n November 2024, following Donald Trump’s victory in the US presidential elections, The New Yorker’s “war guy,” staff reporter Jon Lee Anderson, was among those who could sense what was to come. “We are about to see the assumption in office of a president who will try to reset the world… and it will inform so much of what happens in other countries. So much.”

As the world rang in the New Year, the US forces captured Venezuelan President Nicolás Maduro. While the world argued about the [il] legality of the act, the media was trying to grasp what term best described the stunning event—and was not in conflict with the editorial line and state posturing.

Images of a shackled Maduro splashed across screens and made headlines for days. Maduro has since pleaded not guilty to narcotics charges. During his court appearance in New York, he said that he had been “kidnapped.” Reuters quoted Maduro as saying, “I am innocent. I am not guilty. I am a decent man. I am still the president of my country.”

In the grand scheme of things, Anderson’s 2024 observation in the Netflix documentary, The New Yorker at 100, was not as much of a revelation as a journalistic instinct in a reporter who had been covering conflicts across the globe (Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, among others) and witnessing the global repercussions of consequential events—namely, Trump’s second term in the White House.

In his January 3, piece for The New Yorker, Anderson wrote: “Early Saturday morning, when President Donald Trump launched a bombing raid on Venezuela and captured its strongman President Nicolás Maduro, few observers were entirely surprised.”

While the 2025 documentary featuring The New Yorker newsroom—six months before its milestone 100th anniversary issue—is largely a celebration of the magazine, it also reflects on pressing challenges to the world of journalism, its relevance and the sheer need in a divisive world.

Produced and directed by Marshall Curry, the over 90-minute-long documentary was released in December 2025, following its premiere at a film festival in August. Narrated by Academy Award winner Julianne Moore, the documentary opens up the world of The New Yorker as viewers are instantly thrown into a weekly staff meeting buzzing with ideas, banter and the very anxiety of producing a 100th anniversary issue.

That would be no small feat.

“Every great story we have done over the past 100 years starts with a great idea,” is how David Remnick, a Pulitzer winner himself and the editor of the magazine since 1998, describes the process of their storytelling. No surprises then for his self-assured declaration: “The New Yorker is a miracle; okay?”

Founded in 1925 by Harold Ross, described in the documentary as an “unlikely founder,” what started as a humour and literary magazine positioned itself as a serious journalistic publication in the later decades. From commentaries (political and cultural) and reporting to fiction, poetry and humour, the magazine expanded into spheres that challenged the notion of a limiting profile for a weekly. Not only does the magazine have a digital platform, it also has an audio as well as a film and television division.

That’s not all.

The New Yorker continues to position itself not just as a magazine, with a unique style guide and an air of elite intellect, but also an institution that runs its own festival and sells its own merchandise. One cannot but help notice its portrayal in mainstream cinema and television. Wes Anderson’s 2021 comedy drama The French Dispatch, for instance, portrays real life New Yorker writers as fictional characters, with Bill Murray playing a fictionalised version of the magazine’s founding editor, Harold Ross.

The documentary makes an effort to not ignore, in fact accentuate, these aspects of the magazine. Interspersed with short interviews of celebrities including Sarah Jessica Parker, Jon Hamm, Jesse Eisenberg, Nate Bargatze, among others, it showcases the real and reel or stage life association of celebrities with the magazine—whether through a collage of popular depictions in cinema or through personal anecdotes and favourites.

Cartoons have always been an integral part of the magazine, which has a dedicated cartoon editor and even a weekly cartoons meeting. Roz Chast is a cartoonist at The New Yorker, whose work has appeared in the magazine since 1978. Beyond the newsroom, a peek into Chast’s home shows her talking to her parrot, drawing cartoons. “I don’t think you do this job unless you really can’t do anything else,” is exactly what you’d expect a New Yorker cartoonist to be telling its readers.

Then there’s fiction.

The magazine has to date published over 13,000 stories, out of which some 78 have been featured in an anthology celebrating The New Yorker’s 100th anniversary. The presence of fiction in the modern-day version of the magazine is unique—that thought is not lost on Remnick, the editor. “It’s a pretty rare thing for magazines even remotely like ours to have fiction.”

“I am perfectly aware that there is some portion of our readership that doesn’t look at fiction at all… but I also know that there’s a portion of our readership; and fiction is what they care about the most.”

What stands out the most in the documentary is the charting of the magazine’s transformation over the decades — and how stories shape narratives and perceptions.

The magazine receives between 7,000 and 10,000 submissions annually. Out of those 50 are published following a rigorous fiction selection meeting. That the magazine has kept its fiction alive is intriguing but unsurprising given its prestigious list of published authors: JD Salinger, Dorothy Parker, Shirley Jackson, Jhumpa Lahiri, Jadie Smith, Haruki Murakamiand George Saunders.

