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Summer of Soul: a black Woodstock doc?
More than just an assemblage of nostalgia
Summer of Soul: Billy Davis and Marilyn McCoo (aka 2/5ths of The Fifth Dimension) rejoice in performances past.
Where were you on July 20, 1969? Unless you were among the thousands fortunate enough to have been in Mount Morris Park for the opening of the Harlem Cultural Festival, chances are you were glued to a television set witnessing another historical milestone: that was the Sunday on which man first walked on the moon. When Walter Cronkite mentioned the concert on the CBS Evening News, it was probably the last time the event was discussed in public. The footage sat in a basement for 50 years, apparently waiting for Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson to come along and give the occasion its correct historical context and importance. Summer of Soul is more than just an assemblage of nostalgia; it’s a document of the times.
A camera slate with “Black Woodstock Doc” written across it opens the film. The free event, held 100 miles away from Max Yasgur’s farm, attracted 300,000 patrons over six consecutive weekends, each one packed with name talent. Sure as the sounds of war could be heard backing up Jimi Hendrix’s Woodstock rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner,” the Harlem Cultural Festival took on its own clamors of protest. Festival attendee Darry Lewis was 19 in 1969. He knew that the potential for violence escalated along with the temperature, and the summer in question was turning out to be a sizzler. It was a time in America’s history, not unlike today, when a divided Black community had rightfully lost faith in both elected officials and the police. One faction agreed with Andrew Young’s non-violent approach to healing, another nodded along when Kwame Ture downplayed the need for Blacks “to go to Vietnam and shoot somebody who the honky says is your enemy.” With tensions at a boiling point, Lewis suggests that the goal of the festival may have been to avoid a repeat of the King riots.
According to the ubiquitous Rev. Al Sharpton, “1969 was the pivotal year where the Negro died and Black was born.” The New York Times’ Charlayne Hunter-Gault was the first reporter to use “Black” instead of “Negro” in a story. Festival organizer Tony Lawrence was a lounge singer, a promoter, and a hustler in the finest sense of the word. According to a former assistant, “Tony talked a big game and he delivered.” Looking to turn the festival into a television spectacular, sponsor General Foods hired Hal Tulchin as director and producer. “Lighting Cameraperson” credit should have gone to God. Without a penny in the budget to rent so much as a candle, Tulchin suggested the stage face West to best maximize the afternoon sun.
Set against a giant mosaic backdrop, the lineup boasted such heavyweights as Sly and the Family Stone, Edwin Hawkins, Pops Staples and the Staple Singers, B.B. King, Gladys Knight and the synchronized saltations of her Pips, and Mongo Santamaria. A Temptations-free David Ruffin entered the “whistle range” with his four-octaves solo rendition of “My Girl,” while gospel giants Prof. Herman Stevens and the Voices of Faith and Clara Walker displayed a mastery in serving up the kind of music Sharpton referred to as “black people’s therapy.” Nina Simone took to the stage like an African Princess, using her voice to grab each member of the audience by their collars. The “unapologetically black” power couple — octopus-armed drummer Max Roach and the first, and most underlooked African-American Lady of Song, Abbey Lincoln — should need no introduction. And as if that were not enough, there was Mahalia Jackson and Mavis Staples engaging in a sing-off that will knock you out of your seat.
It wasn’t all music. Jackie “Mom” Mabley did a set, but the second biggest topic up for discussion was the lunar landing. Some in attendance called the moon landing a “waste of time” and argued that the money would have been better spent on curing the world of poverty. Perhaps the biggest pang of nostalgia was sounded by The Fifth Dimension. Two-fifths of the group, Billy Davis and Marilyn McCoo, were on hand to reminisce. The group was criticized by many for not being “black enough” — the Creamsicle-orange fringe vests and the puffy, sunshine yellow Eduardian sleeves didn’t help their case. Everybody thought they were a white act until they saw a picture of 5 Black folks singing “Up, Up and Away” in a hot air balloon.
