MegaDoc is the Rosetta Stone for appreciating (if not understanding) Megalopolis

Mike Figgis' making-of documentary loves Francis Ford Coppola's self-financed film, even if nobody involved seems to get it.

By Jacob Oller | September 23, 2025 | 7:00am

Photo: Utopia

Film Features Megalopolis

MegaDoc is the Rosetta Stone for appreciating (if not understanding) Megalopolis

The question that everyone walked out of Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis with was simple: “What the fuck?”

It wasn’t a question of who put up the cash for the wild-eyed passion project of Roman politics, modern sins, and sci-fi ideals. Coppola famously financed the thing himself, liquidating his assets in other industries in order to make a final epic statement in the one he chose to devote his life to. It also wasn’t a question of how the unwieldy behemoth was made in a practical sense—how exactly the famously long-gestating film, which had been rattling around Coppola’s brain since 1983, finally got recorded, edited, drenched in inconsistent visual effects, and pushed into movie theaters. Those interested could find plenty of leering production coverage from trade outlets eager to luxuriate in what was seemingly predetermined to be Coppola’s financial and critical failure. No, that shared takeaway question was really one of understanding—it was a truncated “What the fuck was that all about?” MegaDoc, Mike Figgis’ on-set making-of documentary, doesn’t provide an answer that leads to traditional understanding, but it is a Rosetta Stone for appreciating the crystallized zeal that is Megalopolis.

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Late in MegaDoc, Figgis (whose features include the Oscar-winning Leaving Las Vegas) notes that, “All the really good documentaries about filmmaking have actually been films about disasters.” This at least applies to the one documentary closest in proximity to MegaDoc: Eleanor Coppola’s Hearts Of Darkness, about her husband’s Apocalypse Now. But MegaDoc is not a really good documentary. That’s partially because Megalopolis is more than a disaster, and partially because MegaDoc stares with such a lovingly uncritical eye at the chaos around it, like a sober friend affectionately humoring a group of wavelength-aligned drug-trippers.

Any supplemental material would cower in the shadow of Coppola’s grand vision, so Figgis does the bare minimum. MegaDoc‘s simple titles and bad Seinfeld bass licks puncture the expensive, obtuse audacity in front of it with cheap, honest fascination. Shooting with a little Nikon Z8 rig and with no plan other than to see what happened as a living legend poured $120 million of his own money into a film, Figgis sits through oddball acting exercises, contentious filming, and the growing sense that everyone’s imbibed at least some of Coppola’s Kool-Aid. After being initially drawn in by Coppola’s name, money, or enthusiasm—mostly the latter, it seems—cast and crew seem to accept their shared fate.

And every cast before seemed to do the same. Figgis juxtaposes his behind-the-scenes view of moments that made it into the finished movie with those same moments in table reads that took place years, even decades prior. Robert De Niro is there as a favor; Uma Thurman and Billy Crudup go through the motions; footage from 2003 observes Ryan Gosling smirk through a role taken over by Shia LaBeouf 20 years later. Giancarlo Esposito, who somehow stuck around since those initial table reads, is one of the infectious true believers ready to preach the gospel of Coppola. Actually seeing the time investment, that continuity of care by Coppola—well, even if it’s in service of something completely ridiculous, the dedication is hard not to admire. It’s one thing to simply read about something being stuck in production hell, but another to watch a piece of art claw its way out of the pit.

There are plenty of enjoyably loopy evangelists on set, but the people who most bring out Coppola’s magnetism are those butting heads with him. Among these are assistant directors (who note that Coppola will yell and storm off, then apologize after), department heads (some of whom are admonished for being too slow during the massive production, then fired), and cinematographer Mihai Mălaimare Jr., who argues with the director about maintaining lighting continuity. “To me, your job is not to match all the light,” Coppola gripes. “Your job is to get beautiful images of the scenes that we have.”

The main force opposed to Coppola is the opinionated and unrelenting LaBeouf, who antagonizes the octogenarian more than any of the other actors—ironic considering that, in LaBeouf’s words, he has “the least job security” of the cast considering his history of legal issues. But their sparring, around topics both dully practical and bracingly ideological, settles in the same place as the interactions with his peers (like the constantly amused Aubrey Plaza) who thrive off the circus-like atmosphere: It might not be the way anyone else makes movies, but that’s the point.

Common sense and industry standards be damned, Coppola knows what he wants, and he wants it now! He bought up an entire hotel for the shoot, knocked down the walls, and put in a full-sized screening room, turning it into his own mini-studio for just one film. That curmudgeonly confidence is winning, even if the craftspeople working for him scratch their heads at his disregard for best practices.

But, as Coppola reiterates, he isn’t interested in best practices. He’s got plenty of money, fame, Oscars, and love. He’s old, he’s rich—all he wants now is to have fun! “Toil gives you nothing,” he says. “Play gives you everything.” Fittingly, he’s inspired by Jacques Tati, who went bankrupt making his masterpiece Playtime: “Who cares if you die broke if you made something that you think is beautiful?” That’s all that matters to Coppola, and this charming ethos is as clear throughout the production as it is in the final product. It also seems like he’s had it for his entire career. George Lucas, Coppola’s longtime friend, sits down for an interview where he good-naturedly shakes his head at the antics of his fiscally irresponsible buddy. But he also acknowledges that none of this is a front, or hot air, or some play for the cameras. Coppola really is that earnestly interested in pushing the form forward while having a good time.

As I wrote a year ago when it was released, where many modern movies are imaginatively stingy, misers trying to capitalize on the lowest common denominators, Megalopolis is a gluttonous hedonist, aimed at pleasing exactly one person. Your retired parents might fill their closets with the ephemera from new hobbies, spending their time on puzzles or crochet or building elaborate obstacle courses for their cats. Francis Ford Coppola is doing that on a $120 million scale. Especially as seemingly every other rich person in the country spends their cash in the cruelest way possible, there’s beauty in that.

It’s a beauty that MegaDoc soaks up, the thin film seeming to have some self-awareness that it’s a lark, a glorified DVD extra only given a shining solo theatrical release because it’s reflecting some of the light still emanating from Megalopolis‘ imploding sun. But even though that apocalyptic fate comes through clear as day in every scene of the documentary, so too does the feeling that Coppola still got what he wanted out of the film. In archival footage sourced from the making of One From The Heart, the 1981 musical flop whose financial failure initially pushed a go-for-broke Coppola towards Megalopolis, the filmmaker says he intends to make movies that explore “what the nature of existence is, what the nature of being a human being is.” Near the end of Megalopolis‘ production, as Adam Driver finishes a climactic speech, MegaDoc catches the director on set coming full circle, 40 years later: “Yeah, the human being is that, goddamn it.”