Tyler Strickland’s Documentary Score Lesson

When the Creative Arts Emmy for Outstanding Music Composition for a Documentary went to Tyler Strickland for ‘John Candy: I Like Me,’ it wasn’t just a first-time win for the composer. It was a quiet validation of a particular kind of scoring work that rarely gets the spotlight: the documentary score that has to carry warmth, sadness, and the ragged edge of a public persona without ever tipping into melodrama. Colin Hanks’ Prime Video film about the beloved Canadian comedian could have been a nostalgia reel. Instead, it’s a layered portrait of a man whose laughter was famously loud and whose private life was famously complicated. Strickland’s music had to hold both truths at once. That’s a hard ask, and the Emmy correctly says he pulled it off.

Strickland isn’t a household name like a Hans Zimmer or a John Williams, but in the documentary and indie film world, his work has been building a quiet reputation for years. His background is telling: he’s a multi-instrumentalist, a producer, and a guy who clearly thinks in textures rather than just themes. Before this film, he scored projects like ‘We Are Legion: The Story of the Hacktivists’ and worked with directors who want music that feels organic to the material, not plastered on top. For ‘I Like Me,’ that meant writing cues that could shift between the buoyant, almost vaudevillian energy of Candy’s public performances and the intimate, sometimes somber colors of his home life. The score’s trick is that it never picks a side. It lets the audience feel the joy of the comedy and the ache of the man in the same breath, often within a single cue.

Musically, the score is built on a palette that’s deceptively simple. You’ll hear a lot of piano, some plucked strings, and winds that feel close to a folk or Americana idiom. That’s a smart choice for a documentary about a Canadian icon from the 70s and 80s — it gives a sense of place and era without relying on period-specific needle drops. But the real craft is in the harmonic language. Strickland avoids the major-key bombast that would make Candy’s story feel like a triumph narrative. Instead, he leans into modal writing and gentle dissonances, especially in scenes that deal with Candy’s constant need to please and his struggles with food addiction and self-worth. There’s a cue late in the film, during the section about Candy’s final night filming on a movie set in Mexico, where the music feels almost suspended — a soft, shimmering bed of strings and a single flute line that doesn’t resolve. It’s an uncomfortable, gorgeous sound that perfectly mirrors the unresolved grief of his sudden death at 43. That’s what documentary scoring should be: not a narration of emotion, but a space where the audience can find their own.

For composers and music supervisors reading this, there’s a real lesson in Strickland’s approach to the documentary format. The instinct to write big, lush cues for every dramatic beat is the enemy of great documentary work. What winds up winning — both at awards and in emotional impact — is restraint. Strickland’s score has moments where it’s almost silent, leaving just a solo piano note hanging under a talking head. Those are the spots where the film breathes, and where the audience’s own memory of Candy’s laughter does the heavy lifting. The score doesn’t compete with archival footage or interviews; it sits in the gaps, connecting moments without dictating their mood. That’s not just craft, it’s confidence. And it’s a level of trust between composer and director that’s hard to build but essential for any documentary that aims for more than a Wikipedia-article vibe.

It’s also worth noting that ‘John Candy: I Like Me’ is a Prime Video release and the score is out on Lakeshore Records. That’s a label with a strong track record of releasing scores that stand alone as listening experiences, and this one does. But what makes it matter beyond the film itself is its position in the bigger conversation about documentary music. For years, the Emmy in this category has gone to scores that feel cinematic in the traditional sense — big orchestras, clear themes, obvious emotional signposts. Strickland’s win, against what would have been stiff competition, signals a shift. It says the Television Academy is paying attention to scores that are textural, intimate, and spiritually tied to the people on screen, not just the format of the project. That’s a win for every composer who’s been told a documentary is just a “small” score and that they should keep it simple. Simple is not easy, and this Emmy proves it.

If you’re scoring a documentary right now, or thinking about pitching for one, study what Strickland did here. Listen to how he uses silence. Notice how he lets a cue end on an unresolved chord when the subject’s life story is unresolved. See how he picks instruments that sound like they come from the world of the film — there’s a lonesome harmonica moment in there that just feels like a late-night diner after a show in some small town. That’s the real game. Not just matching the images but finding the sound inside the person’s story. Strickland pulled that off for a comedy icon, and it’s precisely why the award sits on his shelf now. The rest of us can just listen, learn, and get back to work.