Bill Wyman

A few days after Weinraub’s story, the New York Times published a defense of Weinstein — and a derisive attack on Hollywood — from the venerable Vincent Canby, who’s based in New York. “There’s still nothing quite as exhilarating as the spectacle of some of Hollywood’s toughest wheeler-dealers … [taking] umbrage at the shabby behavior of an upstart not yet in their club,” wrote Canby. Weinraub, one got the feeling, must have been smarting. And now New York-based chief Times film critic Janet Maslin, doing a Cannes wrap-up last Sunday, has fired yet another salvo. The story let Weinstein vent against what to his mind were Cannes’ myriad sins against him and his company. The story didn’t ever say exactly what Cannes had done to Miramax — one of the company’s films anchored the closing-night event — but it apparently had to do with not giving Weinstein enough prizes. The good old days when Miramax product like “Pulp Fiction” was taking home the Palme D’Or are long gone.

As a result, Maslin told us, Weinstein has “declared war” on Cannes. He “has long been galled by this event’s elitism and its predilection for dull, irrelevant films. ‘There’s something wrong with Cannes, and it needs to be fixed,’ he said angrily by telephone from the closing night party. ‘The luster of the festival is completely submerged. It’s losing its place in film history. It has the potential to be so much more than it is now, the potential to be so much more serious and less political. I’ve reached the frustration point, and I’m not scared to say so anymore.’”

It sounded like the lustrous Harvey was about to take his cell phone and go home. Indeed, wrote Maslin: “And if nothing changes? ‘Then I won’t come,’ Weinstein said.”

Quel fromage! Maslin, intoning the words “Harvey Weinstein” as reverentially as a star-struck flack at a Manhattan opening, didn’t bother to put Weinstein and his company into context for a lay reader. Nor did she bother to explain how the nefarious anti-Miramax conspiracy on the shores of the Riviera was carried out, whatever it was. And she didn’t ask anyone at the festival why they weren’t giving Harvey any prizes.

We’re sure a lot of the Cannes films were boring, but there are some greater ironies here. In the context of U.S. culture, many of Weinstein’s films inhabit the same vague artsy area that Cannes does, yet Weinstein has made millions by mainstreaming the art-film industry, packaging slightly higher than middlebrow fare to the multiplexes. His success was crowned last year with a best picture Oscar, the very image of mainstream, even vulgar, validation. Now he wants to keep his Cannes’ imprimatur, too. One suspects that a fairly independent-minded person like Maslin would have been more skeptical of his contradictory position, had not the film world’s odd geography temporarily blinded her. When you’re playing for the home team, sometimes a loss looks like a steal.

Funny how an impossibly pampered 50-year-old guy in top-top shape could just keel over dead.

We’re supposed to live in an Age of Paparazzi. Isn’t it curious how stars nonetheless manage to die right before our eyes?

They do it with our complicity.

Born not just to celebrity but to stardom, Michael Jackson never knew what it was like to live normally, or even behave normally. He was drafted into the family’s musical act, the Jackson 5, while in elementary school, and taken to Motown records. He was taught how to live a manufactured image at the feet of Berry Gordy, who was quite good at such legerdemain.

If you’re 9 years old and born to be a star, such training will definitely turbocharge the marketing of your record sales; as for the fact that almost all the money from those sales went to your teacher and not you … well, that was his second lesson.

Trust, truth … these were concepts Michael Jackson learned early on didn’t have much worth. But of course he had his family, right?

His angry father beat him and his eight siblings with some determination, reputable biographers have told us. (Untrustworthy La Toya said that she and Michael were sexually molested, too.) On tour at age 10, Michael tried to sleep as his older brothers banged groupies in the motel rooms they shared. Then all the kids watched in wonder as their father took up with another woman and had a child with her.

Love, marriage, sex … Michael Jackson learned early that those didn’t mean much either. The Jackson 5 had a three-year run, not bad for a kid act. When the family, which realized it hadn’t made any money, left the label, a vengeful Gordy exacted as a price not just a brother –  Jermaine, who, married to Gordy’s daughter, stayed at Motown — but even their name. When they moved to Columbia, they couldn’t use the name the Jackson 5.

Michael was all of 14.

In five years he collected himself, extracted himself from his father’s control and recorded two albums that would change the music industry. The best was the first: 1979′s “Off the Wall,” a groovy, irresistible stunner. Blithe and implacable, sparkling and protean, it displayed a lean  talent, feline in his sexuality and relaxed in his blackness. The round-faced, broad-nosed charmer looking out from the album’s cover reeked not just of charm but confidence and, for the last time, normality.