Fiction has not let the magazine impact how it defines itself or its work since it has been an almost historical part of its very character, much like the wit and humour. But that does not take away from the seriousness of its journalistic work.

What stands out the most in the documentary is the charting of the magazine’s transformation over the decades—and how stories shape narratives and perceptions. For instance, an entire issue was dedicated to John Hersey’s 30,000-word non-fiction on Hiroshima in August 1946, at a time when the US government had banned the publication of any photograph depicting the civilian impact of their nuclear bombing in Japan. That issue sold out within hours.

William Shawn, the second in command to Ross during the early years, and, later, the editor, emerges as a common theme in many featured works. Referred to as a shy but “fearless editor,” Shawn’s fierce editorial judgment is on full display in the film, whether it is the publishing of the serialised work of Rachel Carson investigating the impact of DDT at a time when its use was indiscriminate and considered safe, or when he asks James Baldwin, then an upcoming writer, to pen an essay for the magazine at the height of the civil rights movement in the US.

In December 1992, The New York Times ran a story following Shawn’s passing. The headline referred to Shawn as “New Yorker’s gentle despot.” The story read: “After Mr Shawn succeeded the magazine’s founding editor, Harold Ross, in 1952, he quietly but firmly presided over a shift from its original flippancy to a more serious tone, which, he insisted, merely mirrored ‘a new awareness’ among writers and readers.”

The trials and tribulations in editorial calls are unending and relentless. The publishing of Truman Capote’s controversial 1965 four-part true crime series In Cold Blood would later make Shawn say that he regretted publishing it. The authenticity of the story had raised questions owing to certain fictional liberties taken by the author. Shawn had marked his own queries in Capote’s piece during the editing process, which the documentary shows through original edits with his notes scribbled on the sides.

Enter fact-checking.

In a world where facts increasingly appear not to be sacred, and where technology and AI coupled with a growing public mistrust in the mainstream media are posing challenges to reporting the truth, fact-checking has become as essential as journalism itself.

Boasting a 29-people strong fact-checking department, The New Yorker’s fact-checking has been “once compared to a colonoscopy,” in the words of editor Remnick. It wouldn’t be wrong to say so, especially when the film shows some of the queries raised with sources during their fact-checking. “We say you invited Jon Lee over for a cup of tea,” says a fact-checker in Arabic [with English subtitles] over a call. “Was it coffee or tea?”

Thorough, indeed. Like the closing meeting, where editors and writers go through an entire piece line by line. A review of the dummy book with the editor is then the absolute last thing.

The noble cause of speaking truth to power has faced major setbacks across the globe in the face of blatant abuse of power. This has put journalism at risk, especially when it is unable or constrained to do what it has to do.

When Ronan Farrow felt that he could no longer have his stories investigating Harvey Weinstein published because of the intimidation faced by media outlets, Remnick let him continue at The New Yorker. A popular byline, Farrow is a contributing writer at the magazine; his beat is power. For him, the magazine is fearless as long as the facts support it.

As anyone familiar with newsrooms, even those with the faintest semblance to one, would know, at their core lie ideas—and caffeine and illegible notes. When Richard Brody, a New Yorker film critic, talks about his process of reviewing films, he does so while talking about his remarkable daily intake of coffee and the struggle to read his own notes. Or when staff writer Kelefa Sanneh shares how his only job is to be interesting, he talks about the idea of a curious readership of the magazine that is willing to “go where you take them.”

Within these anecdotes lie realities of journalists and editors, whose work reflects so much of the world around us. When the documentary interviews New Yorker staffers and shadows them as they set out to report or interview, not only do the viewers see the product but also the people and their process. The best part is watching these journalists work and listening to them reading excerpts from their stories.

It is these experiences of and trying to do journalism that when played out on a screen, by unveiling the behind-the-scenes of a newsroom (not just any but one which has won eleven Pulitzers to date), stir conversations about the world we live in and the stories journalists attempt to tell.

Election night, November 2024: as projections indicate Trump’s win and a somber mood takes over the newsroom, the magazine’s art editor, Françoise Mouly finalises the cover for their post-election issue. Holding a black and white Trump silhouette cover print, Mouly shows the camera what the editor chose. “It’s hard to believe but we can’t shape reality. We can only reflect it,” she says, shrugging her shoulders.

How journalists take on that task of reflecting reality—of the world, the people and their stories—has a lot to do with how important they hold the job they do: hope against defeat and despair. In the words of Remnick, “Despair is the unforgivable sin. So, no… that’s impermissible.”

The writer is a staff member.