Coup coup
Revolution provides a recall-hangover cure.

By Johnny Ray Huston

THERE MAY BE 50 troubled states in our Bush-burned empire, but one in particular needs to see The Revolution Will Not Be Televised. Kim Bartley and Donnacha O'Briain's documentary, touted as a look at "the world's first media coup," might as well double as a recall-hangover cure. October's first week confirmed that California doesn't merely have trouble distinguishing between facts of life and Hollywood fictions: it wants the latter to define the former. A steady visual diet of multinational mirages generates idiocy in addition to apathy; Cali citizens are more easily duped than the people of Venezuela, who foiled a TV revolt in April 2002 by taking to the streets of Caracas and storming the presidential palace to return briefly ousted president Hugo Chavez to power.

Obviously Chavez is no Gray Davis, even if – as the Bush administration treats Venezuela like an insubordinate state – the two have had top slots on the Republican hit list in common. Cast in militaristic mythos, Chavez's Simón Bolívar-ian ascent to the peak of Venezuela's political realm has involved the restructuring of centuries-old governmental frameworks. He came to power promising a radical redistribution of wealth; by the time he took office in 1998, a mere 20 percent of the country's oil profits were being applied to programs for the poverty-stricken general populace. Needless to say, Chavez's OPEC-revitalizing ideas about the world's fourth-largest national oil industry have disturbed certain countries, and his other views haven't been conciliatory: early in the film he's shown giving an October 2001 TV address in which – brandishing photos of dead children – he accuses the United States of fighting terrorism with terrorism.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised features a number of satellite cameo responses by U.S. ogres. White House press secretary Ari Fleischer and favorite NBC puppet Tom Brokaw both favor the word controversial when referring to Chavez. Fleischer claims Chavez provoked the April 2002 coup, while Brokaw's scripted observation that Chavez is "critical of the U.S." infers that the Venezuelan president should be silenced. Tobacco-wacko Jesse Helms accuses Chavez of "consorting with narco terrorists," but the foulest bullshit is spewed by Colin Powell, who questions Chavez's "understanding of how a democratic system works" – apparently he wasn't taking notes when Professor Powell made it clear a democracy is a fiefdom controlled by oil barons.

Bartley and O'Briain initially conceived Revolution as an analytical profile of Chavez; ironically, that aspect (admittedly overshadowed by the events that transpired) is the documentary's chief shortcoming. The filmmakers are up-front about their Chavez sympathies, but their parade-strewn introductory approach to him is almost as unquestioningly adoring as Oliver Stone's recent male-bonding session with Fidel Castro, Commandante; less spectacle and more content would have been beneficial.

Chavez's ego-charged charisma certainly can't be ignored. Alternating between Izod (!) sportswear and camouflage-and-beret attire that evokes Castro and Che Guevara, he projects rugged masculinity. Stiff movie stars could learn from his masterful approach to public relations; generating 200 "fan" letters a day (filed by female assistants), it includes a weekly state-TV show, Alo Presidente, in which he answers phone calls from the public. Alo Presidente is a homespun attempt to counter the ceaseless baiting of privately funded Venezuelan TV networks that paint Chavez as a mentally unstable, quasi-fascist tyrant who harbors "a sexual fixation" on Castro. Nonetheless, Bartley and O'Briain largely bypass a cogent analysis of the differences between Chavez's populist promises and his actual accomplishments.

Revolution's strength and originality stem from its eye-of-the-storm proximity to April 2002's political unrest and the perspective it has regarding televised distortions. (In this regard Revolution is a superior relative of another recent BBC-endorsed documentary, Al-Jazeera Exclusive.) As the attempted coup unfolds, international news reports claim Chavez supporters have resorted to sniper-style attacks on protesters; Bartley and O'Briain land footage that exposes those claims as lies. But their strongest visual evidence comes from within the palace. The backers of usurper Pedro Carmona's oil-elite regime are white, suit-and-tie-clad clones; when they're forced out, they leave behind champagne glasses, cakelike bread (shades of Marie Antoinette), and – the final, damning touch – a looted safe.

If Bartley and O'Briain are critical of Chavez, the criticism lies within their documentary's title, taken from the much-abused Gil Scott-Heron song of the same name. Revolution's title applies foremost to the private Venezuelan TV stations (and broader U.S. networks of power) that collaborated in attempts to remove Chavez from office. But it also serves as a statement directed at Chavez, who immediately wants to see the filmmakers' coverage of his departure from and return to the presidential palace. There's no denying that this footage – a ground-zero account of history in the making – is thrilling. But as Venezuela continues to be plagued by economic unrest, Chavez sorely needs to curb his instant-replay narcissism and fast-forward into action.

'The Revolution Will Not Be Televised' runs Fri/24-Thurs/30. Castro Theatre, 429 Castro (at Market), S.F. $5-$8, (415) 621-6120. See Rep Clock, in Film listings, for show times.