Movie review by Greg Carlson

Certain to be included on a sizable number of 2024 best-of lists, Johan Grimonprez’s striking “Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat” is essential viewing for political history and jazz music aficionados. The ambitious essay-style documentary experience, clocking in at a hefty but never dull 150 minutes, connects the dots linking the 1961 assassination of Congolese politician Patrice Lumumba to a grand narrative pulling together race, power, performance, clandestine CIA operations, Cold War tensions, grim colonialist fallout, and the growth of the United Nations, to name a few of the filmmaker’s concerns. The Belgian multimedia artist Grimonprez has been a sharp critic of the ways in which mass communication can be used as a powerful tool in the shaping of the collective acceptance of consensus reality.

“Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat” premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in January, where it received a Special Jury Award for Cinematic Innovation. Grimonprez’s stylistic approach does indeed merit this kind of recognition (regardless of the extent of any true “innovation”). The film’s many clips of brilliant musicians, including Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, Dizzy Gillespie, Nina Simone, Max Roach, Abbey Lincoln, John Coltrane, Miriam Makeba, Thelonious Monk and others, drive the narrative organization; Grimonprez cuts in rhythm to beats, lines, and phrases that link songs to tumultuous historical moments under review. Along with soundbites from political figures large and small, Grimonprez frequently places informational title cards to offer additional context.

Needless to say, Grimonprez exposes the hypocrisy of powerful nations like the United States. Despite public support for the proliferation of democracy and democratic principles, American interests (then and now) in the affairs of weaker nations with exploitable resources – such as the trillions in uranium and minerals contained within the borders of the Democratic Republic of the Congo – inevitably choose whatever path will make the most money. The movie frequently uses bleak humor to communicate complex machinations, power moves, and posturing. Nikita Khrushchev, to whom a substantial number of scenes are devoted, is portrayed as a particularly wily and mischievous imp. He racks up more screen time than Eisenhower.

Along with Khrushchev and Eisenhower, Grimonprez quotes Malcolm X, Dag Hammarskjöld, Conor Cruise O’Brien, and a number of less well-known politicos and operatives involved in various aspects of the destabilization taking place in and around Lumumba’s rise and fall. Excerpts from Andrée Blouin’s “My Country, Africa” are read by Zap Mama. “Congo Inc.” author In Koli Jean Bofane also provides crucial perspective. Somehow, against the formidable odds, Grimonprez makes all of this work as an energizing piece of storytelling that never feels like a didactic history lesson.

Viewers need little if any knowledge of the film’s subjects to appreciate “Soundtrack to a Coup d’Etat” as a cinematic experience. Historians and students of mid-twentieth century global politics have a head start, but Grimonprez makes certain that everything we need to know can be comprehended through the stunning arrangement of the archival footage (dazzlingly put together in collaboration with editor Rik Chaubet). Through it all, the songs and sounds serve as our guides. The sickening reality that some of these monumental jazz artists were used by the government is mitigated by the truth of their anti-imperialist solidarity with and championing of the struggle for self-determination by their African brothers and sisters.