‘Satchmo’ Is Long Overdue Tribute to Beloved Trumpeter

At long last, 18 years after his death, the life and times and gifts of Louis Armstrong have been intelligently recorded. “Satchmo,” the 90-minute “American Masters” program to be seen tonight at 9 on Channels 28 and 15, leaves no aspect of his personality unexamined.

Even his real birth date (Aug. 4, 1901, not July 4, 1900, as he had always claimed) is documented by the church record. Armstrong’s childhood in New Orleans, his early years with King Oliver and Earl Hines, could not be shown because there is no live footage of him from that time, but the use of file shots, of contemporaries reminiscing about him and the script by Gary Giddins (who also co-directed) cover the period in riveting detail.

The stereotyping to which he was subjected is illustrated, perhaps to excess; it is enough to hear him dealing with the lyrics of “Shine” and “Sleepy Time Down South” without having to watch a degrading caricature of him in the “You Rascal You” animation.

Nevertheless, the overall quality and quantity of the film clips is magnificent. Everything is there, from a big-band movie in Copenhagen in 1933, through the All Stars in the 1950s and ‘60s, and memorable duets with Jack Teagarden (“Rockin’ Chair”), Dizzy Gillespie, Bing Crosby, Barbra Streisand and Billie Holiday.

Wynton Marsalis, who was just 9 when Armstrong died, tries to pontificate, but the warmest and most valuable words come from those who really knew and loved him: Milt Hinton, Arvell Shaw, Bud Freeman, record producer Milt Gabler and, most frequently and most effectively, Tony Bennett, who tells a hilarious anecdote about Satchmo at Buckingham Palace, and who analyzes his impact and significance as a world figure.

Armstrong’s racial sensitivity is dealt with in welcome detail. Critics who have called him an Uncle Tom (among them some ill-informed young radicals) need to be reminded of his role as a spokesman, as the man who attacked President Eisenhower’s reluctant stand on civil rights, who refused to tour the Soviet Union for the State Department because of the way his people had been treated. Armstrong was a pioneer for blacks in many hidden, subtle ways; the comedy and clowning, a product of his time, join with his artistry to earn him and his country friends by the tens of millions.

Only a few passages are painful: The appearance of a burned-out Dexter Gordon, telling a pointless joke about Armstrong’s love of pot, is pathetic and should have been dropped. But there is so much detail here--even home movies taken during a party at Satchmo’s Long Island home--that it seems churlish to quibble. That Armstrong was one of this century’s most influential and most durable figures, as trumpeter, singer, entertainer and good-will ambassador, is brought out with loving conviction.

“Satchmo,” produced by Toby Byron, will play a belated and valuable part in reaffirming his miraculous contribution.