Bande-son pour un coup d'État

During my life on the European continent, in a wealthy country that has benefitted enormously through the ages by suppressing other cultures, the stories of peoples enduring this suppression have been supressed enough that a story of this magnitude can suddenly struck you into silence.

A breathtaking musical journey depicting the rise and fall of the first Premier of Congo, Mr. Patrice Lumumba, showing the atrocities that the powers that be had to commit to steer history into a different direction.

I would like to implore anyone who hasn't seen this, to view this at your own peril, because this powerful documentary can blow your mind.

It's a documentary on the birth of the Republic of Congo and the assassination of its first prime minister, Patrice Lumumba. The approach incorporates much film footage from about 1950 to the early 1960s, juxtaposing the music and comments of leading jazz musicians of the era with contemporary news footage. Particular emphasis is placed on the various political machinations at the United Nations by Nikita Khrushchev, Dwight Eisenhower, Adlai Stevenson, and other world leaders, including Fidel Castro and Malcolm X.

At some levels, "Soundtrack to a Coup d'Etat" is an intelligent and brilliant work with an incredible musical score. However, it takes too long to make the fundamental connection between the American jazz musicians and Patrice Lumumba. When it finally does, it's highly effective, but a half hour could easily have been edited from the final production.

This smart, sophisticated documentary traces the improbably rise to power and eventual CIA-led assassination of Patrice Lumumba, the first prime minister of the Democratic Republic of Congo, who was elected in May 1960, shortly before his country gained its independence from Belgium. Congo, a country rich with natural resources that were vital, among other things, to Western countries' weapons of war, had been colonized by Belgium since the late 19th century. This sad tale is the sadly predictable part of the story. Grimonprez puts these events in the context of the U. S. own black empowerment movement. Perhaps as sad as the political aspects, the way the US government uses and discards black artists is also sad. The film is patched together with the style and rhythm of bebop jazz artists interspersed throughout the documentary. The film is generally an entertaining and effective direction of colonialism. But it does have flaws. It's too long, apparently paired down from an even longer film. And while the film is right to include Khrushchev and Castro because they attracted both African leaders and African American's inligenciA. But the failure to put these figures without even hinting at their own hypocrisy undercuts the moral weight of the film. Yet the film is still well worth watching for its wide-ranging take on Western colonialism and innovative structure.

"Soundtrack to a Coup d'État" feels more like a jam session of ideas and emotions than a straightforward history lesson. Directed by Belgian filmmaker Johan Grimonprez, the documentary blends music, politics, and collective memory to transport us to post-independence Congo and dive into the tragedy of Patrice Lumumba's fall. It's a powerful mosaic where every element-from archival footage to the jazz-heavy soundtrack-contributes to a dynamic portrait of a historic moment filled with promises, betrayals, and echoes that still resonate today.

Right from the start, the film sets its tone by weaving vibrant footage of newly independent Congo with electrifying performances by jazz legends like Nina Simone and Louis Armstrong. The music isn't just background noise-it's a crucial part of the narrative, capturing both the optimism and the chaos of that era. Grimonprez uses jazz as a living metaphor for the political and social improvisation that defined the struggle for independence amidst Western powers' scheming. Every off-key note and unexpected pause mirrors the turbulence of a Congo striving to shape its own future while external forces worked to keep it chained to the past.

The documentary's non-linear structure is utterly fascinating, jumping between decades, events, and cultural contexts. This approach might feel disorienting at first, but it's a deliberate choice that reflects the complex history Grimonprez aims to unravel. There's no attempt to smooth over or simplify the narrative; instead, the film demands your full attention, pushing the audience to deeply engage with the events on screen. This fragmented style is also a reminder that colonialism and its aftermath aren't linear stories-they're scars that continue to branch out, connect, and reverberate.

At the heart of the film is Patrice Lumumba, a pulsating symbol of hope and tragedy. Grimonprez emphasizes his revolutionary vision and martyrdom without holding back. Lumumba is portrayed as a messianic figure, a leader whose dream of a sovereign Congo and a unified Pan-Africanism was as inspiring to his people as it was threatening to colonial powers. Here, the film takes on a heavier tone, showing how his vision was systematically dismantled through calculated assassinations, coups, and political manipulation.

Grimonprez also masterfully examines the intersections of culture and politics. The tours of musicians like Armstrong and Simone are contextualized as part of Western powers' soft diplomacy strategies, while the music they performed in turn became a form of cultural resistance. This duality-of artists often unknowingly serving imperialist interests while their songs inspired revolutionary movements-is one of the documentary's most tragic and thought-provoking aspects.

Perhaps the film's greatest strength lies in its ability to turn historical facts into a visceral experience. Its sharp editing connects archival footage of Lumumba's speeches, contemporary Congo scenes, and modern ads from brands like Tesla and Apple, drawing provocative parallels between colonial exploitation and present-day systems of extraction and inequality. It's a stark reminder that history doesn't just repeat itself-it evolves, often disguising its predatory core.

Even with its hefty runtime of 150 minutes, the film rarely loses its momentum. If the pacing occasionally feels slower, it's due to the sheer density of the material rather than any narrative misstep. Grimonprez seems more interested in overwhelming the audience with information than delivering a neatly packaged story. While this can be exhausting, it's immensely rewarding for those willing to dive into its depths.

Ultimately, "Soundtrack to a Coup d'État" isn't just a tribute to Lumumba or a study of Congo's past. It's a call to reflect on how music, culture, and politics are intertwined in a constant cycle of oppression and resistance. This is a film that challenges us to look beyond the headlines and listen to the stories that linger in the spaces between the notes-stories of struggle, loss, and the relentless pursuit of freedom.

The documentary is a mishmash of beautiful composed edits using American jazz music to carry the content through its highs and lows.

There's 2 hours plus of significant content. That can be daunting to those unfamiliar with US foreign policy in Congo or in the western reactions to post colonialism. Still it's beautifully done. And it will hopefully raise more awareness in America's use of soft power especially in foreign country regime change.

Congo is the main focus of the documentary but it's a symbol of many other countries including those in Africa, Latin America and Asia. If anything this should start conversations in how entertainers are used by governments to fulfill foreign affairs.