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GLENN KENNY'S REVIEW (posted 4/4/08)

Does every decade get the Rolling Stones movie it deserves? It's a fun theory to try out, except for the fact that since the '60s, there's frequently been more than one Rolling Stones movie per decade. Let's try it out anyway, working with the most easily accessed (which exempts 1966's obscure tour chronicle Charlie is My Darling and Robert Frank's rarely-screened-for-legal-reasons Cocksucker Blues). Jean-Luc Godard's 1968 One Plus One, aka Sympathy For The Devil, is the chronicle of a musical work in progress, oft-tedious perhaps but charged with a sense of the group both riding and defining the zeitgeist. Albert and David Maysles' 1970 Gimme Shelter set out to be a frank tour chronicle, but as said tour ended at a murder site, Altamont, the film turned into the most succinct and chilling account of the collapse of the counterculture to date. 1983's Let's Spend the Night Together, directed by the once-formidable Hal Ashby, is mostly the sight and sound of the now-extremely seasoned pros counting their money. 1991's giant-screen At the Max is Rolling Stones as high-tech amusement park ride.

Where does this leave Shine A Light? It's the first time since Night that they've worked with a first-rank director, and unlike Ashby at the time, Scorsese's still got much of his mojo working. The Stones, as is pointed out almost invariably every time their name is mentioned, are now not just seasoned pros but old ones — drummer Charlie Watts, the senior of the lot, will turn 67 this year. The mutual survival of both these creative forces could arguably be seen as something to celebrate, and that's what Shine A Light does. Granted, it's a celebration of durability and stamina, rather than any kind of creative quicksilver, but remarkably engaging and fleet for all that.

The picture, which is screening, like At the Max, in the super-huge-screen IMAX format, begins with smaller-format scenes of preparations for "a" concert (the picture was in fact shot over a couple of nights) at New York's intimate Beacon Theatre, with Scorsese coordinating with cinematographers and set designers. Meanwhile the Stones — mostly Jagger, perpetually known in Stones iconography as the most TCB (or calculating) member of the band — voice their approval or objections to certain ideas from the road, and keep Scorsese hanging about their set list. Things get a little tense, but Mick never resorts to calling Marty a "fucking twat," as he did Godard. Then the picture expands, and the band, and Scorsese's multiple cameras (their field commander cinematographer Robert Richardson; other operators include such stalwart lensers as Ellen Kuras and Emmanuel Lubezki, while surviving Maysles brother Albert mans a handheld) get to work.

And work they do. Jagger's modulated his cock-of-the-walk rooster strut to the point that he doesn't actually look ridiculous doing it, as every other 64-year-old man who even attempted it would. He's in pretty good voice, too, and while he doesn't always stick to every song's original phrasing (one can only imagine how bored he'd get if he did), he changes things up pretty purposefully, mostly the better to pump up the crowd, as on the version here of "Shattered," the group's sour paean to '70s-era Manhattan. Miracle of nature guitarist Keith Richards and partner in sonic grime Ronnie Wood do their two-axe-one-ball-of-wax act with relaxed aplomb, improbably weaving half-hit chords and drawling-to-manic licks into, well, songs. A cigarette never leaves Richards' mouth, unless he's spitting it out, and the IMAX image is so sharply defined you can see that Richards prefers a slightly thicker gauge of guitar string to Wood. Drummer Watts, who seems to have one cameraperson right by his side, is, finally, seen breaking a sweat. He remains one of rock's sharpest, smartest, warm-sounding drummers. The whole show has an aura of relaxed proficiency about it; from in-the-pocket bassist Darryl Jones to longtime backing musicians Chuck Leavell (former Allman Brothers keyboardist), Bobby Keys (the saxman first heard on Stones vinyl all the way back in 1971, soloing on "Brown Sugar," as he does again here), Blondie Chaplin (rock session utility infielder extraordinaire), Bernard Fowler and Lisa Fischer (backup singers extraordinaire), this is an exhibition of polished, enthusiastic showmanship. Scorsese and editor David Tedeschi do keep the cutting quick, but are always alert to the telling details — a warm grin exchanged between the oft-estranged Jagger and Richards, or Jagger's exhortations to the band to heat things up a little.

Intercut with the concert is archival footage, largely of interviews, wherein various Stones (the late Brian Jones conspicuously absent among them — it's practically a Stalinist purge!) grapple with the question of just how long they can keep this thing up. Funny. (Also funny: that the front rows of the Beacon seem to have been stocked with the most attractive, clean-looking, 20-somethingish white females in the tri-state area. It looks like a casting call for the East Coast version of The Hills or something. One gets the impression, also, that they are only slightly less ardent Stones fans than Malcolm Muggeridge was.)

But what of meaning, some might ask? Both Scorsese and Jagger have joked that this is the only Scorsese movie not to feature the still scarily prophetic Stones song "Gimme Shelter," and the fact of the matter is, while one may argue about the precise date this occurred, Stones music has not "mattered" in a certain way for a long time. Hence — among other things — what were once statements are now showstoppers, or want to be. "Loving Cup," one of Exile on Main Street's most moving declarations of post-'60s exhaustion (basically the theme of the album entire) is here a rather corny duet with Jack White, in whose acoustic guitar stylings I doubt even the most ardent White Stripes fan is interested. On the other hand, it's kind of amusing to see slinky Christina Aguilera sing the "Live With Me" line about a score of harebrained children, as she clearly hasn't got the faintest idea of what that means. The most successful of the concert/film's three guest spots is the one featuring seminal blues guitarist Buddy Guy. Seven years older than Richards but looking about 15 years younger, big bad grin on his face, he adds some staggering soloing and singing to the old Muddy Waters tune "Champagne and Reefer" while Jagger takes up a harmonica and more than manages to keep up. The blues is the fount from which both these artists draw their inspiration, and watching them drink from it, one gets a palpable sense of how it's key to what makes the Stones' music still pleasurable, if no longer cataclysmic.

— Glenn Kenny