Co-directors D.A. Pennebaker (Don't Look Back, Monterey Pop), wife Chris Hegedus (startup.com) and Nick Doob went to Nashville in May last year to record a concert at the Ryman Auditorium, where artists on the O Brother soundtrack gathered for a one-off showcase. But Down From the Mountain is no more a concert film than The Last Waltz or Stop Making Sense; never do you feel as though a screen separates audience from performer. It's the cinematic equivalent of a revival, both in the religious sense (every song here is, more or less, about life, death and redemption in the afterlife) and in the musical sense (one performer has no idea what music supervisor T Bone Burnett means when he tells him to play a song more "rock & roll"). It's the most uplifting movie of a numbing year -- a feel-good film full of songs about feeling god-awful.
The filmmakers trolled backstage, looking for anecdotes and color, and found Harris, as striking as any movie star, obsessively glued to her Motorola SportsTrax device, checking on baseball games in progress. "God gave us baseball," she insists during a 3-2 count. They sit in on rehearsals and capture the feeling of camaraderie among musicians playing antiquated, old-timey music in the 21st century; where else but here could one find a fiddler and riverboat captain (the late John Hartford, who looks like a grizzled, backwoods Tom Waits)? And they trailed Ralph Stanley from limo to radio station as the veteran banjo picker likewise tried to put into words what only music can describe.
"The lonesome voice is born and bred into you," insists the 74-year-old claw-hammer icon whose music was first broadcast from a Virginia radio station in 1946. Stanley appears only in the film's opening and closing moments, but his presence hovers over its entire 98-minute length like a ghost with a pulse. Its his desolate version of "Man of Constant Sorrow" (performed in O Brother by Union Station's Dan Tyminski and lip-synched by George Clooney) that opens the film, and he closes it with the harrowing a cappella "O Death," in which he begs the reaper to let him live another year. Stanley is the bluegrass purist's touchstone, and he's treated here with the reverence due a self-proclaimed doctor of mountain music.
The film is chaotic and scattered during its opening moments; it's not until the concert, well into the film, that the musicians are identified by Hartford, who also serves as emcee. But the filmmakers take it on faith (appropriate to the music, perhaps) that theirs is an audience familiar with the Cox Family, the Peasall Sisters, the Whites and the Fairfield Four and is in no need of introductions. Besides, the performers are less important than the performances, which aren't shackled by sacred tradition. These songs are all present tense, not just scratched vestiges meant to linger on a collector's shelf or in a museum's plexiglass display cases. When Harris, Welch and Krauss perform "Didn't Leave Nothing but the Baby" -- the song of the sirens in O Brother, introduced here by a chuckling Welch as a "lullaby and a field holler" -- it's striking and chilling, an invitation to the everlasting slumber. And the Fairfield Four's rousing take on "Po' Lazarus" brings grins of joy and shrugs of shame; the specter of the chain gang lingers.
There are plenty of stirring moments: Krauss leading a choir "Down to the River to Pray"; the Peasall Sisters chirping out a slightly off-key version of "In the Highways"; Chris Thomas King and Colin Linden's slide-guitar duel on "Burning Down the Liquor Store"; Hartford's giddy take on the chestnut "Big Rock Candy Mountain"; anytime Welch, Harris and Krauss -- a holy trinity indeed -- sing together or separately. But aside from Stanley's "O Death," the most definitive performance in the film may be Welch and David Rawlings' original "I Want to Sing That Rock and Roll," also found on her just-released album Time (The Revelator). Reminiscent of any Everly (or Louvin) Brothers hit, it may just be the song to explain a youngster's infatuation with ancient melodies. It's perhaps ironic and desperate at the same time, the plaintive cry of the old-timer afraid of being "drowned out" by the ruckus and the defiant shout of the comer looking to "'lec-tree-fy my soul." It's about life and the afterlife, it's about promise and pain and it's about how all of it is available in the hollow of an old guitar. "I wanna reach that glory land," Welch sings, like a woman already there. The audience can't help but want to take her hand and follow along.