Riding coattails with a dozen camera-toting kids at the cultural event that would define a generation. During the build-up, Woodstock was expected to be a pretty big deal, but nobody dared imagine *how* big. At its peak, nearly half a million people gathered to share in this unique moment, abandoning their stalled cars, casting chain link fences aside and flooding the grounds in what would soon transition into a no-cost three-day event. All the while, cameras captured the arriving spectators’ buzzing enthusiasm, the organizers’ nervous spur-of-the-moment decision making and the artists’ drug-hazed, sleep-deprived performances.

Those scraps and snippets are presented without commentary or narration; a breathing snapshot of the people and tunes that epitomized this long, spiritually-charged weekend. We don’t even get titles or introductions beyond the stage announcements; a blending of civilian chit-chat and celebrity sound byte that grants a certain degree of shared humility to all. You never know if that greasy, scrappy kid eyeballing the camera is going to grab a guitar and hop up on stage as a part of the next performance. We’ve barely finished listening to one such hazy-eyed youngster pontificate about his sex life when Jerry Garcia stops by to roll a joint and tune his guitar.

The slice-of-life bits provide great context and essential breaks between songs, but music is the film’s main focus. Jimi Hendrix gets the heaviest play with five featured cuts, while most others are relegated to a single tune. Big names like CCR, The Band and The Grateful Dead don’t appear at all, by request, as they were unhappy with their performances. My personal standouts include Richie Havens, Joe Cocker, Sly and the Family Stone and Arlo Guthrie. Hendrix is such a virtuoso, he plays most of his set with eyes closed and mouth agape, lost in a sort of supernaturally orgasmic trance. The Who own the stage like a genuine big-league rock band, but represent a drastic departure from the more subdued, folksy flavor of preceding acts. Carlos Santana was allegedly so high on mescaline, he thought the neck of his guitar was a serpent. It was a pretty wild gig, but the caliber of music is all over the board. I hope to never hear another Sha-Na-Na song as long as I live.

Getting through this documentary, especially the four-hour director’s cut, is a marathon. As was the festival itself, from all indications. Kudos to the fans for maintaining a friendly outlook through traffic jams, schedule delays and torrential downpours. And props to the film crew for not only enduring the same, but effectively capturing the event’s overwhelmingly positive, hopeful character.