“My” Documentary Editor
- Kevin Huffman
- Dec 29, 2025
- 18 min read
Updated: 11 hours ago
Confessions of a Doc Producer
The one sitting in that expensive office chair?
The one with twenty-five windows open on their computer?
That is a person. They are not “my” editor.
“I’m glad that you're my editor, Justin"
“Dude, I’m not your editor.”
Justin Cece, clapped back on this and set me straight.
Still, in private moments with producer friends, I might slip and say,
“My editor is driving me crazy.”
Make no mistake: I do not own any editors. I work with a lot of them, and while it’s not nice to generalize, they all find ways to drive me crazy.
Consider these annoying habits.
Editors are known to:
Hover over a clip for 10 seconds before playing it. Count to ten. See how you feel.
Sit and think while I have lots of good ideas that urgently need to be expressed.
Give up on a clip right before the best part—because they’re frustrated with my stream-of-consciousness ideas or bored, I don’t know—but it’s infuriating, and I swear they do it just to drive me out of the room.
Spend six hours on an animated graphic because it’s going to be “really cool,” even though I know it will get changed later. But I don’t want to hurt their feelings because this is “an editor thing,” and they’re supposed to know After Effects because it can get them more work—thus, more money, etc., etc.
Keep the temp music in the cut even though I complain loudly that it’s ruining the flow and slowly killing me. They insist there’s no point changing it now. For me, it’s like living with poison ivy.
Light up when I propose a split-screen idea. They say they hate split screens—that they’re unmotivated—but they try it anyway. It takes all day. Then I decide it’s unmotivated and I hate it. Now they love it, so it stays in until someone else comes along and kills it.
Producer Pal: How are things going with your editor after all those changes?
Me: Honestly, I don’t know. They say they need more time with the footage.
Pal: They always say they need more time. You better crack the whip.
Me: OK. I’ll crack the whip.
Also, for the record: I do not have a whip, nor have I been lucky enough to find a used one lying around the edit room.
I’ve been meaning to write a blog about the genus editor documentorum for some time now.
I spend a lot of time with editors. Directing and interviewing are wonderful but my comfort zone is in post production. I live for making outlines, storyboards, writing scripts and digging through footage. As my career evolved I was often tabbed as a story producer for an episode and then, an entire series. I've worked with 5 editors at a time on a series. And have worked with some of the best.
Then I declare that I have a PhD in the study of the editor.
A few observations from the field.
IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER, EDITORS ARE
Sensitive Visual Chained to their desks Desperately in need of sunlight
Curmudgeons They obsess over things I should really care about—but don’t
They are “technical” They paint They want to direct (admit it!)
They have the critical distance I lack They do not want to hear my stories
They have no idea how a lunch break affects footage They have mouse issues
Constitutionally different from me—driven to complain about the footage
They don’t care about network people They see a world I can’t imagine
They claim better taste in music (debatable, conceded to keep the peace)
Night owls They sit, turtle-like during screenings I feel for them in these moments
Headphones on while I'm in the room to tune me out
They turn my chicken shit into chicken salad
They know how to put a scene together
They are probably cooler than me
But in all fairness, there are many things I do to drive them equally crazy. And if editors who never read my outlines are still reading this, here are my confessions.
Things I Do to Drive Editors NUTS
I can be extremely vague about what I want. What I want is actually pretty simple—if I would just shut up. But I won’t shut up, because I don’t really know what I want.
I have an annoying habit of hitting the desk when I want a cut. As in: “When they turn the lights out, I want a hard cut—bam!—right there.” Then: “Bam! Another cut right there.” This is usually met with a credible threat of physical violence if I hit the desk again.
I ask them to cut a scene we both know everyone else hates and that the higher-ups will freak out about. But I insist, because I once won one of these fights and have been dining out on it ever since. So let’s try it again, right?
I text them first thing in the morning or after 10 p.m. because I’ve thought of something brilliant. This becomes a string of loosely connected texts—an elaborate game of association—that only serves to confuse them further. If I just put it in an email, it would be easier.
I complain about the temp music so relentlessly that they consider having me bound and gagged and forced to listen to Barney.
I drop in unexpectedly and catch them shopping online or reading a deeply technical thread “for editors only.” They think I’m checking up on them (and sometimes I am), but mostly I’m bored and want to talk about the story. They just want a break from my lame footage and give me a look that travels between "I think you're pathetic" and "did you, at least, bring snacks?"
