You would think as time goes by, the quality of our music would get better. But perhaps part of the reason recent years have seen a resurgence in vinyl is because the sound quality of CDs and MP3, with all their 21st-century compression, is actually worse. Couple that with some Apple ear buds, and you're really missing out on the experience.

So while most of us aren't familiar with large format 20" x 24" polaroids, us music aficionados can at least empathize with this bygone medium -- and by extension, the medium's grand master, portrait photographer Elsa Dorfman. The scale of her photos allowed a degree of detail that the Boston photographer laments is no longer possible. And the irony: her work started in the 1960s (as a fun little twist, her photos often feature beat writers like Allen Gingsburg, who was a good friend). As her stockpile of large-format polaroid film runs out, she's set on retiring, so neighbour/friend Errol Morris has sought to capture her career in this succinct 76-minute film.

At first glimpse, B-Side, with its quirky and upbeat (although clearly well-lived) protagonist, is a far cry from Morris's earlier work, at least tonally. 1988's The Thin Blue ine, which was kind of the OG Making a Murderer, and 2003's The Fog of War have pointed political messages, and Morris, who is often heard off-camera in his documentaries, doesn't shy away from getting to the hard questions. While B-Side is inherently lighter than interviewing, say, a former U.S. Secretary of Defense, it also doesn't entire depart from the director's m.o. Morris especially likes finding interesting people, sitting them in a chair, and letting them go off on tangents -- it's his luck or brilliance that these tangents more often than not are really interesting.

And that's precisely what Morris does here. Throughout the film, Dorfman pulls out prints from boxes and cabinets in what appears to be a garage-turned-studio. Sometimes we get to see friends of Dorfman -- prominently more than one nude Ginsberg portrait -- allowing us to get the stories behind the moments.

Most interestingly, however, is when Dorfman's tangent wax poetic (or maybe not so poetic -- she is of the Beat generation) about the nature of art: Photography is inherently fake, she says, that's why she loves it. She's not interesting in capturing what's under the surface--her job is capturing what people want to present.

These statements seem to fly in the face of classic concepts of art, but Dorfman, who refuses to let her photos be matted and framed in exhibitions, lest they lost the natural border marks caused by the film chemicals, is clearly a skilled technician. For a sub-genre of photography that is often snubbed by the fine-art world as "not-quite art," it's interesting that Dorfman doesn't even seem remotely concerned with trying to impress.

And neither is Morris, for that matter. The film takes its name from the "reject" prints that Dorfman's clients choose not to take -- but that she often loves for their sheer humanness. In a way, Morris's film is something of a b-side as well. Instead of pulling in contemporaries and art critics to tell the viewer how prolific Dorfman is, he just shows us in her space, telling her stories. It's a simple affair. But Elsa Dorfman has clearly lived no simple life.