Mark Reviews Movies: SUMMER OF SOUL (...OR, WHEN THE REVOLUTION COULD NOT BE TELEVISED)

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Review by Mark Dujsik | July 1, 2021

The culture and history of the summer of 1969 have come to be defined by two events: Woodstock and the Apollo 11 moon landing. Before the former and as the latter was unfolding, another significant event was and had been unfolding—not in the muddy fields of a farm in New York state or amidst the dusty desolation of our natural satellite, but in the heart of a New York City neighborhood. The Harlem Cultural Festival, an ambitious series of concerts, ran for six consecutive Sundays in the neighborhood's Mount Morris Park and featured a wealth of talent.

Most probably won't have heard of this festival—partly because it was overshadowed by Woodstock, but mostly because it has gone down a memory hole. The performers were Black artists and musical groups, as well as comedians and activists. While the entire series of concerts was recorded, nobody seemed interested in doing anything with the extensive footage.

The man who produced the coverage eventually tried selling it as the "Black Woodstock." That made the attempts to sell it worse, he notes—a depressing observation, indicative, not only of those days, but also of all the days and years and decades since. As a result, the videos of the festival sat in a basement for half a century.

Even people who attended one or multiple days of the festival seem a bit skeptical about its actual existence. One man, who attended when he was a teenager, watches the footage with awe and disbelief. He knew it happened. It had to have happened, but when the evidence of such a personally and culturally and historically significant event just disappears without a trace, can a person even trust his or her memories.

"I knew I wasn't crazy," the man announces, although he was starting to suspect that he might have been. That's what happens when a moment in cultural history is simply erased.

The interview with the attendee is part of Summer of Soul (...Or, When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised), the debut feature of Ahmir "Questlove" Thompson, the musician best known for his work with the Roots. It's a documentary of supreme joy—for the art and power of performance, the atmosphere of a massive and fully invested gathering, and the recollection and validation of an event that was seemingly lost to time and societal knowledge—and thorough inspection.

Thompson could have simply given us the highlights of the '69 festival and called it a day. Indeed, one hopes that one day—and a day very soon—someone will finally make that footage easily and widely available. In the meantime, the fairly extensive sampling of the festival we get here is staggering. We watch the likes of Stevie Wonder, Nina Simone, Sly and the Family Stone, and Gladys Knight—plus many more—perform, not only with their usual verve, but also with the added weight of embracing the momentous event in which they're participating.

On that level alone, this documentary is a triumph. Thompson, fully aware of the treasure trove of talent to which he has access, simply allows many of these performances to unfold, uninterrupted and without commentary.

Even when someone—often the people performing on stage in interviews recorded later or with the filmmaker—does talk over a song, Thompson makes certain that the music is still a strong and distinguishable presence on the soundtrack. That's what a musician brings to such a retrospective: understanding and respect. For example, a musician knows that the only thing that would be worse than interrupting B.B. King singing is to interrupt King playing a guitar solo. Thompson, wisely, does neither.

He also brings knowledge and passion for musical history, theory, and technique. When he interviews these musicians about the experience of the festival, we also get a sense of their careers until that point, how their style fits into or is distinct from other acts of the time, and how the music and success of each act fits into the broader scope of contemporary culture and society.

Billy Davis Jr. and Marilyn McCoo, members of the 5th Dimension, relate how their fame arose from having a "white" sound ("How is a sound colored?" McCoo wonders) and, as a result, the feeling of suspicion that came with their performance at the festival. There's also just witnessing the amazement of McCoo's reaction to the footage, which Thompson allows most of his interview subjects to view while they reminisce. The effect of that simple technique—observing the observers—has a palpable impact.

There are others interviewees, too, speaking of their histories and music and this experience. Wonder, for example, at a turning point in his career, also notes this was a turning point for him to become more politically active, while everyone speaks of the distinct dominance of Simone's performance, rooted in righteous rage and undeniable hope.

Another highlight comes from Mavis Staples, then part of the family group the Staple Singers with her father and two sisters. She relates how the act combined gospel, folk, and blues, without her even realizing Roebuck "Pops" Staples, her father, was playing the blues on his guitar. The daughter later recalls the honor of accompanying Mahalia Jackson, who belts as if she has an endless supply of breath in her lungs, in a tribute to Martin Luther King Jr. That powerful performance embodies one of the running themes of the effect of the festival on the audience and the participants: a sense of catharsis through music.

This was a time when such catharsis was vital, following a decade (and more, of course) of political assassinations and community uprisings and the backlash against de-segregation and Vietnam and a rising divide between the philosophies of non-violence and self-defense. If the music and the performers are rightly the stars of this documentary, that doesn't prevent Thompson from digging into and offering essential context to this particular moment within Harlem and beyond, from socioeconomic, cultural, and political perspectives.

It was a moment when the term "Black" replaced another one, as a reporter from the New York Times (who was also at the festival) notes her fight to make that editorial change within the paper of record. As two men land on the moon during the third Sunday of the festival, the event is met with understandable skepticism from the audience. It's historical, yes, but if the government can spend that much money on that, how much could they be spending to address the actual problems of people on Earth, in the United States, and, specifically, within Harlem.

Somehow, Thompson brings all of this—the history, the cultural evolution/revolution, the politics, and, obviously, the music—together in Summer of Soul (...Or, When the Revolution Could Not Be Televised), into an artifact bursting with ideas and life. The film is an act of remembrance, analysis, and, above all else, love for a time, a culture, and, of course, music.

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