An audience chants “USA.” Thunder cracks. A patriotic marching band plays a rousing song. Familiar Washington DC monuments serve as the backdrop for a 4th of July celebration led by then-President Donald J. Trump. It’s 2019 and he claims that the United States is the strongest it has ever been. Director Valerio Ciriaci’s documentary Stonebreakers encourages viewers to question this proud proclamation of American exceptionalism through a powerful lens of revisionist history and protestation.
Stonebreakers largely focuses on the fate of controversial historic monuments shortly before, during, and after 2020, a year which brought with it the Covid-19 pandemic, the Black Lives Matter protests in response to the murder of George Floyd, and the election of President Joe Biden. Ciriaci’s cinematic road trip through America critically documents the United States’ relationship with its monuments, the version of history they represent, and their evolving meaning and relevance in the 21st century.
In New York City, a Black Lives Matter protest surges down an empty street mid-quarantine. Overlooking this protest against white supremacy? A monument of Christopher Columbus. “Columbus began the transatlantic slave trade – what is there to celebrate about that?” a speaker demands to know. “It’s an atrocity.” In contrast to this outrage, a sculptor in Connecticut repairs vandalized Columbus statues, reattaching one’s decapitated head to its body. He sees the world in two camps: iconophiles and iconoclasts, those who make images and those who tear them down.
This us-versus-them thinking reverberates on both sides of the political aisle in Stonebreakers. In one segment, pro and anti-Columbus protestors argue in front of a debated statue, and the disagreement escalates to name-calling, stereotypes, and curse words. The occasional ominous music from composer Francesco Venturi makes where the documentarians’ sympathies lie abundantly clear. The music unfortunately aids in undercutting any chance the film had of objectivity. And yet, despite its subjective point of view, Stonebreakers lacks a call to action. It makes up for it in emotional power and thoughtful juxtapositions of protests and celebrations that illustrate the United States' ongoing polarization.
Following a scene highlighting the discrepancies between the abundant tourism industry of South Dakota and the poverty of the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation—the mythical Americana peddled by tourist attractions and the gruesome reality of the Wounded Knee Massacre—President Trump paints anti-monument protestors as “angry mobs,” seeking to unleash “a wave of violent crime.” Mount Rushmore “will never be desecrated,” he claims, his voice echoing over footage of #LandBack protestors—Native people standing up for the land of their ancestors. The president’s statement rings with hypocrisy: celebrating “the American people” through a monument carved into stolen land of the men who stole it from the original American people.
However, two particularly touching stories present viewers with alternative strategies to harness the power of monuments. Along the Arizona-Mexico border, crosses mark where over 3,000 bodies have been recovered. A mere number can’t capture the scope of this humanitarian crisis, archaeologist Gabriella Soto muses. “Having something that makes it lingering in the landscape is just so important… Creating monuments to the tragedy of the borderlands.” She imagines—in the future—a place of “catharsis, healing, and grief,” honoring the lives of the people lost at the border.
Meanwhile, back east in Philadelphia, curator Arielle Julia Brown works to create a space for oppressed peoples to amplify their power in a public exhibit of “prototype monuments.” She describes these works of art as “a radical act of freedom and accountability” and “what Black joy looks like in public.” These two segments—one of rebuilding and celebration, the other of mourning and memory—serve as tender foils to scenes of righteous protest and the dismantling of racist monuments.
From New York City to South Dakota’s Black Hills to the Southwest, in its brief runtime, Stonebreakers packs in a wealth of stories told in sculpted marble, in chants of protest, and in cheers of celebration. This documentary could certainly inspire viewers young and old, whether students of American history or casual audiences, to explore the United States’ dual stories of freedom and oppression. Because what's stronger than stone? The people who break it and shape it into something new.
What kind of film series would Stonebreakers fit in?
Stonebreakers would fit into a screening series about the political and social movements of the 21st century thus far. It could make a fascinating double feature with the documentary Monumental Crossroads—filmed after the protests in Charlottesville in 2017 but before the murder of George Floyd – to compare and contrast how things have changed (and not) in that window of time. Stonebreakers could also pair nicely with the documentary Monumental Myths, a more literal road trip to visit the nation's monuments.
What kind of film collection would Stonebreakers be suitable for?
Stonebreakers would be suitable for film collections that specialize in documentary films, particularly those about American history and political or social movements.
What academic subjects would Stonebreakers be suitable for?
Stonebreakers could rather obviously be suitable in history and sociology classes, but could also fit into art classes to encourage discussion about the power of art in public spaces and the social responsibility of the artist.
Does Stonebreakers have public performance rights?
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