It would be fun if streaming services provided any useful data about their viewership. Then, we'd be able to declare an official winner between the dueling documentaries about Fyre, the ill-fated music festival in the Bahamas. But the producers of Fyre Fraud (Hulu) and FYRE: The Greatest Party That Never Happened (Netflix) probably don't care—both movies are receiving plenty of attention. So let me just cut to the chase: The Netflix one is better.
The differences between the movies are largely matters of emphasis. Both have the core narrative beats that made Fyre such an irresistible subject for documentarians: spoiled millennials put in disaster tents, cheese sandwiches destined to go viral, a stage with lasers but no musicians, and empty Amazon boxes strewn across a gravelly parking lot, heralding the mess to which attendees had arrived. And both movies show how all of it was orchestrated by con artist Billy McFarland who, viewers can rest assured, is now in prison.
Fyre Fraud indicts the emptiness of the influence industry whose rudderless stars got caught up in the scam. When it renders judgment on Fyre's media partners who should have known better, it's a j'accuse against the grifters who make it in this spectral economy of social media branding—yet the documentary was also a means of enriching McFarland. Fyre Fraud's filmmakers cut the scam artist a check to appear, and having that interview footage is the ace up their sleeve in the battle with Netflix.
(McFarland tried to use that as leverage to get paid by the FYRE filmmakers, falsely claiming he was paid $250,000 to be in the Hulu picture. He tried to get a smaller payment from the Netflix film's producers, but director Jenner Furst says he told him to pound sand. Fyre Fraud's producers went on the record to say they paid less than $250,000.)
Hulu's interview with McFarland doesn't add much, however. He's a liar who shows no remorse, and his interview is more of a curiosity than a useful account. But admittedly, it's a heck of a curiosity. The interview asks him point-blank if he's a sociopath. He seems to laugh it off, saying he might fall between sociopathy and genius. I didn't find myself caring about his answers all that much—they don't push him enough in the moment.
Fyre Fraud relies more on gimmicks and disaster porn. It's less informative regarding the festival's production process, focusing on the millennials at the center of the social media firestorm—which is another way of saying it shows you the stuff that was already public and only gives you dribs and drabs of revelatory interviews or footage. But Fyre Fraud's pointed indictment of influence culture and social media marketing is provocative, buttressed by hilarious forays into attendees' attempts to get to and then escape the remote festival. Fyre's social media blitz made thousands feel obligated to pay top dollar for what would be a ludicrous indulgence even if it were real. It shows influencers selling an idealized version of themselves on social media, who must treat maintenance of their brand as a full-time job. They then plunk down as much money as they can into experiences that enhance that brand.
These foibles are by turns amusing and cringe-inducing, but the schadenfreude turns to pity as you see how they're squandering their youth keeping up with the Joneses on Instagram. Trying to maintain your personal brand's status online is a job that provides the stress of responsibility without any of the dignity and satisfaction of actual work. It's tough making your life look so carefree.
Fyre Fraud loses steam as it makes it through the festival, which is when FYRE excels. The Netflix offering takes the insider view and digs into how this operation spun out of control, with an eye to the repercussions. FYRE features more from the people who actually worked on the festival, and they provide the most jaw-dropping details, including the unbelievable plan to get Bahamian customs officials to release bottled water they'd ordered, which has already become a meme.
Having been in charge of turning McFarland's dream into reality, the workers were frantic and humiliated, and ultimately their efforts were futile, putting into sharp relief the festival's split identity. One Fyre Festival was created on an expansive video and photo shoot—with supermodels traipsing around the Bahamas on beaches and yachts—and existed purely in the imagination. The other was an actual ticketed event that was half-baked at its inception and soon became so much worse than that. Attendees found themselves stranded and the festival canceled, and they weren't getting their money back.
Made with the help of some of the very marketers who sold Fyre to would-be adventurers, FYRE has a wealth of footage and detail from inside their shop. Netflix's movie does the marketers a favor by presenting them more as dupes than accomplices, while Fyre Fraud points the finger directly at them and even knocks its Netflix counterpart for having Jerry Media's Elliot Tebele as an executive producer. There's a personal subplot to this skirmish between media giants.
FYRE nevertheless outdoes Fyre Fraud on fact-finding (including a bizarre cameo by Sen. Chuck Schumer's press secretary) and finishes with more poignancy. While Fyre Fraud uses a hackneyed comparison of McFarland to President Trump to mark its "so what does it all mean?" stage, FYRE tugs at the heartstrings with interviews of defrauded Bahamians, including a caterer whose good deeds left her $50,000 in the red. It’s professional documentary storytelling on a level that Fyre Fraud doesn't reach.
It would be interesting to find out whether Hulu gained more viewers by sneaking out Fyre Fraud days ahead of FYRE. It got me to start a Hulu free trial, but I just canceled it before the 14 days were up.