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View on web October 21, 2026 I can't stop thinking about this scene from Nathan Fielder's mind-bending Elizabeth Holmes doc — and if you're trying to avoid spoilers, turn back now. Hilary Pollack The eggs scene in 'You Can See Everything' scrambles reality This review contains spoilers for the film You Can See Everything. I saw You Can See Everything — the new documentary about disgraced Theranos founder Elizabeth Holmes, co-directed by Nathan Fielder and Lance Oppenheim — on Thursday, and I still feel like my brain is trying to punch its way out of a bag, or like I’ve just awakened from an Inception-esque dream within a dream. It’s difficult to describe the winding, twisting, nearly three-hour film to someone unfamiliar with its many layers of context, from Fielder’s Dadaist, boundaryless approach to his subjects to Holmes’s hypnotic affect, which is either highly effective gaslighting or blinding, self-deluded earnestness. (Which is it? I still don’t know.) What happens when you take two unreliable narrators — make that three, if you include Holmes’s partner, Billy Evans, whose on-camera persona morphs from protective, naive tech bro to unscrupulous grifter — put them in a jar, and shake them? The result is that the more questions are asked, the further the truth drifts out of reach. It’s like staring at a Magic Eye image, slightly crossing your eyes, desperate to make out the hidden 3D subject, but never quite managing to see it. Eventually, you start worrying your eyes might get stuck that way. The discourse surrounding the film is already abundant, but we’re here to talk about the eggs. A24 If you’re familiar with the hallmarks of Fielderian programming, you know that Fielder is prone to hyperfixating on seemingly mundane details that later return to completely upend viewers’ expectations. In You Can See Everything, one such detail is observed in an exchange between Holmes and Evans as they make eggs. How much can be gleaned from watching someone make breakfast? A lot, apparently. In the first half of the film, Fielder is fully embedded in the rental home of Holmes and Evans, who have invited the filmmakers to document the final weeks before Holmes reports to federal prison. (How and why they agreed to this arrangement is incomprehensible if they knew anything about Fielder’s work.) During this time, the narrative takes a surprisingly sympathetic turn for Holmes, who seems intent on convincing the filmmakers — and Fielder specifically — that she is actually a sweet, misunderstood victim of circumstance, not a Machiavellian con woman who defrauded investors. Frankly, aspects of this claim feel convincing at times. Viewers are invited to witness her ostensibly less guarded moments, including a scene in which she makes breakfast with Evans. As Fielder interviews her, Holmes somewhat unenthusiastically and limply beats a bowl of eggs with a fork. The camera lingers on her feeble whisking technique. Then, after a few seconds, another set of hands enters the frame: those of Evans. Without a word, he takes the bowl and fork from Holmes and begins whipping the eggs with considerably greater fervor. Now, backseat driving in the kitchen is hardly uncommon among couples, though it feels like a fast track to bickering. (Evans tells Fielder that he and Holmes “never fight”; Holmes is also emphatic that she’s “never lied in her life.” Again, unreliable narrators.) What’s less common — or at least generally considered pretty rude and aggressive — is grabbing something out of your partner’s hands mid-task to take over. Fielder points this out, asking Evans why he felt the need to grab the eggs; Holmes explains that Evans doesn’t like the way she mixes them and thinks he can do it better. It’s a tiny interaction, but a remarkably revealing one. Evans feels comfortable taking control of something Holmes is doing, without so much as asking, and seems largely unaware of how his behavior might come across on camera. Holmes, meanw