SHINE A LIGHT: THE LONG HAUL OF MARTY, MICK & "KEEF"
An essay by Jon Zelazny
This article first appeared at EightMillionStories.com on April 18, 2008.
Martin Scorsese appears on-camera in the pre-concert scenes of Shine a Light, his only obvious personal touch to a concert film that’s generally indistinguishable from your average HBO special. Scorsese has made some wonderful documentaries over the years, and at this stage in his career, I look forward to his pet projects more than his Hollywood features, but when measured against gems like ItalianAmerican and The Last Waltz, or even the tutorial My Voyage to Italy, Shine a Light is easily the least impressive work of Scorsese’s non-fiction career… which isn’t to say it’s a boring movie, or somehow not worth the price of even an IMAX ticket, because The Rolling Stones are indisputably world-class entertainers, and don’t require any cinematic genius to help them hold an audience in the palms of their well-weathered hands. Scorsese’s presence, then, is essentially a vanity: “We’re the greatest living band of our generation; why shouldn’t we hire the coolest director of our generation to coordinate the filming of our special concert?” That’s all Scorsese is allowed to do: coordinate the physical elements of production, like any decent local TV director could just as well manage, and any artistic vision in the film remains squarely under the thumbs of Jagger & Richards.
This is a tad unfair to sophisticated moviegoers because Martin Scorsese directing leads one to expect more than just a damn good TV special. It implies these respective masters of their mediums might sit down together and compare their personal experiences of endless worldwide fame and adulation, because, let’s face it, the Stones don’t have too many contemporaries on the face of the Earth, and Martin Scorsese is about as simpatico to their whole groove as Hollywood will ever get.
Does anyone currently under the age of forty have actual firsthand memories of The Band? The name means nothing to kids, and I can’t remember the last time I heard “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” on Classic Rock radio, or “The Weight” on some Oldies station, but any open-hearted youngster can plug in a DVD of Scorsese’s The Last Waltz (1978), and come away from it feeling like they not only know all five members of The Band as individuals, but can attest they were pretty decent and likable guys, and that their unique on-stage chemistry allowed them to make some truly beautiful and timeless music. There’s no archival footage; Scorsese shot their farewell concert, and intercut some low-key, intimate interviews he shot in the immediately surrounding weeks. The audience comes away with a sense of The Band’s history only because Scorsese gently coaxes some anecdotal odds and ends out of five weary, close-mouthed men: sometimes humorous and sometimes wistful wisps of pride or shame that add up to a patch quilt band biography. Their stories are specific, but resonate universally: The Last Waltz is an oral history of every WWII-born male who fell in love with rock ‘n roll as a youngster, took a stab at the Big Time, and endured the seismic ups and downs of The Business… just as Scorsese’s living room conversation with his parents in ItalianAmerican (1974) becomes the story of all American immigrant communities of the early 20th century.
Scorsese appears on-camera throughout both of those films as well, but mostly you just see him listening. In the non-concert footage of Shine a Light, there’s little sense of anyone listening to anybody, probably because no one says anything really worth hearing. Over the phone, Mick objects to a crane camera; Marty says one would be nice. There is no further mention of this difference of opinion; the crane is there when the concert commences, so apparently the issue wasn’t a deal-breaker. In another scene, Mick bluntly tells his stage designers that he doesn’t like anything they’ve done. They look surprised, and understandably concerned. What happens next? Scorsese cuts away, and never comes back to it. There is much filmed fuss over Scorsese not getting a set list prior to the show, as though this represents quite a vexing problem. C’mon, Marty; it’s a rock band; they’re going to come out on stage and play their songs. An artistic master is supposed to make the difficult appear easy; Scorsese apparently wants us to think it’s the other way around.
I was actually hoping for more Scorsese on-camera, because he’s aged into such a neat guy. In the 1970’s, elfin and bearded, he exuded a palpable NYC nervousness, and his astonishing appearance in Taxi Driver probably cemented the public’s impression of him as some kind of creep. You don’t have to look far to find the roots of his current persona: watch ItalianAmerican and you’ll be amazed how completely Marty the senior citizen has inherited all the best traits of his late mother, Catherine. He’d always had her love of storytelling, of course, but now he has that same ease she had with herself, her openness and twinkly maternal warmth—right down to that little lilt of her head when she was particularly enjoying something.
The topic of aging in Shine a Light of course brings us to the Stones themselves. I’m thoroughly sick of the journalistic angle of “Wow! Can you believe how old The Rolling Stones are—and they’re still at it!” …which has pretty much been the bemused undertone of the coverage of everything they’ve done at least as far back as their 1981 world tour. Isn’t the answer always the same? They get along professionally, they still enjoy writing, recording, and performing, and they continue to be stratospherically successful; why the fuck wouldn’t they keep at it? The black American bluesmen who inspired them as lads all continue(d) to perform well into their seventies and eighties; does anyone really think Mick, Keith, or Ronnie Wood will ever let anything other than severe health problems keep them away from a stage?