With the anticipation of an adequate assemblage of janky concert footage quickly put to rest, it was just a matter of sitting back and allowing this long-thought-lost cultural happening to fill in the blank pages of history. Now playing at a theatre near you. ★★★
—Scott Marks
Video on Demand and New Release Roundup
No Sudden Move — A white guy in Detroit, 1954, is looking for a reliable black guy, preferably one fresh out of stir, to surrender three hours’ work in exchange for $5000. What’s the catch? It begins along the lines of The Desperate Hours, with two of the armed home invaders (Don Cheadle and Benicio del Toro) staying behind to watch the family while a third (Kieran Culkin) accompanies the bread-winner (David Harbour) to work — in this case, to collect blueprints, not cash. Neither the characters nor the caper radiate a familiar ring, particularly when we’re looking at a story involving industrial espionage in the Motor City that entails Studebaker pilfering GM’s blueprints for the catalytic converter. Steven Soderbergh’s star-studded, low budget heist flick packs more power (and rationale) than three Ocean’s combined. (Better the camera tell the story than the costumes.) The film is brimful with genre twists, none more effective and unconventional than Harbour beating his boss to a bloody pulp, all the while assuring him how much he loves his work. Watch it tonight on HBO Max. 2021. — S.M. ★★★
Zola — Drumroll: this marks the first film to be based on a viral Twitter thread, and in spite of that, it’s terrific! The harp music and hall of mirrors that open this dangerous black comedy go together like an exotic dancer and the pimp who automatically assumes that turning tricks is part of her job. Zola’s (Taylour Paige, fearless) a pro — there’s a stripper’s pole in her living room — but even the most skilled among us have our off days. Ever form a fast friendship with a coworker who turns out to be an ambulatory danger zone? Not as dumb as she looks or sounds, Stefani (Riley Keough, her cadenced delivery the backwoods equivalent of a lazy eye) dangles an excursion from Detroit to Tampa for a lucrative one-nighter. One day after they meet, Zola hits the road with Stefani, her questionable roommate X (Colman Domingo), and mawkishly dissatisfied boyfriend Derrek (Nicholas Braun). Writer-director Janicza Bravo’s frenetic pace resembles a freshly-shaken snowdome, the glittery contents never allowed time to settle. What follows is a wild, at times uncomfortable ride and one that pleases me to announce has found a home outside the arthouse confines at a multiplex near you. 2020. — S.M. ★★★
Here's something you might be interested in.
Summer of Soul: a black Woodstock doc?
More than just an assemblage of nostalgia
Summer of Soul: a black Woodstock doc?
More than just an assemblage of nostalgia
Summer of Soul: Billy Davis and Marilyn McCoo (aka 2/5ths of The Fifth Dimension) rejoice in performances past.
Where were you on July 20, 1969? Unless you were among the thousands fortunate enough to have been in Mount Morris Park for the opening of the Harlem Cultural Festival, chances are you were glued to a television set witnessing another historical milestone: that was the Sunday on which man first walked on the moon. When Walter Cronkite mentioned the concert on the CBS Evening News, it was probably the last time the event was discussed in public. The footage sat in a basement for 50 years, apparently waiting for Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson to come along and give the occasion its correct historical context and importance. Summer of Soul is more than just an assemblage of nostalgia; it’s a document of the times.
A camera slate with “Black Woodstock Doc” written across it opens the film. The free event, held 100 miles away from Max Yasgur’s farm, attracted 300,000 patrons over six consecutive weekends, each one packed with name talent. Sure as the sounds of war could be heard backing up Jimi Hendrix’s Woodstock rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner,” the Harlem Cultural Festival took on its own clamors of protest. Festival attendee Darry Lewis was 19 in 1969. He knew that the potential for violence escalated along with the temperature, and the summer in question was turning out to be a sizzler. It was a time in America’s history, not unlike today, when a divided Black community had rightfully lost faith in both elected officials and the police. One faction agreed with Andrew Young’s non-violent approach to healing, another nodded along when Kwame Ture downplayed the need for Blacks “to go to Vietnam and shoot somebody who the honky says is your enemy.” With tensions at a boiling point, Lewis suggests that the goal of the festival may have been to avoid a repeat of the King riots.
According to the ubiquitous Rev. Al Sharpton, “1969 was the pivotal year where the Negro died and Black was born.” The New York Times’ Charlayne Hunter-Gault was the first reporter to use “Black” instead of “Negro” in a story. Festival organizer Tony Lawrence was a lounge singer, a promoter, and a hustler in the finest sense of the word. According to a former assistant, “Tony talked a big game and he delivered.” Looking to turn the festival into a television spectacular, sponsor General Foods hired Hal Tulchin as director and producer. “Lighting Cameraperson” credit should have gone to God. Without a penny in the budget to rent so much as a candle, Tulchin suggested the stage face West to best maximize the afternoon sun.
