that she and her healthcare company, Theranos, had invented a nigh magical device which could screen for countless diseases from a single drop of blood. Despite the guilty verdict, she maintains her innocence, and the film practically dares you to ask whether she’s telling the truth. The questions only pile up from there. Read More

Primetime review: This Guy Gives Me the Sweeps

Robert Pattinson in Primetime

Remember 2006? Reality television was in vogue, LeBron James was in the Rust Belt, and a Republican president had embroiled the country in a senseless war in the Middle East. In other words, not much has changed. But Primetime, Lance Oppenheim’s gripping and unsettling depiction of the ickiness surrounding Chris Hansen’s To Catch a Predator series, feels unnervingly rooted in a particular moment in history, even as it plainly speaks to the media of today. It recalls a time when premium cable was ascendant and networks were grasping to evolve in order to retain their supremacy. Not all of the ideas they latched onto were good ones.

The first time we see Hansen (Robert Pattinson) in Primetime, he’s murmuring sweet nothings to himself (“I will undress you, and you will undress me”), like an actor running lines. But it’s his second appearance, swishing through a makeshift curtain on a balcony, when he really introduces himself—both to us, and to the unwitting target of Predator’s latest sting. “Big night planned?” he purrs in a honeyed rumble, his face sporting the self-satisfied smirk of a cat who enjoys taunting mice. “Take a seat,” he continues to the mystified man standing beneath him (Tony Revolori) who’d arrived with the hope of bedding a pubescent girl, and who soon realizes, with dawning horror, that he’s inadvertently achieved the dream of so many American strivers: He’s on TV. Read More