Weirdumentary! Why was 1970s Cinema Awash With the Weird?| Gary Rhodes

What was it about the 1970s that made audiences flock to documentaries about Bigfoot, ancient astronauts, and end-of-days prophecies? It wasn’t just the monsters or the mysteries—it was the mood of the era and the way filmmakers packaged wonder. In a decade that questioned everything, the “weird documentary” became a ticketed séance: a dark theater, a commanding narrator, a parade of “authentic” documents, and just enough shaky footage to make your pulse whisper, maybe.

If you grew up then, you remember the feeling. Newspaper ads that promised revelations. TV spots that teased secret knowledge. A friend in the next seat nudging you when the host—often a familiar face—leaned in to ask the forbidden questions. By the time the end credits rolled, you didn’t necessarily believe, but you definitely wanted to talk. That was the special effect the 1970s perfected.

And it didn’t come out of nowhere. These films were part of a much longer story about fakery, fascination, and the fine line between documenting reality and staging it. By the time the ’70s arrived—with its anti-materialist mood, New Age quests, and appetite for alternative histories—the ground was fertile. The weird documentary, or “weirdumentary,” didn’t just find an audience; it created a ritual.

In a recent conversation on Things Visible and Invisible with filmmaker and cinema historian Gary Rhodes, we traced how this phenomenon took shape, why it thrived in actual movie theaters (not just on TV), and the three ingredients that made the weirdumentary formula so intoxicating. Here’s what the 1970s can still teach us about belief, spectacle, and the stories we’re eager to tell ourselves.

Why the 1970s Got So Weird on Screen

Start with the vibe. The late ’60s cracked open the cultural shell: space travel on the evening news, a counterculture pushing back against establishment certainties, and a broad curiosity about the paranormal and the occult. People were asking questions—big ones. Are we alone? What happens after death? Can prophecies tell the future? When you live in an age of upheaval, those questions feel both urgent and strangely practical.

Two cultural sparks helped ignite the 1970s boom. In 1967, the Patterson–Gimlin film—a few jittery seconds of a hulking figure glancing back over its shoulder—gave Bigfoot a face and a posture. Real or hoax, that turn toward the camera felt like the universe acknowledging us. Then, in 1968, Erich von Däniken’s Chariots of the Gods? became a runaway publishing phenomenon, selling tens of millions and mainstreaming the notion that ancient alien visitors jump-started human civilization. That same year, Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey floated a comparable idea in art-house grandeur: if super-intelligent beings guide us, would we perceive them as gods? Kubrick’s sly answer—maybe both—captured the moment’s willingness to hold contradictory ideas at once.

By 1970, when the film version of Chariots of the Gods reached theaters, audience appetite was obvious. The extraordinary wasn’t just welcome; it felt overdue.

A Long Prehistory of “True” Fake Docs

As Rhodes points out, cinema has blurred truth and illusion from the beginning. In the 1890s, “documentary” views of the Spanish–American War were often staged far from the battlefield—sometimes in places like Brooklyn. Audiences were eager for moving pictures, and the industry obliged by reproducing events that had already happened—or might never have.

The 1920s added a different kind of curiosity. A 1923 film titled Is Conan Doyle Right? tapped a massive, post–World War I interest in spiritualism, asking whether the dead could be reached from the other side. Note the punctuation. Like many of their 1970s descendants, early “weird” films framed themselves around questions. The question mark promised both modesty and mischief.

The Theatrical Breakthrough in a TV World

By the 1970s, television had become a staple in American homes, and broadcasters had already dipped into mysterious subjects—Edward R. Murrow once tackled UFOs; other specials chased the abominable snowman. Yet the strangest twist of the decade was that so many weird documentaries played in actual movie theaters. That was rare for feature-length nonfiction. Historically, documentaries were the shorts you watched before the main attraction, not the main attraction itself.

Why did it work? Practical showmanship. A Utah-based company, Sun Classic Pictures, grasped two crucial truths. First, these topics mesmerized viewers from “nine to ninety,” so they released films with a G rating to keep doors open to the widest possible audience. Second, they used a distribution tactic called four-walling: instead of relying on traditional distributors, they rented theaters outright, handled local publicity, and kept a larger share of the profits. The result was a string of theatrical runs that made the weird documentary feel like an event.

The wave crested well into the next decade. In 1981, The Man Who Saw Tomorrow—an Orson Welles–fronted tour of Nostradamus’s predictions—hit theaters through none other than Warner Bros. When a major studio puts its logo before prophecies, you know a cultural itch is being scratched.

How the Marketing Persuaded You to Believe—Just Enough

Sensationalism wasn’t an accident; it was the point. Advertising in the era was unabashedly tabloid: breathless newspaper copy, ominous TV voice-overs, posters pushing the promise of revelation. Inside the films, producers often doubled down. Some opened with a sober warning—this may be the most startling motion picture you’ve ever seen—because it was all “true.” Others closed with a comforting legalism: based on authentic documents. Of course, all documents are authentic in the sense that they exist; that’s not the same as being accurate. But in the dark, those words worked. You didn’t notice the slipperiness—you felt the authority.

The Weirdumentary Formula: Three Ingredients That Sold Wonder

What, specifically, made these films feel so persuasive? Rhodes identifies three qualities that became the genre’s secret sauce.