Set against a giant mosaic backdrop, the lineup boasted such heavyweights as Sly and the Family Stone, Edwin Hawkins, Pops Staples and the Staple Singers, B.B. King, Gladys Knight and the synchronized saltations of her Pips, and Mongo Santamaria. A Temptations-free David Ruffin entered the “whistle range” with his four-octaves solo rendition of “My Girl,” while gospel giants Prof. Herman Stevens and the Voices of Faith and Clara Walker displayed a mastery in serving up the kind of music Sharpton referred to as “black people’s therapy.” Nina Simone took to the stage like an African Princess, using her voice to grab each member of the audience by their collars. The “unapologetically black” power couple — octopus-armed drummer Max Roach and the first, and most underlooked African-American Lady of Song, Abbey Lincoln — should need no introduction. And as if that were not enough, there was Mahalia Jackson and Mavis Staples engaging in a sing-off that will knock you out of your seat.
It wasn’t all music. Jackie “Mom” Mabley did a set, but the second biggest topic up for discussion was the lunar landing. Some in attendance called the moon landing a “waste of time” and argued that the money would have been better spent on curing the world of poverty. Perhaps the biggest pang of nostalgia was sounded by The Fifth Dimension. Two-fifths of the group, Billy Davis and Marilyn McCoo, were on hand to reminisce. The group was criticized by many for not being “black enough” — the Creamsicle-orange fringe vests and the puffy, sunshine yellow Eduardian sleeves didn’t help their case. Everybody thought they were a white act until they saw a picture of 5 Black folks singing “Up, Up and Away” in a hot air balloon.
With the anticipation of an adequate assemblage of janky concert footage quickly put to rest, it was just a matter of sitting back and allowing this long-thought-lost cultural happening to fill in the blank pages of history. Now playing at a theatre near you. ★★★
—Scott Marks
Video on Demand and New Release Roundup
No Sudden Move — A white guy in Detroit, 1954, is looking for a reliable black guy, preferably one fresh out of stir, to surrender three hours’ work in exchange for $5000. What’s the catch? It begins along the lines of The Desperate Hours, with two of the armed home invaders (Don Cheadle and Benicio del Toro) staying behind to watch the family while a third (Kieran Culkin) accompanies the bread-winner (David Harbour) to work — in this case, to collect blueprints, not cash. Neither the characters nor the caper radiate a familiar ring, particularly when we’re looking at a story involving industrial espionage in the Motor City that entails Studebaker pilfering GM’s blueprints for the catalytic converter. Steven Soderbergh’s star-studded, low budget heist flick packs more power (and rationale) than three Ocean’s combined. (Better the camera tell the story than the costumes.) The film is brimful with genre twists, none more effective and unconventional than Harbour beating his boss to a bloody pulp, all the while assuring him how much he loves his work. Watch it tonight on HBO Max. 2021. — S.M. ★★★
Zola — Drumroll: this marks the first film to be based on a viral Twitter thread, and in spite of that, it’s terrific! The harp music and hall of mirrors that open this dangerous black comedy go together like an exotic dancer and the pimp who automatically assumes that turning tricks is part of her job. Zola’s (Taylour Paige, fearless) a pro — there’s a stripper’s pole in her living room — but even the most skilled among us have our off days. Ever form a fast friendship with a coworker who turns out to be an ambulatory danger zone? Not as dumb as she looks or sounds, Stefani (Riley Keough, her cadenced delivery the backwoods equivalent of a lazy eye) dangles an excursion from Detroit to Tampa for a lucrative one-nighter. One day after they meet, Zola hits the road with Stefani, her questionable roommate X (Colman Domingo), and mawkishly dissatisfied boyfriend Derrek (Nicholas Braun). Writer-director Janicza Bravo’s frenetic pace resembles a freshly-shaken snowdome, the glittery contents never allowed time to settle. What follows is a wild, at times uncomfortable ride and one that pleases me to announce has found a home outside the arthouse confines at a multiplex near you. 2020. — S.M. ★★★
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