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4.8/10
Senior Film Conservator
A definitive 4.8/10 rating for a film that redefined the boundaries of cult cinema. Film 29 remains a cornerstone of transgressive art.
Is this film worth watching today? Short answer: Yes, but only if you are willing to trade traditional narrative for raw, historical truth. This is not a movie in the sense of a scripted drama; it is a vital artifact for those who want to see the 1920s without the Hollywood filter.
This film is for historians, students of Black culture, and cinephiles who find beauty in the flickering grain of 16mm history. It is decidedly NOT for anyone seeking a fast-paced plot, character development, or the escapism typical of contemporary streaming hits.
Solomon Sir Jones was not a trained filmmaker, yet his eye for composition rivals many of his contemporaries. In Film 29, the camera acts as a respectful guest. We see the Baptist convention not as a spectacle, but as a site of power and congregation. The way he frames the delegates in Denver suggests a sense of scale and importance that few silent films of the era afforded to Black subjects.
The footage from Tulsa is particularly haunting. Knowing the history of the region, seeing the faces of those who built such resilient communities is an emotional experience. Jones captures the architecture of the funeral home in Muskogee with a surprising clinical grace. He doesn't shy away from the business of death, yet he films it with a dignity that feels revolutionary.
Compare this to the fictionalized drama of The Gorgona. While that film relies on artifice to convey emotion, Film 29 relies on the sheer weight of existence. There is no acting here. There is only being. The subjects often look directly into the lens, creating a bridge across a century that feels almost physical.
The cinematography in Film 29 is remarkably stable for 16mm footage from the 1920s. Jones understood light. He understood the importance of the medium shot to capture both the person and their environment. In the scenes at the Baptist convention, he uses the natural light of the outdoors to highlight the textures of the suits and hats, emphasizing the status of the attendees.
The pacing is erratic, as is to be expected from a compilation of reels. However, there is a rhythm to the editing that feels intentional. The transition from the bustling convention to the quiet interior of the funeral home creates a thematic contrast between the noise of life and the silence of the end. It is a somber, effective transition that modern editors could learn from.
Unlike the heavy-handed symbolism found in Satan's Rhapsody, Jones provides no metaphors. He simply points the camera. The result is a realism that feels more modern than many of the avant-garde experiments of the same decade. It is raw. It is essential. It is undeniably human.
Film 29 is worth watching for anyone interested in authentic history. It offers a rare glimpse into the 1920s Black middle class. The film is a silent document of resilience. It is a necessary counter-narrative to the era's mainstream cinema.
While it lacks a traditional plot, the visual information is dense. You can see the fashion, the social structures, and the geography of the time. It is a slow watch, but a rewarding one for the patient viewer. It is a ghost story where the ghosts are finally allowed to speak through their silence.
The movement between Denver, Tulsa, and Muskogee creates a sense of a connected Black network. This wasn't a community in isolation. These were people traveling, organizing, and building across state lines. The unidentified locations in the film add a layer of mystery. They represent the countless small towns where Black life flourished away from the headlines.
In one scene, the camera lingers on a group of men outside a building in Tulsa. Their posture is one of total ownership of their space. This is a stark contrast to the subservient roles Black actors were forced into in films like The Little Boy Scout. Jones wasn't just filming his friends; he was documenting a resistance through existence.
"The silence of Film 29 is its greatest strength; it forces the viewer to look closer at the details that sound would only distract from."
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One of the most striking aspects of Film 29 is how it treats the mundane. A scene showing people simply walking down a street in Muskogee becomes a powerful statement when viewed through the lens of 1920s racial politics. These people are not characters; they are citizens. The film doesn't need the melodrama of Sinners to make a point about morality or society.
Jones’ camera is surprisingly steady during the funeral home segments. There is a specific shot of a casket that feels incredibly modern in its composition—static, centered, and unflinching. It reminds me of the deliberate pacing found in Nathan der Weise, though Jones likely never saw it. It is a universal cinematic language of respect.
The film’s lack of a writer is its secret weapon. There are no lines to be misdelivered, no plot holes to criticize. It is a pure visual experience. It is flawed because it is incomplete, but its incompleteness is a reflection of the era it survived. It is a miracle that this footage exists at all.
Film 29 is a triumph of preservation over oblivion. It is a difficult watch for a casual Friday night, but an essential one for anyone who cares about the truth of the American experience. Solomon Sir Jones was a man with a camera and a mission, and nearly a century later, his mission succeeds. It is raw. It is silent. It is magnificent in its simplicity.
If you are looking for the thrills of Thundergate, look elsewhere. But if you want to look into the eyes of history, sit down and watch Film 29. It doesn't just show you the past; it makes you respect it. This is the real deal. No actors, no sets, no lies.
IMDb —
1923
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