The subjects themselves: ancient astronauts, lake monsters, Bigfoot, life after death, psychic predictions, haunted places. Topics that brush the cosmic and the intimate at the same time—What if we’ve had help? What will happen to me?—cut past cynicism and meet us where we live. The films didn’t just raise chills; they offered frameworks for meaning.

The host as authority and confidant: Many of the most memorable titles were fronted by familiar faces speaking from a book-lined study—Rod Serling of The Twilight Zone, William Shatner or Leonard Nimoy of Star Trek. These were guides audiences trusted to escort them past skepticism, not by dictating answers but by asking better questions. The set dressing mattered, too: shelves of volumes, artifacts on tables, the grammar of expertise. It looked like scholarship—even when it wasn’t.

Recreations that felt like news: Perhaps the most ingenious device was the dramatic reenactment filmed with handheld cameras. Because audiences had become accustomed to shaky war footage from Vietnam and on-the-ground reporting in the ’60s, instability read as authenticity. When a Bigfoot attack is staged with jitter and haste, the eye processes it as fieldwork. You know, rationally, that a crew staged it. But your senses—trained by years of television—whisper that the camera had to hurry to keep up with the truth.

A Decade Hungry for Meaning

If you string those ingredients together, you don’t just get a subgenre—you get a portrait of a decade. The 1970s were marked by disillusionment with institutions and a longings-catalog of countercultural quests. People experimented with everything from consciousness-expanding substances to new forms of spirituality. At the same time, NASA was beaming back images of other worlds. It’s hard to overstate the psychic effect of that juxtaposition: spiritual daring on the ground, cosmic vistas overhead. Weird documentaries harnessed both.

And they did it with a balancing act that still feels modern. Part tabloid, part sermon, part science fair, these films welcomed a public that wanted its skepticism affirmed and its imagination indulged. They also offered a social experience: theatrical screenings turned curiosity into community. You arrived with doubts and left with theories. The foyer conversations were half the show.

The Ethics of Persuasion—Then and Now

It’s worth acknowledging the ethical edge here. When a film assures you it’s true, when it deploys staging techniques that look like reality, it wields real power. Some titles strayed into dangerous territory—misrepresenting sources, overselling prophecies, blurring the line between entertainment and evidence. But there’s also something revealing, even endearing, about the way these films made space for wonder. They gave audiences permission to ask if. And they did it while democratizing the big questions once reserved for philosophers and theologians.

In our age of streaming and viral clips, the weirdumentary legacy survives everywhere from paranormal docuseries to speculative history specials. The techniques haven’t changed much: authoritative hosts, reenactments with vérité texture, a promise that the next revelation is right around the corner. What’s changed is the distribution. We no longer need four-walling; we have algorithms that four-wall your feed.

What to Watch for if You’re Watching Now

If you’re revisiting 1970s titles—or discovering them for the first time—try this simple viewing game:

- Listen to the questions the host asks. Are they genuine inquiries or leading prompts? What answers are smuggled into the phrasing?

- Notice when reenactments appear. Does the camera’s movement imply urgency? What sound design supports the illusion of immediacy?

- Pay attention to claims of documentation. What does “authentic” actually mean in context? Are sources named, shown, or merely referenced?

- Track your own response. Do you feel yourself leaning in when a familiar voice narrates? That’s the power of parasocial trust.

None of this is about debunking your fun. It’s about understanding the grammar of belief so you can enjoy the ride and keep your bearings.

Why This History Matters

The story of the 1970s weird documentary boom is bigger than a list of cult titles. It’s a reminder that media doesn’t just reflect culture; it modulates it. Sun Classic Pictures didn’t invent curiosity about the unknown. They built a theatrical machine—G ratings to widen the tent, four-walling to control the venue, sensational marketing to prime the imagination—that turned curiosity into box-office energy. And for a brief, unforgettable stretch, it worked. The genre went from the fringes to the marquee.

If you want to dive deeper into the history, Gary Rhodes’s research is a rich guide, tracing the roots back to the earliest trick films and forward through the 1970s peak. He also highlights the craft decisions—hosts, sets, scripts, and camera moves—that turned speculation into spectacle. Once you see the toolkit, you’ll start spotting it everywhere.

The Takeaway

Weird documentaries flourished in the 1970s because the moment demanded them and the movies delivered. They met a public in search of meaning with a blend of showmanship and suggestion, dressed up like journalism but driven by wonder. In the theater’s hush, they invited you to imagine a universe buzzing with secrets—and to believe, if only for ninety minutes, that the answers might be within reach.

If this exploration stirred your curiosity, keep going. Watch the full conversation on Things Visible and Invisible, check out Gary’s work on 1970s “weirdumentaries,” and share your own stories of films that made you wonder. And if you have a personal encounter or mystery that belongs in this ongoing conversation, reach out—we’d love to hear from you. Curiosity is a community sport, and the questions are far too good to leave in the dark.

📕 Guest: Gary Rhodes

Gary is an American author, filmmaker, and film historian specializing in early 20th-century cinema. He is known for his research on classic horror films and biographies of key figures like Bela Lugosi. Rhodes has also produced documentaries and mockumentaries and serves as a tenured professor of film studies at Queen's University Belfast.

📖 WikiPedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gary_D._Rhodes

🏢 Publisher: "Weirdumentary" https://feralhouse.com/weirdumentary-book/