Martin Scorsese’s The Last Waltz (1978) is perhaps the single greatest example of wholly subjective myth-making ever committed to celluloid. Working directly with The Band, and increasingly closely with guitarist Robbie Robertson, Scorsese helped stage the ultimate sendoff show. On Thanksgiving of 1976 The Band played some of their best and best loved music with an impressive cast of high profile guest musicians – some stars with whom The Band had worked, and others they had encountered or admired during their notable career. The concert was billed as a retrospective farewell to the touring life. The ornate, in fact operatic, re-outfitting of the Winterland ballroom in San Francisco is only the icing on Scorsese’s setting of the scene. There is a regal, flourishing pomp attending the swan song of the fairly working-class band. Couples in formal attire indeed waltz before a retro-Americana, dream vision of the group to lead us into the fantasy. A fantasy we are instructed is to be played loud.
As a piece all this stylization is pitch-perfect and effortless. The Band were a singular outfit of ruthlessly talented surveyors of the American experience through song. Their sound and accompanying image was early aligned with vague, frontier spirit and the idealized melting-pot of American culture. Sure, it was a great deal of performance, but then it is no wonder they would choose to close the book on their terms with abundant historical footnotes. Concert footage, on vibrant 35mm, is intercut with band interviews. In conversation, Robertson emerges the loquacious leader, full of erstwhile determination and road-worn wisdom. More than anyone else he is actively creating the story of how The Band came into being and what it has come to represent. In part he has an undeniable gift for playing hyper-articulate, humble troubadour. He is also Scorsese’s clear favorite and thereby his narrator. This arrangement mostly glosses over tensions within the group. Fans know that drummer Levon Helm came to resent and even loathe Robertson’s assumed direction. Amidst this celebratory extravaganza we get only hints of smirking reticence from Helm. One of the most compelling moments in the film involves a miniature history lesson on communal midnight music from Helm. He is understated and captivating as he waits to light his cigarette. Helm’s grasp of the rich milieu of American music is second to none.
All of the guests are excellent and, by their eclectic highlights, broaden our sense of the focal musicians. Ronnie Hawkins ripping through “Who Do You Love?” is a raucous early standout. The Band cut their teeth backing Hawkins and the performance here is a sweaty holler of infectious bar band rave-up. Dr. John brings a dixie-jazz strut. Neil Young, despite being so stimulated he needed the editing department to wipe his nose, is fragile and forlorn. Joni Mitchell slips through a fusion of frenetic story telling. Eric Clapton trades riffs with Robertson. The Staples’ add greater emotion to “The Weight”. Muddy Waters commands a full-stop, masterful blues. Van Morrison wears himself out on shouts and high-kicks. There’s a strange and thoroughly strident appearance by Neil Diamond. And of course The Band’s most noteworthy association is saved for last, some brief moments supporting Bob Dylan. The legend here is typically unassuming and slight, perhaps out of deference. He seems eager to fade into the background for the farewell singalong of “I Shall be Released”. It’s not Dylan’s show, and at it’s best it’s not even really The Band’s. For all of its meticulous staging and planning, The Last Waltz moves like Levon’s ramble; loose, funny, and really getting down.
The Last Waltz
1978
dir. Martin Scorsese
117 min.
Monday 8/8 @ 7:00
