Some of the footage we see in this documentary about the Mississippi River Flood of 1927: A woman assisted by two men walks through a flooded town street. The water is up to their knees. The men look grim. Their world has been destroyed. The woman, who is white and maybe 25, seems light-headed, even a little batty. Before reaching the safety of dry land, she notices something on the ground. She stops, reaches down, and plucks a flower. She smiles as she holds the flower close to her breast and walks out of the flood. In another moment, two gloriously ancient black women smoke slim pipes and smile at a man who appears to be an American president—a big white man who is surveying the disaster for photo opportunities. In another, handsomely dressed black Americans stream out of a gothic church. The stream never seems to end, and the heads of all of the women are decorated with the most lively hats. The last image of this film, which you have to see for yourself, will greatly improve your soul’s relationship with your body. But the final substance and significance of this documentary, which has no narrator and is gorgeously scored by jazz guitarist Bill Frisell, is found here: Its images, though old and worn, are not haunting. We are not looking at humans who are now most certainly dead, who are ghosts, but instead humans who are like us: very much alive.