In 1990, a fresh-faced documentarian managed to do the impossible. Over the course of nine September nights on PBS, Ken Burns got millions of Americans excited about their own history with his series The Civil War, which documented in visceral, vital detail the history of that conflict between the states from 1861 to 1865. Many people forgot the basics of the Civil War as soon as they passed or failed a test on them in high school, but Burns’ series made one of the most important chapters in history palatable. Perhaps more impactfully, he made it a thrilling and entertaining story that translated the scope, scale, and tragedy of the loss at its core to generations who had not considered it.
It served as a visual reckoning with the photographic evidence of the war—the first to unfold in the age of photography—as he combed through the past and found resonance and alarming warnings for the future. His filmmaking technique of letting the camera slowly crawl across the haunting images of savage battlefields and weary faces in search of century-old detail and depth was so influential that Apple adopted it as an effect in its iMovie program.
The documentary’s debut coincided with the 125th anniversary of the Civil War and highlighted (without alienating the different opinions watching at home) the myriad of ways the deep wounds of it still influenced policy, progress, and basic human decency today. But the series opens with a declarative statement, solemnly spoken to present and future viewers by historian Barbara J. Fields: “If there was a single event that caused the war, it was the establishment of the United States in independence from Great Britain with slavery still a part of its heritage.”
Thirty-five years later, Burns is back to unpack that remark with The American Revolution, a landmark achievement that arrives as the country recognizes the 250th anniversary of that same fight for independence that Fields name-checked. What set the stage for a free country in the making and how did the decisions made two and a half centuries ago lay the bumpy road to the present we live in? Those lofty questions drive the densely packed but never dull six-part series. But don’t go in expecting a revelrous tone. In fact, celebration feels like too strong a word for this moment considering The American Revolution arrives in the wake of the longest government shutdown in the nation’s history—not to mention during a daily cavalcade of atrocities, indignities, and perversions of the truths first uttered by our Founding Fathers. In other words, the grand experiment of democracy, as the likes of Benjamin Franklin and Geroge Washington considered it to be, is seemingly worse for wear as it nears the big 250. But that is why the series from Burns and co-directors Sarah Botstein and David Schmidt hits so hard. Across its volumes, it isn’t afraid to honor the triumphant origin of our national patriotism while also calling out the original sins we still wear the wounds of today.
Clocking in at 12 hours, this thing is a beast. That said, Burns’ The Civil War came in at more than 11 hours and his equally riveting The Vietnam War from 2017 (with co-director Lynn Novick) had a whopping runtime of 17-plus hours. But as with his previous war-focused works, Burns has gotten better about making it feel like half that time by parsing out the details of the history-altering conflict at hand with as many personal stories as political ones, as many cultural insights as military maneuvers. To assist, the gang’s all here for those who know the hallmarks of a Ken Burns joint: writer Geoffrey C. Ward, narrator Peter Coyote, and a host of recognizable returning voices like Tom Hanks, Meryl Streep, Samuel L. Jackson, Laura Linney, Claire Danes, and (this isn’t hyperbole) about 100 others. (You might think the plum Washington role would go to Hanks, but instead, it is Josh Brolin who gives a surly voice to our first president.)
This, however, is where The American Revolution has a steeper hill to climb than its predecessors in Burns’ filmography. Almost all of his series drew in history buffs and casual viewers alike with a stunning visual palette of poignant photographs and, for more recent topics, archival footage. (Two great examples are 2007’s The War and 2019’s Country Music.) But the advent of photography eludes the American Revolution, leaving Burns and his fellow directors to rely more heavily on the voices to propel the story, with an added emphasis on maps, portraits, and digital renderings of a fledgling country’s landscape changing in real time. In episode two, an ambush in Canada early in the revolution unfolds with a digital recreation of the movement of troops through the streets of the city. It is an obvious elevation and modernization of Burns’ characteristically simple but effective military maps with advancing arrows (though there are still some of those too), but those CGI moments are a noticeable difference for those who worship at the altar of the filmmaker’s more practical approach. Still, it never feels like a violation of the storytelling he’s famous for.
In fact, the filmmakers create a masterful narrative of the war’s tactical beats interwoven with the human touch and the necessary myth-busting about the cornerstones of our history. An early episode opens with an acknowledgement that America was born out of violence and wars, like those fought against Native communities and eventually conflicts like the revolution. While no one would consider that a particularly hot take, it does fly in the face of our collective image of the fight for independence as one battled by dusty old white guys wearing powdered wigs and signing documents with feather pens. Despite what you learned in catchy songs from the Broadway musical Hamilton, the rooms where it happened only tell half the story. Yes, history was made through big military campaigns but also in socially defiant calls to “Remember the Ladies,” as rallied by Abigail Adams. Burns, Botstein, and Schmidt take time to address the misconceptions of the revolution as simply a verbal sparring match, even if they don’t skip the war of words either.
The series also takes its chance to interrogate the idealized version of the Founding Fathers that we continue to let dictate our politics centuries later, a process Burns began in 2022 with his two-part series Benjamin Franklin. Here, a segment about George Washington’s ruthless grip on the institution of slavery and the people he owned in its name is just one of the ways the series takes direct aim at the realities of our past that a frightening number of school systems seem hellbent on erasing today. But it should be noted that Burns isn’t suddenly confrontational with his filmmaking. In this format, the story is stripped of the political undertone that seems to haunt every corner of American discourse right now. Instead, the series encourages viewers to lean in and engage rather than take an automatic attack stance against our own history because it doesn’t serve the message we want it to.
The American Revolution doesn’t lead with malicious intent nor does it set out to shatter idyllic truths about our nation for the hell of it. It merely presents the facts about where we came from and the fight that earned us the freedoms that we may or may not be further dismantling with each passing day. The series’ staggering detail and engrossing ensemble simply highlight that hindsight isn’t 20/20 and molding the future of a country based on the rosier generalities of its past is a perilous endeavor—a lesson we already learned once in the 1700s.
The project won’t be for everyone, simply because a 12-hour history documentary—even one this compelling—is not what most people doomscroll for these days. But there’s never been a more crucial time to make an exception. With this series airing on the increasingly underfunded and threatened PBS network, Burns’ exhaustive and exquisite effort to tell us our own story feels like an endangered species of art and television.
The American Revolution premieres November 16 on PBS
