Take a Load Off, One More Time

Neil Diamond is a curious presence in the Band's guest star-laden 1976 farewell concert. Known as The Last Waltz and held at San Francisco's Winterland on Thanksgiving Day, the concert was immortalized in Martin Scorsese's brilliant concert film and a three LP live album (both being rereleased--the film for a limited theater run and in a new DVD version; the album as an expanded four-CD box set). Diamond shows up for an over-the-top rendition of the martial and melodramatic "Dry Your Eyes." Guitarist/songwriter Robbie Robertson half-convincingly explains to Scorsese that Diamond represents the Band's link to Tin Pan Alley and the likes of Lieber and Stoller.

Although Diamond's inclusion on the bill is a bit odd next to the likes of Neil Young, Van Morrison, Joni Mitchell, and Bob Dylan--all folks who helped bring songwriting out of New York's Brill Building--Robertson no doubt sincerely felt this connection. At the time Robertson had been working with Diamond, serving as producer for Diamond's Beautiful Noise, which is in part a concept album about Diamond's life in the songwriting industry.

Diamond's performance feels somewhat incongruous next to the folk-rock of the aforementioned '60s icons, the soul of the Staples Family (who join the Band for a spine-chilling rendition of Robertson's "The Weight" recorded especially for the film on a soundstage), the blues of Muddy Waters, Eric Clapton, and Paul Butterfield, and the loose raucousness of Dr. John's funky piano number and the Band's rockabilly-rebel early patron Ronnie Hawkins.

Nevertheless, Diamond's three-minute appearance makes for one of the most compelling moments of the film. Now, "Dry Your Eyes" is pretty over-dramatic, but so are plenty of the other performances. A sweaty Van Morrison flails about the stage, executing some Andrew W.K.-style dance moves while singing "Caravan," Hawkins flaps his arms like a chicken and fans Robertson's guitar wit his hat during "Who Do You Love," and Waters bellows on "Mannish Boy." But Neil Diamond is quite unlike any of the other guests: while the others play off of and talk to the Band, Diamond--all aviator glasses, sideburns and giant acoustic guitar--stands off to the side, apart from Robertson and company, ever the Tin Pan Alley man, out of place in the rock ën' roll love-in.

And that is precisely that humanity that makes Scorsese's direction (and also the enhanced quality of the rerelease) so successful. Diamond, aloof and delivering such turns of phrase as "from the center of the circle / to the midst of the waiting crowd / If it ever be forgotten / sing it long and sing it loud," is made more human, not the behind-the-scenes songsmith nor yet the Vegas act he has become in recent years.

The film succeeds as more than a Robbie Robertson vanity project thanks to Scorsese. Diamond's performance is only one of many that are as engaging--if not more so--visually as they are musically. This is not to say that the performances are nothing special; Joni Mitchell joins in from off-stage on Neil Young's "Helpless" (although here too Scorsese handles the visual aspect perfectly, cutting to the silhouette of Mitchell's profile on the chorus), The Staples-fueled "The Weight" is jaw-dropping and nearly all of the Band's originals are letter-perfect as usual.

The Band are going out on top here, as is immediately apparent in Rick Danko's shivering vocal on "Stage Fright," multi-instrumentalist/"music teacher" Garth Hudson's saxophone solo on "It Makes No Difference," and Levon Helm's especially impassioned singing on, among others, "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down." But Scorsese does bring out the humanity in the performers, from the famous shot of Eric Clapton's guitar strap giving way and cutting short his solo on "Further On Up the Road," to the smile on Clapton's face as he repeats one riff.

The other remarkable aspect of the film that Scorsese milks are the interviews with the Band that break up the Winterland set. Scorsese is the nervous interlocuter who coaxes the individual personality out of the four difficult Canadians (and Helm, an Arkansas native). Robertson dominates the interviews--The Last Waltz was his idea, and his sense of closure has prevented him from taking part in any of the subsequent Band reunions--coolly relating stories of their early days as Ronnie Hawkins' Hawks, then Bob Dylan's Band and serves up some entertaining rock-star cliches, like "it's the beginning of the beginning of the end of the beginning" (to be fair, Scorsese's query, "Is this an end or a beginning?" is pretty trite itself).

Richard Manuel, the bearded and apparently drunk pianist/sometime drummer, cuts down Robertson's posturing with a mischievous grin and an explanation of the origins of the Band's moniker, recalling their early days in Woodstock, N.Y. as The Crackers and The Honkies. Danko, meanwhile (also under some kind of influence), joins Robertson on an impromptu, living-room version "Old Time Religion" with a fiddle and a plastic hat, and a laconic Helm lights a cigarette and talks about the group's folksy American roots and their first experience with New York City.

When the five (even quiet man Hudson) are assembled in one room and asked about women and the road, Manuel flashes his set of awful stained teeth and chortles, "I just wanna break even." The Last Waltz, 25 years later, looking and sounding as good as ever, is proof enough that Scorsese and the Band did more than break even.

 

The Last Waltz is playing through Thursday an UA Union Square Stadium 14, 13th Street and Broadway. Call (212) 777-FILM.