After staring at their backs for long enough, this is what I imagine they’re thinking about producers and directors:
We think we’re smarter than they are We love telling war stories
We have no idea how to direct a scene We’re vain
We talk about our kids and pets constantly We talk on the phone
while they’re trying to concentrate We might be nepo babies
We’re always eating We can’t sit still
We’d be terrible spies we’d crack immediately
We’ll forget to thank them if the film ever wins an award
We’re not as cool as we think we are
We have questionable taste in music
This sequence is never going to work
but if we’d leave them alone
they would make it OK
Seriously, I love 95 percent of the editors I’ve worked with. There have been some bad fits—people I simply couldn’t dance with & vis versa. That’s human. But if we've been in the trenches together and survived, chances are we're cool.
Sometimes, when I run into an editor from the trenches, we remember the dumbest details: a smirk, a malapropism, a funny accent—rather than the actual documentary. Like the time we thought someone said, “I was sitting on the cat” instead of “I was sitting on the couch.” Or when Marcella Steingart said one line—“Sí”—during a recreation where she had to identify a suspect in a lineup. To this day we cannot have a conversation where this does not come up. You can see it here.
If you're looking for a really hilarious read on the bizarre relationship between producer and editor, I highly recommend this long-running facebook post started by Wendy Greene.
Editing documentaries is harD
Fun. But hard. There’s often a shit ton of footage, and most good docs are built from whole cloth. Even tightly formatted, paint-by-numbers documentaries are astonishingly complex. Add storytelling choices, pacing, music, sound design, uploading, up-resing, outputting, bin management, timeline superhighways, syncing, graphic supervision, and endless revisions, and it’s easy to see why editors feel pressure—and get grumpy.
Then there’s money. Good editors cost money, and time is money. Everyone puts pressure on them. Even executives, who conveniently forget how long these "little changes" can take.
There are customs, practices, and courtesies to consider.
So, what follows are a few pieces of totally unsolicited advice to consider.
Who Controls the Story?
This is a loaded question. Someone has to call the shots. Films may be collaborative by nature, but control of the story sits at the heart of most creative conflicts. If that isn’t clarified early, it can lead to real heartache—or fisticuffs.
First, what kind of project is it?
ThE "TV" Doc SCENE
Many television projects don’t have a director. They have a producer whose job is to direct, produce, write the script, and "oversee" the edit. That producer is also responsible for delivering the show to lawyers and, ultimately, to the distributor. If there’s a legal issue with the story, that producer will get sued.
In these situations, I believe the producer controls the story. I author the narrative in the same way a reporter stands behind their journalism. I’m responsible to the subjects, and I’m on the hook if something goes wrong—not the editor. Editors contribute enormously, but do they write the story? Do they have authorship? Not to the same degree. Sorry.
On these kinds of projects, it’s understood that I oversee the story. I know that can sound harsh, even selfish, and I expect pushback—but that’s the deal. Editors are vital collaborators, but in most production companies editors are not the primary authors of the story. When we need a bite or a line of narration, that's on me.
I've done a bunch of these kinds of projects. As just one example. There is a limited series called After The First 48, which follows up on the prosecution of those arrested in episodes of The First 48. Freelance crews would film the trial and people like me were hired by ITV to re-interview the original detectives and track down interviews with the prosecution teams and defense attorneys. We also interviewed the families of the victims. They were great shows to work on.
Scenes from After the First 48
The job meant I was responsible for research, booking interviews, directing in the field, writing the episode scripts (including narration) and working alongside an editor to craft a 43 minute episode. I was required to respond to ITV executive and A&E network notes, supervise the narration read; make sure the final episode passed a legal review, a review by the police department and a fact check. I was ultimately responsible that the actual tape was delivered to the network -- and in various formats. I was even responsible for the QC.
But most of all, I was responsible for the story and to supervise the edit. Editors played a big role in post production and in storytelling, but as far the ITV was concerned, it was my episode of their series. If a subject was unhappy (or happy - it does happen), with the story, they called me. If something went wrong - even a faulty edit, I was the first person they called.
So, you tell me; Who "authored" that story?
Documentaries with a director are different.
In those cases, editors often have a much stronger hand. The real creative dialogue is between the director and the editor, sometimes with a story producer in the middle. Executive producers weigh in. Distributors weigh in. But there is still an auteur at work—the director. It’s their film.
