Ken

In mentioning Ken Burns‘ upcoming The American Revolution to casual observers, the most frequent response has been a variation on: “Wait. Hasn’t he done that already?”

The short answer is “No.” The longer explanation is that Burns and his collaborators have hit the battlefield for documentaries about the Civil War, World War II and Vietnam, while our American origins have played a role in documentaries about Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, the adventures of Lewis and Clark, and the demise of the American buffalo — but that the American Revolution has not gotten the standalone Burns & Company treatment. 

It must be acknowledged, though, that if Ken Burns had already made a docuseries about the American Revolution, be it 45 years ago or one year ago, it would have been exactly like The American Revolution, which premieres the first of its six chapters on PBS on November 16. 

Though it’s hard to watch The American Revolution without awareness of the anti-monarchic sentiments shared at recent rounds of “No Kings!” protests — to hear the noble egalitarian sentiments that launched the American experiment without pondering the ways the fulfillment of our freedoms has fallen short of our loftiest aspirations — the doc does not overtly acknowledge Donald Trump. It isn’t fueled by the propulsive anger of The Vietnam War and The U.S. and the Holocaust, nor does it possess the hints of aesthetic experimentation exhibited by last year’s Leonardo da Vinci.

Directed by Burns, Sarah Botstein and David P. Schmidt, The American Revolution is smart, thorough, sincere in intent, and still of undeniable and uncomfortable importance with or without direct reference to the current political moment. 

At 12 hours, it’s also dry and a little languid, relying on storytelling techniques — many reasonably fresh and vital back in 1990, when The Civil War planted Burns’ flag as a key chronicler of our nation’s history — that are treated with earnestness despite passing into the realm of parody long ago.

Not strictly limiting itself to the war, The American Revolution stretches from 1754 to the ratification of the Constitution and then the Bill of Rights decades later, from the existence of a group of geographically proximate colonies with seemingly no shared interests to the establishment of a tenuous government that Franklin famously described as “A republic, if you can keep it.” It connects the chronological dots from civil unrest to vigilante violence to a rag-tag military operation to a model for revolution that, over multiple centuries, leap-frogged around the world, all from a spark created by the likes of George Washington, Thomas Paine and a group of tea-disposing men in Indian costumes. 

The filmmakers touch on key battles, essential political and military figures and pivotal decisions made along the way, using a brigade of historians as primary sources for a target audience of bored kids eagerly awaiting the arrival of an AV cart and slightly older viewers whose primary point-of-entry for this period is the Hamilton soundtrack. That demographic, not insignificant, isn’t directly pandered to and might wonder how Alexander Hamilton could be treated as a historical footnote. But they’re still sure to relish context for previously mumbled references to Kips Bay, the code word being “Rochambeau” and how, exactly, General Charles Lee shat his bed at the battle of Monmouth.

The directors and their selected ensemble of scholars — there is no single Shelby Foote-style centerpiece or breakout — are explicitly wary of Great Man interpretations of history. So even if George Washington has deserved pride of place as the documentary’s “hero,” various experts are practically giddy to highlight his myriad blunders and lucky escapes, as well as his unapologetic status as slaveowner and unscrupulous encroacher on Native lands, without denying him ample instances of genius. The documentary goes the other way as well, with Benedict Arnold receiving ample credit for his battlefield heroism and ample empathy for the adversity he faced over the years before eventually settling into his more familiar role as traitor.

The doc is generally enamored of the internal conflicts and hypocrisies of the American Revolution, the celebrations of equality that excluded Blacks and Native Americans and left women in the background — the latter sometimes integral participants in their own way like Abigail Adams, but more often figures at the mercy of the whims of more active husbands or fathers. Multiple scholars focus on the Black and Native experiences, allowing those sides of the stories to feel like more than mere footnotes, if never truly focal.

Because The American Revolution fits snugly into the unprecedented tapestry that Burns has been weaving since Brooklyn Bridge in 1981, it’s easy to spot the direct connections to previous films on Jefferson and Franklin. Ditto the echoes of The Civil War, also examining a battle that pit brother against brother, and The Vietnam War, in which America became the occupying imperial force failing to understand or successfully combat a domestic insurgence.

With an absence of primary source footage or even photographs, The American Revolution relies heavily on familiar Burnsian tracking shots and zooms on paintings. There is also pretty but not always energetic imagery filmed in different referenced parts of the current American wilderness — snow gathering in fields, mist rising above mountaintops — and never-energetic shots of re-enactors loading muskets or preparing for battle. The smartest way the documentary fills visual space is by using period maps embellished with animated diagrams to show the strategy behind a dozen crucial battles. Military history nerds will be pleased.

In addition to the historians, the primary voices in the documentary are celebrity recitations of the words of both key historical figures and a handful of civilians, including teenaged Virginian Betsy Ambler (Maya Hawke), aspiring fife player John Greenwood (Joe Keery) and young Joseph Plumb Martin (Alden Ehrenreich), who found his way into many of the key skirmishes. If you can hear the latest assortment of love letters back from the front without giggling at the now-hoary device, you’re more mature than I am.

Over the years, Burns has assembled and cultivated an astonishingly good cast of recurring A-listers, whether it’s Mandy Patinkin, back to voice Ben Franklin; Paul Giamatti, getting still more mileage out of embodying John Adams; or ensemble favorites like Meryl Streep or Tom Hanks. Sometimes somebody like Morgan Freeman will pop up for a three-line performance for a character who was, at that time, 15, and it makes no sense. But if Morgan Freeman or Samuel L. Jackson or Craig Ferguson — voicing every Scot in history — wants to drop by for fun, who says no? Plus, the open-tent approach occasionally yields a delightful piece of casting like Amanda Gorman proclaiming for slave-turned-poet Phillis Wheatley.

Intentionally or not, parts of The American Revolution become repetitious, and the script (written by Burns regular Geoffrey C. Ward and narrated with trademark wry detachment by frequent Burns collaborator Peter Coyote) becomes overripe with the litany of battles, the listing of famous men, the pronouncement of yet another winter spent in a state of near-mutiny and near-starvation. The documentary frequently over-explains the war’s fascinating but simple-to-comprehend ironies on one hand and then rushes through some moments — the Bill of Rights feels like it should be fodder for a 10-parter all its own — on the other.

Flaws and familiarity aside, The American Revolution is characterized by the pervasive patriotism and pragmatism of its filmmakers, who make us feel the chill of the Delaware on Christmas Day, the betrayal of a general flipped to the enemy, and the optimism that we sometimes forget as we squirm through the latest evolution or devolution of the American experiment.