We’re in a golden age for celebrity documentaries. Can we trust them?

Early in the Beckham docuseries David Beckham gatecrashes his wife Victoria’s interview to cast shade on her working-class roots by revealing she was driven to school in a Rolls Royce. On face value it’s a delightful unscripted moment.

But then I start to wonder. Is it possible that the moment when David pops out from behind the door to correct Victoria was contrived to humanise the Beckhams and get some traction on YouTube?

Documentaries about Victoria and David Beckham, Conor McGregor and Taylor Swift have been popular on Netflix in the past year. Credit: The Age

Of course, I have no way of proving this but nor is it an allegation that’s easily refuted. It comes down to who you are you more likely to believe – me, or the Beckhams who were reportedly paid $US20 million ($30 million) for a docuseries brought to you by their production company Studio 99.

And therein lies the problem: shows like this lack the credibility to be called “documentary”. The term is being co-opted to lend authenticity to promotional content that tops up the coffers of megarich celebs while projecting their personal brands to the market.

Should it be surprising that the pair recreated the scene for a doubtlessly lucrative UberEats Superbowl ad, and that Posh is also now selling “My dad had a Rolls Royce’ T-shirts at €130 a pop?

Victoria Beckham wears a “My dad had a rolls royce” T-shirt.Credit: Instagram

We’re living through a golden age of celebrity documentaries – or celebumentaries as I prefer to call them. You know the ones being churned out by the likes of Harry and Meghan, Robbie Williams, Taylor Swift, Jennifer Lopez, Arnold Schwarzenegger … and many others. When you look closely you may discern a common recipe: 1. Take one or two filthy rich celebrities; 2. Fry up a celebratory narrative; 3. Stir in a teary moment to humanise the subjects; 4. Garnish with some clickbaity minor revelations.

“I want my highlight reel to be like a movie,” proclaims controversial cage fighter Conor McGregor in one of his documentaries. Well… if you’re as rich as he is you can simply make it so.

Via his company Conor McGregor Sports and Entertainment, McGregor executive produced the Notorious documentary that portrays his rise to superstardom. As one might expect, there’s little to the film other than gratuitous training montages, blood-spattered highlights and fawning commentary from his entourage.

McGregor is a canny entrepreneur who understands he’s in showbiz and was clearly born for it. His loud suits, Irish wit and manic bravado are certainly watchable. Fans no doubt enjoyed revisiting his wild performances at weigh-ins and the notorious incident when a trolley became a missile that smashed the window of his rival’s team bus.

I was entertained by McGregor’s content. But if you want to watch a real doco about prize fighters, see When We Were Kings about the 1974 bout between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman known as the “Rumble in the Jungle”. It took the filmmaker 22 years to finance and edit, culminating in an Oscar.

While genuine docos struggle to get made (many never see the light of day) celebrities are paid eyewatering sums for faux documentaries. Netflix reportedly paid Prince Harry and Megan Markle $US100 million ($153 million) for projects including the Harry and Megan docuseries – a stage-managed display of axe-grinding and brand building. Good business? Undoubtedly. Documentary? Hardly.

Fan films and chequebook journalism may not be new, even as cashed up, content-hungry global streamers take things to the next level. So what exactly is wrong with people being entertained?

The problem lies in calling these products “documentaries”. No matter how you define the term, the average punter assumes some level of neutrality on the part of those making biographical docos.

The camera’s power to reveal relies on the subject having no creative control or pecuniary interest. And convincing public figures to participate under these circumstances can be stressful and gruelling work. But why would a cultural icon cooperate with a real documentary maker when they can make squillions while projecting their brand to millions?

When subjects submit themselves to a skilled documentary maker, audiences can become privy to unvarnished insights into the characters of public figures. In The Rise and Fall of Eliot Spitzer, the celebrity lawmaker submits himself to the Interrotron, a mirrored camera providing audience members with the vantage point of an interrogator looking directly into Spitzer’s eyes. Weiner – a fly on the wall doco about Anthony Weiner’s 2013 disastrous campaign for mayor of New York – resulted in an unflinching portrayal of Democrat royalty during the descent into scandal.

More recently, Framing Britney Spears was made without the consent of the singer, who said she cried for two weeks following its release. I genuinely feel for her, but it’s worth remembering that it’s not a documentary maker’s job to please the subject of their film.

The director of Beckham (Fisher Stevens of Succession fame) claims he retained editorial control. I’m sorry, but if the celebrity you’re depicting executive produced your work, are you a documentary maker or a spin doctor?

Documentary films have become increasingly about wealth – both glorifying it and generating it. Here in Australia, even the outcomes of government screen policy are typically trumpeted in dollar terms. But well-made docos are priceless cultural artefacts that help us understand our history and the people that shape it.

In this age of deep fakes and Russian troll farms, truth is a vanishingly scarce commodity.

Like so much of our media content the documentary genre is being further corroded as commissioning editors chase viewers and dollars in a race to the bottom. The risk isn’t necessarily that punters will believe everything they watch – it’s much worse. We’re hurtling toward a dystopian future in which people don’t believe anything at all.

Gary Newman is a Melbourne-based filmmaker, journalist and communications specialist.

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