And, frankly, if the executive producers are actually paying the costs of production, well, then, they own the story, too. They get a big say. They get the credit (and maybe the residuals), and they should get the blame if it fails. Editors almost never get sued and I know I keep coming back to the legal side of things, but when questions of authorship arise, it's pretty clear where the action will be in court. Producers pay up. Editors keep their heads down.
Editors in these docs clearly help to author the narrative. They may not have been in the field, but they spend more time with the story than anyone and gain the same attachment and sense of responsibility to the subjects that producers and directors do.
In fact, editors often become stronger advocates for truth than directors. They protect the story. They are not dispassionate - they are shaping the story in deep and meaningful ways. They build sequences and frame narrative, working shoulder to shoulder with directors until the bitter end.
Case in point. Lindy Jankura, seen above, was brought on to edit an episode of The Innocence Files for Netflix. Alex Gibney was the director and I was the producer. Brad Hebert was the EP for Jigsaw and there were a number of execs at Netflix involved in the decision making. Fair to say that I found the story, developed the leads and relationships, and was the principal connect with the story on the ground. Alex directed major interviews and the recreations and consulted with Lindy on the overall story direction. Who better? He's amazing.
In that situation, I debriefed Lindy on the story, suggested a working outline and deferred to Alex for the direction. But it was Lindy who had to build the story from the ground up. She dove into the massive amount of footage we collected. Honed every bit of verite we shot. And along the way she became deeply committed to streamlining a complex story while fleshing out the emotional beats. She grew "close" to Chester Hollman, the man who was sitting in prison awaiting the review of his case - even though they had never met in person. And she fought to include deeply emotional stories that Chester and his family shared with us. She built detailed scenes that formed the architectures for very complex animations and recreations.
So, tell me; who controls the narrative here? Who is the "author" of this doc? Lindy, Alex, Netflix, Me? The director gets the credit and rightfully so. Alex is brilliant and this kind of series or film does not get made without him. And he would be the first to tell anyone that making a film or episode like this is collaborative. After all, he was once an editor.
One quick anecdote. There was a celebration for Chester after he was released and Lindy, our PA, Nimco Sheikhaden and I drove down to Philly to celebrate. Lindy brought Chester a copy of Luther Vandross's Greatest Hits because when I asked Chester what kind of music he liked, he mentioned Luther and we all joked about it. I don't think editors often get a chance to meet the subjects of their films, but seeing Lindy and Chester hug and talk about the film was very poignant to me.
Lately, some editors are asking for—and receiving—writing credit. That makes sense. More power to them. Happy to share.
The takeaway is simple: clear these situations up before you begin. Don’t be vague. Define authorship, authority, and responsibility at the outset.
SO, How do we work together?
Sounds simple, right?
If you’ve never worked together before, it isn’t. There’s a lot to figure out. Editing is human interaction. It requires social skills, clear communication, and patience. You’ve been shooting for months, using one part of your brain. Now you have to shut that down and build something new—with new tools, new rules, and another person at the controls. This is the second leg of the marathon.
Working in Person
Do you need to be in the same room all the time? No.
Back when most of us worked in tiny New York City production offices, producers were often parked behind editors simply to save desk space. That meant hovering at the computer—writing script notes, hunting for shots, pulling archive.
It’s hard to concentrate when someone is staring at your back. There’s also a power dynamic: sitting behind the editor and “calling shots” can make you feel important. I was never good at that. When it made sense, I pulled my chair next to the editor instead. It feels more egalitarian. But, typically, some editors hated that too.
If you are sharing space a few rules help
Smell don’t
Talking I love to talk but I can burn an entire day on nonsense
that has nothing to do with the story be aware of that
Neatness keep the room clean don’t leave notes lying around
for anyone to read
Organization run a tight ship use clear file names
prep footage properly don’t dump random material into the cut
everything will be scrutinized during legal review
a working storyboard is invaluable
Eating avoid it if you can I once worked with an editor
who ate a massive greasy meatball sandwich while cutting
it was awful even though I love meatball sandwiches
editors appreciate treats chocolate goes a long way
Manners set boundaries respect deadlines
be conscious of the pressure you’re putting on the editor
Friends don’t bring them into the edit room
to watch cuts or hang out
Walks take them
Leave the editor alone sometimes
Working Remotely
Remote editing doesn’t have to be terrible—but only if you’re organized.
