It also cleverly requires its viewer to ask how such amazing performances, from artists like Sly and the Family Stone and Stevie Wonder, could go more-or-less unseen for so long. Framing long segments of the live music with commentary, the film is a celebration of a festival full of black joy and self-expression at a period of fractious and painful change in the US. In Questlove's remarkable restored concert film Summer of Soul, previously unseen footage from the 1969 Harlem Cultural Festival practically vibrates with the charisma and style of the performers. If things are always clearer in retrospect, these films welcome discussion of periods of commercial failure (The Sparks Brothers), difficult personalities (The Velvet Underground's lead singer Lou Reed), and complex social realities while also thoroughly embedding the audience within the world of the subjects. Though each of these films play with visual tropes and inevitable conventions – talking heads, archival footage – in a different way, they also have something in common: a focused look back that is not uncomplicatedly nostalgic or hagiographic, but that also seeks to reclaim that past with fresh eyes, often from an outsider perspective. You can show brilliant performances at length: they speak for themselves – let us get immersed in them!" "Summer of Soul shares something with The Velvet Underground documentary in not trying to explain everything, which I think is important. "So you were travelling through the movie with your eyes and ears and, hopefully, it would let you hear the music freshly – which is always the goal with a band of great influence." Charlie Phillips, head of video at The Guardian, offers a similar observation about the efficacy of dropping a viewer into an experience. "I wanted to feel that the oral histories were almost there in the back of your mind, but not in the front of your mind," Haynes says. Similarly playing with the form's conventions, The Velvet Underground throws the viewer headlong into a series of split screens, half with contemporary commentaries and half with an ongoing explosion of imagery from a fertile period of mid-60s New York City. Wright's The Sparks Brothers utilises self-awareness with its talking heads sections – lighting its subjects in a consciously stagey way, seating them farther apart than usual, adding tangential animation scenes and amusing asides to capture the playful misfit spirit of Russell and Ron Mael. These films have each transcended any staid conventions of what a music doc should be. Happily, 2021 has felt like something of a banner year for the engaging, complex, and visually inventive music documentary, and Haynes' film joins the ranks of Edgar Wright's The Sparks Brothers and Questlove's Summer of Soul as some of the best. A few have become touchstones for what can be done when great musical artists are captured by correspondingly great filmmakers, and it doesn't feel premature to say that The Velvet Underground is one of those. Recent films, like Amazing Grace (2018) and Beyonce's Homecoming (2019), have swiftly climbed to the top of the tree. There are riotous fly-on-the-wall contemporary tour documentaries, giving us access to pop personalities in riveting detail, from Let's Get Lost (1988) to Gimme Shelter (1970) to In Bed with Madonna (1991). There are the anthologised histories of entire genres, like Ken Burns' opus-length Jazz series or his more recent Country Music. There's the concert film, like DA Pennebaker's Monterey Pop (1968), Martin Scorsese's The Last Waltz (1978) or Jonathan Demme's Stop Making Sense (1984). In the long and colourful history of the music documentary – and its many subgenres – there are some exemplary standouts.
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