On a panel discussion before its world premiere screening at SilverDocs last night, AJ Schnack used the phrase “Robert Altman-esque” to describe the construction of his new film, Convention. This is accurate as a reference to the stylistic tropes we classically think of when we think of Altman — shot by nine filmmaker/camerapersons, Convention tracks the interwoven stories of a number of semi-interrelated characters as they produce, participate in, protest, protect and/or report on the 2008 Democratic National Convention in Denver — but the film also shares what Roger Ebert, in his review of Nashville, refered to as Altman’s “humanism”, the way he “sees people with his camera in such a way as to enlarge our own experience.” The multiple cameras and the multi-faceted streams of vision that they bring to Convention accomplish two major feats in terms of altering the scale of perspective: they condense nearly an entire city’s goings-on during the biggest international event in its recent history into the managable microcosmic experiences of a few of its thoroughly “normal” citizens, while at the same time opening up spaces in the lives of strangers that the viewer can sink into, and thus sync up to a communal sense of Something Happening. It seems so simple, and yet it’s so rare that you actually find yourself in a theater, having a moment of collective transcendance that makes you think, “This is why movies exist.”

The cameras of Schnack and his filmmaking partners (including Oscar nominated documentarians Laura Poitras and Julia Reichert and True/False Film Festival director David Wilson) capture visiting politicians and other heavyweights only in passing, focusing instead on Denver locals with an instrumental role to play in the Convention ecosystem. Memorable characters include Katherine, a DNC city planner tasked to put on “the best convention ever” by Mayor John Hickenlooper (who is seen only sporadically, most memorably when recounting his philosophy of political salesmanship and when lending his scooter to plucky can-do assistant Chantal); Bill, a Cuban refugee-turned-deputy mayor; Allison, a bright young Denver Post reporter taken off the higher education beat and thrown into the choppy waters of Hillary Clinton supporters; Kevin, the designated liason between the city and various protest groups; and Mike and Barbara, two aged local lefties who seem to latch their passion on to any cause willing to make use of it.

Convention’s dramatic climax is built around the largest protest to go off during the week, a demonstration led by Iraq Veterans Against The War and joined by seemingly every penny-ante would-be agitator hanging out in Denver waiting for something to happen (the featured members of local groups Recreate ‘68 and Tent State are depicted as charmingly inept and out of touch). Interestingly, earlier in the film the poor economy is cited as a factor that might diminish the size of protests — the assumption is that people won’t be able to take off work, and if they’re out of work, they won’t be able to afford to travel — but of course the economy itself become a motivator for protest, with IVAW demanding not just an end to the war, but expanded benefits for those who’ve served. As the uniformed soldiers are mobilizing the masses outside the Pepsi Center behind their quest to present a letter to the Obama camp — and as riot police move in on horses to enforce control over the situation — inside the Pepsi Center the delegates are celebrating their just-wrapped roll call by obliviously dancing to “Love Train.”

Playing out without narration and only minimal expository on-screen titling, it’s this kind of shot-by-shot irony that contains the bulk of Convention’s extra-narrative commentary. Cut down by Schnack and Nathan Truesdell from 90 hours of footage shot by nine people to a 90 minute running time, it almost goes without saying Convention is a triumph of documentary editing. On a primary level, music plays a big role; the source cues alternate between sweep and march, and the cuts rhythmically follow. But Schnack and Truesdell’s cutting for subtext is more exciting. In a film full of characters that would be secondary in a standard political documentary, with juicy verbal asides and reaction shots that would merely another director’s piece here serving as the meat, the juxtapositions between sound and image (and from image to image) are always elegant, and sometimes almost subliminally provocative. Down to the fizzling type design of the subtitles that translate inaudible dialogue, the film’s craft is meticulous all around.

Though not really a political film, Convention is unabashedly pro-Obama, insofar as Obama is a symbol of hope and possibility. The final scenes, in which the then-candidate’s rousing nomination acceptance speech is interwoven with footage of Convention’s less-famous characters givin inspirational talks to one another, offer irresistible testament to Obama’s power to galvanize the masses behind the promise of self-creation and the potential of “normal” Americans to enact change. If Convention has a weakness, it’s that it never second-guesses that concept of hope or critiques its source, but instead rides it like a wave. In times this tough, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. Free of the cynicism that has slowly crept back into political discourse since Obama’s inaurguration, Convention is a time capsule preserving a few brief moments of utopian collective confidence, a work of pure contemporary Americana that’s sorely needed.