Everyone needs to speak the same language: file naming, bin structure, versioning. Without a shared server, it’s often hard to know what’s actually in the project. You lose some spontaneity—the joy of asking an editor to open a bin and discovering something neither of you remembered was there.
Because of that, a strong outline or working storyboard isn’t optional. It’s essential. Here's a cheap option that I use.
You also need clarity about what part of the story you’re working on and when. And then there’s timing. Most editors I know are night owls. If you’re not, things can get strange. Remotely, you don’t always know when someone is working—or what else they might be working on. That uncertainty can be stressful, especially if you’ve never collaborated before. You can’t just drop by the edit room and see what’s happening.
Frame.io is great for precise notes and sharing cuts. It’s also a minefield.
Written notes can feel harsh fast. Sometimes, watching a long cut, you want to say: I hate that and everything about it and I will never change my mind—please change it. That’s honest, but it’s not kind, and it puts editors on the defensive.
I once got into real trouble by typing “UGH” in all caps—frustration aimed at the footage, not the person. It backfired. If we’d been in the room and they’d seen my face when I said it, the meaning would’ve been clear.
Tone matters. Context matters. And when you’re remote, both are easy to lose.
How to Behave During a Screening
This is a topic that doesn’t get enough attention. Screenings are usually set up with the best intentions, yet it’s rare for everyone to leave without bruised feelings. The stakes are high—and most people have very little training in how to give criticism. I didn’t. I learned on the job.
And trust me, I’ve seen every version of a bad screening.
I once sat through a screening where an executive interrupted within the first thirty seconds and never stopped talking for the next hour—constantly starting and stopping the cut, never allowing anything to develop. Even when we asked to just give it five minutes, they couldn’t help themselves. Grow up.
I’ve also been in screenings where the executive never looked at the screen at all—head down, reading the script, completely disengaged from what was actually happening onscreen. Wake up.
Eating during screenings. Sending text messages to each other during screenings. Farting during screenings. Screaming during screenings. Falling asleep during screenings. Thowing scripts. Talking as if the editor wasnt there.
A good practice is to hand everyone a copy of the script and a pen. Tell them to write down their comments and mark a timecode if possible. Then either screen the entire film and talk or screen 15 minutes at a time then talk. Keep the comments on the work and try to realize the state that the cut is in. If it's rough, concentrate on the story. Resist the urge to fix it in the room. Resist the urge to frame fuck. Be nice. If you get a lot of notes, don't tackle them right away. Blow off some steam.
For what it’s worth, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve actually made it through an entire cut without interruption or the big wig in the room having to leave for a few minutes then the whole thing falls apart.
After the initial screenings its time to make some hard and creative choices. Chances are the notes will flatten your narrative and you have to rebuild the entire thing. By this time in the process you get exhausted and the editor is fired up. Their nice cut has just been slaughtered so they can be touchy. This is where the process can really break down. Be careful here.
Fine cut is where you can be much more specific within scenes. One tip I use when cutting down a doc is to do this; I go through the entire script and highlight potential cuts and get their timings. I share this with the editor and together we judge each cut on a scale of 1 to 5. One is something you are very reluctant to cut. Five is a no-brainer. You'd be surprised how this little game makes it easier to get rid of things that have been bothering the both of you. Try not to play hardball here. When you get down to the 1's and 2's, you may find that you've cut enough of the other stuff that you can hold on to the darlings.
Picture lock should be all about the visual and audio choices. This is where the grace notes happen. Online sessions are not about editorial changes and weirdly, the editor is usually not in these screenings. Warning! This is not the time to put back things that you disagreed on with the editor. That's a very shitty move and if you do that I will personally kick you out of the producer club.
I’ve always believed the editor and I are a team. We work shoulder to shoulder to get the cut where it needs to be.
One other cautionary note: I’ve been sabotaged by an editor during a screening—thrown under the bus to curry favor with a executive producer who didn’t like a particular decision. It was a naked ploy, and it backfired. It’s happened more than once, and it’s always shocking. And I know the opposite happens. Its so easy to blame the editor.
That said, I’ll own my side of things. When an edit is going badly—when there’s no chemistry, when we’re struggling, or when an editor simply isn’t bringing it (and that does happen)—I’ve complained privately. And I’m sure editors have complained about me. I can be frustrating. I change my mind. I’m sometimes vague.
