Doing a documentary is about discovering, being open, learning

In the halls where storytellers once gathered by firelight, there was a rule older than ink: let the world speak before you speak of the world. Spike Jonze’s saying—“Doing a documentary is about discovering, being open, learning, and following curiosity.”—is that ancient rule recast for the age of lens and microphone. A documentary is not a verdict but a voyage; not a map, but a compass. It asks the maker to empty the cup, to step beyond rehearsed answers, to enter the field with questions wide enough for weather and surprise.

To name discovering is to admit that truth often hides in plain sight, shy as a deer at the edge of a clearing. The camera becomes a patient hunter of moments: a glance at a kitchen table, a silence after a hard question, the way light bends through factory windows at dusk. Discovery means we do not force the story to match our first thought; we let the story arrive, trembling but true. In this way, documentary practice joins the elder craft of listening: the world reveals itself when we stop insisting what it should be.

Being open is the discipline that keeps discovery from becoming conquest. Openness loosens the jaw and softens the brow; it lets strangers remain strange long enough to become neighbors. In the ancient tongue, openness was hospitality: making a space at the table for the guest you do not yet understand. In the frame, this becomes ethical attention—asking permission, showing drafts, welcoming correction. It is the shield against arrogance and the doorway to grace.

Then comes learning—the humbling realization that every scene is a school. The best filmmakers apprentice themselves to their subjects: fishermen teach tide and knot; nurses teach the geometry of care; dancers teach breath’s arithmetic. What we learn changes not only our questions but our methods—angles shift, schedules bend, edits breathe differently. The film grows wiser as the filmmaker grows smaller, and the audience is spared a sermon because the maker chose a classroom.

And always there is curiosity, the pilgrim’s lantern. To follow curiosity is to refuse the dead certainty that kills wonder. Consider a tale from our own era: the makers of Hoop Dreams set out to craft a short television piece about playground basketball and instead followed two Chicago boys for five years. What began as a topic became a life—school transfers, injuries, bills, victories, losses. By keeping the lens faithful to the questions that kept appearing, the film became a parable of class, race, hope, and grit far larger than its first outline. This is the reward of fidelity to curiosity: you ask for a story about sport and are handed a story about America.

Another lantern-bearer was Agnès Varda, who walked beaches and back alleys with the same reverence she offered museums. Her films welcomed accidents like honored guests: a stranger’s anecdote, a found photograph, a chipped wall blooming with meaning. In her hands, discovering was not a technique but a temperament—an agreement with chance that said, “Teach me.” She proved that the documentary eye is not merely investigative; it is tender, amused, and willing to be changed.

From Jonze’s words, draw a clear law: let the film make you before you make the film. Practically, this means: begin with questions, not theses; schedule more conversation than coverage; cut scenes you love if they do not serve the truth; show rough cuts to those filmed and listen when their eyes darken or brighten; keep a journal of what surprised you and let those surprises reorder the edit. If you hold fast to being open, if you apprentice yourself to learning, if you honor curiosity as your north star, then discovering will not be a happy accident but your daily craft—and the work you offer back will ring with the old authority of stories that were truly seen.