More than anything, the fascinatingly gaunt and craggy faces of these three icons should be required IMAX viewing for every American teenager who thinks smoking is cool. I know it’s not just cigarettes; the Stones spent decades drinking, drugging, and tanning as well, but it really is the damn cancer sticks that ultimately most ravage your looks. Shine a Light was filmed when Jagger and Richards were 63 and Ron Wood was 59, but all three look like they’re pushing 70. Bill Clinton, then 60, easily looks ten years younger than the Rolling Stones, as does Buddy Guy, who actually was 70… and these are men who didn’t exactly lead shy, retiring lives either. Live in concert, the Stones are tiny figures seen distantly in a stadium; in IMAX, I simply couldn’t stop marveling at the freaky dichotomy between their teenager bodies and old men’s faces.
Have any of their public personas changed? Try weighing the group in Shine a Light against their much younger version in the Maysles Brothers’ landmark 1970 documentary Gimme Shelter:
Mick is still Mick. Judging by the sixties clips Scorsese includes, Mick has always been Mick. Mick is a superbly talented and highly intelligent performer, songwriter, franchise creator, and businessman. Mick is also so firmly in control of himself at every moment in his public appearances as to be utterly unfathomable. He “expresses” himself on stage, delivering songs with engaging simulations of various human emotions; what he actually thinks or feels about anything at all is decidedly not part of his act. Mick is perhaps the premier narcissist of his generation, and he clearly learned early on that revealing nothing to outsiders is a brilliant trick to make people intrigued, and keep them intrigued. The more aloof you are as a public figure, the more flattered are the little people who orbit you; your assistants, side musicians, accountants, lawyers, and lovers come to feel they’re incredibly lucky and privileged to be inside your trusted outer or inner circle; to know, for instance, what you like for breakfast, or what you really thought of Elton John’s last charity event. These traits have only noticeably sabotaged Mick’s ambitions in one area: to become a movie star. But what did he expect? Good movie acting is about letting people into your heart; allowing the audience to feel they’re experiencing an emotional journey via your physical presence. Mick’s off-stage vibe is, and always has been, remarkably clear: “Nice to see you. Now please get the fuck away from me.” (Which is why he was perfect as a self-absorbed, narcissistic, reclusive rock star in Donald Cammel and Nic Roeg’s Performance, and so forgettable in everything else.)
No, if you’re looking for personal evolution in the Rolling Stones, the only notable case is Keith Richards. I’ve seen a lot of footage of him from the sixties, and he never looked particularly “Happy.” In Gimme Shelter, on stage and off, his blankness and utter disconnection from anything except his guitar is almost unnerving. And he’s got a lot of company: Bill Wyman is equally blank, Charlie Watts is the definition of subdued, and it’s hard to remember Mick Taylor anywhere except on the Altamont stage. (Poor director Albert Maysles: if you know his work, you know Al really just loves people—interesting, funny, expressive people—and here he’s stuck making a movie about an ice-cold control freak and his four robots. Which is probably why, aside from the on-stage Mick, the most engaging “character” in the movie is the showboating San Francisco attorney Melvin Belli.)
The difference between the 1969 "Keef" and his 2006 self is startling. Somewhere along the line, this deeply troubled, deeply introverted man found some peace, joy, and, uh, satisfaction… and brought it all right into the main spotlight to share with the world. I’m thinking it began in the 1980’s when he first put together a side band and started touring as a front man: he’d always been content to be a great musician; now he needed to become a great entertainer as well. What Richards lacks as a stage athlete, he makes up for with gruff ‘n grin charm. He crouches close beside the audience, makes frequent hand and eye contact, and self-deprecating quips like, “It’s good to see you! It’s good to see anybody!” (Which is pretty amazing: you’d sure as hell never hear Eric Clapton, Pete Townshend, or even Iggy Pop wryly chuckling onstage by alluding to, among other things, the heroin addictions that damn near killed them).
Richards’ look has come a long way too, from the druggy, occultist youth to today’s almost cuddly British zillionare grandpa eccentric. I used to think of his flowing long coats, headbands, eyeliner, and bangles as gypsy-esque; now, thanks to Johnny Depp, coming generations will most likely think of him as “that old pirate rocker.”
Watching Shine a Light is to appreciate that while Mick will forever be the head (and the dick) of this band, and Charlie Watts the spine, it’s Keith Richards who’s really the beating heart of The Rolling Stones today; his presence providing a true warmth and genuine invitation to community that they never really offered in, oh, their first three decades or so. Jagger of course always saw an “anti-Beatle” image as the path to success, but the Beatles are so long, long gone now, and no band has ever definitively assumed their cultural mantle, so why shouldn’t The Rolling Stones let a few rays of pop idol sunshine into their sordid world of Some Girls, Midnight Ramblers, and Champagne & Reefer? Jagger embraces the New Way just as strongly; in his proud rendition of the McCartney-ish “As Tears Go By,” and the comedy monologues of “Faraway Eyes.”
As a matter of fact, I enjoyed The Rolling Stones in Shine a Light more than at any other point in their history; it’s the first time I wished I was up there on stage with them (and IMAX is undoubtedly as close to that experience as we’ll likely ever come.) So hail, hail, rock and roll… and this extraordinary band of brothers, as they offer you a drink from their loving cup.
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