When people are unhappy with each other, it’s miserable—and the work suffers. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’ve fired editors or gotten them off a job when things weren’t working. What I don’t believe in is selling someone out in front of others—during a screening or at any other time.
A screening should be about the work, not about positioning, blame, or panic. Give the cut time to breathe. Pay attention. Take notes. Save judgments until there’s context. Respect the people in the room.
How you can help the editor
Really, there are a lot of things
you can do to make it nice.
Editors do their best work when producers and directors create the conditions for them to think. That sounds obvious, but it’s surprisingly rare. Editing requires sustained concentration, emotional safety, and clarity of purpose. If the people in charge are anxious, disorganized, or unclear about who owns the story, that anxiety seeps directly into the cut. The editor feels it immediately.
Before the first frame is touched, producers and directors can help by clearly defining authorship, decision-making authority, and responsibility. Who is steering the story? Who breaks ties? Who answers to legal, network, or distributor notes? Ambiguity here doesn’t make the process more “collaborative”—it just makes it more stressful.
Preparation matters more than taste. Editors are not magicians; they can’t solve structural problems that haven’t been thought through at all. A strong outline, a working storyboard, or even a shared understanding of what the film is trying to be gives the editor something solid to push against.
Organization is part of this respect. Clean bins, clear naming conventions, properly prepped footage, and disciplined versioning aren’t administrative niceties—they’re creative enablers. Sloppiness upstream steals time and focus downstream, and editors are the ones who pay for it.
How notes are given matters as much as what the notes are. Editors need room to let ideas develop, to watch a cut breathe, and to fail privately before succeeding publicly. Constant interruptions, performative criticism in screenings, or sharp notes delivered without context shut that process down. So does written feedback that’s vague, emotional, or loaded with subtext. If something isn’t working, say so plainly and calmly—and if you’re reacting emotionally, own that. Editors aren’t mind readers, and they shouldn’t be asked to decode tone or politics while solving story.
Finally, loyalty and trust go a long way. Editors take risks on behalf of the project, and they need to know the people they’re working with won’t sell them out in a room full of executives or weaponize a screening to shift blame. When things aren’t working, handle it privately and professionally. Protect the edit room.
When producers and directors show up prepared, communicate clearly, respect the editor’s process, and take responsibility for the story, editors can do what they do best: help turn raw material into something coherent, honest, and alive.
So here’s the truth I’ve been dancing around for several thousand words:
if documentary editors didn’t exist, producers and directors would have to invent them. And we would invent them badly. We would invent someone who agrees with us all the time, works faster than physics allows, never complains about footage, loves temp music, and understands exactly what we mean when we say, “You know… more energy.” That person would be terrible at the job—and the film would be worse.
The editor sitting in that expensive chair, with twenty-five windows open and headphones on, is not “my” editor. They are a collaborator, a translator, a mechanic, a therapist, and—on a good day—the only adult in the room. They absorb our anxiety, our indecision, our bad metaphors, our late-night texts, and our wildly conflicting notes, and somehow turn it into something watchable. Sometimes beautiful. Sometimes even true.
And yes, they will continue to hover over clips for ten seconds. They will think when we want them to act. They will defend temp music like it’s a childhood pet. They will stay up all night while we wonder why they’re “behind.” They will drive us crazy. We will drive them crazy. This is the deal.
But every once in a while—usually years later, usually over a drink—we’ll run into each other and laugh about the dumbest thing: a line reading, a look, a mistranslated word, a cut we fought over that no one remembers but us. And in that moment, it’s clear: the film wasn’t just made in the edit room. It was made because of it.
So no, they’re not “my” editor. They’re just the person who saved my film.
Shout out to great editors and friends like Paul Rosen, Grai St. Clair Rice, Justin Cece, Faith Jones, Michael Sheehan, David Varga, Gregg Paine, Mike Baluzy, Jeremy Siefer Lindy Jankura, Cy Christiansen, Frank Kerauden, Miki Watanabe Milmore, John Chimples, Jill Schweitzer, Benno Schoberth Cindy Kaplan Rooney, Josh Pearson, Luis Alvarez y Alvarez, Robert Salsbury, Dave Marcus, Chris White, Mikey Palmer and many, many others who will remind me after reading this that I forgot them.
If you like this article, let me know in the comments. And if you are stuck in the editing of your documentary, let me know. I can help get you out of the ditch.