Some documentaries arrest you mid-thought, suspending disbelief with stories so strange they feel scripted. The tale of a man who hijacked trains, not once, but over a hundred times belongs firmly in that category of urban myth made real. Yet Off the Rails does not sensationalize Darius McCollum’s life so much as it gently dissects it, revealing the human ache behind the headlines.

If the story has already pulled you in, the next question feels inevitable: where can you actually watch this deeply unusual documentary?

Primarily, Off the Rails is available on Prime Video, where viewers can rent or purchase it. It also frequently appears across digital storefronts such as Apple TV, Google Play, and YouTube Movies, making it relatively accessible despite its niche appeal. Occasionally, it surfaces on documentary-focused streaming platforms, though availability can vary by region and licensing cycles.

The film itself carries an equally fascinating production and release journey. Shot across New York and Toronto, it uses Toronto’s Lower Bay station, a decommissioned yet functional subway platform, as a stand-in for reenactments, lending an eerie authenticity to its sequences. It premiered at the Full Frame Documentary Film Festival in North Carolina on April 7, 2016, before traveling to Hot Docs in Toronto, and later debuting in Europe at the Raindance Film Festival in London. 

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But beyond the logistics of viewing lies the deeper intrigue: why did McCollum do it at all?

Directed by Adam Irving, the documentary explores Darius McCollum not as a criminal mastermind, but as a man shaped by neurological difference and social exclusion. Diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome, he developed an intense, almost encyclopedic fixation with the New York transit system. As a child in 1970s Queens, the subway became both refuge and identity, he memorized routes by age eight and learned to operate trains through informal mentorships with transit workers.

By fifteen, he had already driven a packed train across eight stations, flawlessly. Over the next three decades, he commandeered trains and buses with startling competence, adhering strictly to routes and schedules, never causing harm or damage. Yet the system he revered repeatedly punished him: arrested 32 times and spending a cumulative 23 years in maximum-security prisons.

The documentary does not excuse his actions, but it reframes them. Was this obsession? Protest? A misunderstood plea for belonging? McCollum even attended union meetings, advocating for workers’ rights in a system that never formally recognized him. It is this paradox, devotion without permission that makes his story so unsettlingly poignant.

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What do you make of Darius McCollum’s story: crime, compulsion, or something far more complex? Share your thoughts in the comments.