Three years later, “Thriller” would take what became an epochal step forward in terms of commerciality. Viewed now, with the benefit of hindsight, we can see Jackson’s evolving physiognomy is symptomatic of an insecurity we didn’t think to question at the time.

His celebrity’s toll on his own and his family’s life became considerable. For some unaccountable reason, after “Thriller” he still lived at home, as his family busied itself with intrigues and cockamamie plans. One imagines him sitting in his room ignoring the knocks at his door as offers of millions came in to the family from across the country and around the world to do just about anything — anything, that is, that Michael would do too.

With the exception of Janet, his youngest sister, who somehow managed to extract herself and create her own extraordinary career, virtually every member of his family managed to blemish their reputations; among other things, more than one of the boys, their father’s sons, were charged with beating up their girlfriends or wives.

The story from that point is a bleak and unrelieved one. Superficial things: Michael’s ludicrous trappings and entourages; the fetishization of the armed militias marching around in his videos; tales of his supposed bizarre doings leaked to tabloids; the grasping grandiosity of his public appearances. Jackson had a flair for exploiting the tabloid celebrity he had, but that was a skill he shared with Anna Nicole Smith and Paris Hilton, and it probably shouldn’t be listed among his unique abilities.

More serious things: mismanaged tours; declining songwriting skills; ever-more erratic album releases.

Even more serious things: an entirely transfigured physical appearance, morphing from an engaging and handsome African-American man into a misshapen Eurasian woman; his skin bleached, his face resculpted; his nose, finally, needing to be practically taped onto his face. He left his race behind and, in a sense, his family too. (The nose, which seemed to have borne the brunt of his obsession with plastic surgery, was his father’s.)

The master of crossover had seemingly crossed over for good.

And finally, a black moral hole, and a descent into a double life as a sexual predator. You’ve heard about not taking candy from a stranger; Jackson’s candy took the form of literal amusement parks. There were nights of fun and sleepovers and inappropriate touching and …

Accusations were leveled many times; most cases were settled; one case, gone to trial, ended in an acquittal in Santa Maria in 2005.

In the obituaries, writers will savor Jackson’s talents, which were unquestioned; his ambition, which was otherworldly and a thing of awe; and his heyday, which lasted really just a few years, and encompassed perhaps two and a half albums. Others will reflect on the tragedies visited upon him and those he visited on others.

I think it’s fair to classify Kurt Cobain’s death as one brought on by medical problems, specifically the roiling interaction of depression and addiction. Jackson’s death is in this sense more purely a suicide, just as Elvis Presley’s was some three decades ago. Like Presley, Jackson at some point stepped through a door, closed it, and turned the key. What went on behind the door we’ll never know.

Espinoza was stating the obvious: Fugitives don’t get to dictate the terms of their case. Polanski, who had pleaded guilty to having unlawful sex with a 13-year-old girl, was welcome to return to America, surrender, and then petition the court as he wished. Indeed, the judge even gave Polanski more than he deserved, saying that he might actually have a case. “There was substantial, it seems to me, misconduct during the pendency of this case,” he said, according to the Los Angeles Times. “Other than that, he just needs to submit to the jurisdiction of the court.”

Polanski deserves to have any potential legal folderol investigated, of course. But the fact that Espinoza had to state the obvious is testimony to the ways in which the documentary, and much of the media coverage the director has received in recent months, are bizarrely skewed. The film, which has inexplicably gotten all sorts of praise, whitewashes what Polanski did in blatant and subtle fashion — and recent coverage of the case, in the Los Angeles Times, the New York Times and elsewhere, has in turn accepted the film’s contentions at face value.

For now, the Los Angeles judge has injected a dose of reality into the debate. But “Wanted and Desired” seems to have inserted into the public consciousness the idea that Polanski, an irrepressible European, had been naughty during a colorful time, and that he has been toyed with by a monstrous legal system. Creepy and disturbing, the film does show us a few of the director’s moral warts. But it leaves the strong impression that Polanski was a wronged man, jerked around by a cartoony, publicity-hungry judge to the point where fleeing was his only viable option.

“Wanted and Desired” is directed by Marina Zenovich. Previously she had made well-received documentaries about the Sundance Film Festival and France’s charismatic Bernard Tapie, who owned a chain of health stores and sponsored a famous cycling team, which included Tour de France winner Greg LeMond. Tapie later got into trouble with the law for fixing soccer games, and after spending time in prison, became an actor.

In “Wanted and Desired,” Zenovich casts Polanski, whose face repeatedly fills the screen with a Byronic luminosity, as a tragic figure, a child survivor of the Holocaust haunted by the murder of his wife, the actress Sharon Tate, at the hands of the Manson family. His friends are uniformly supportive: “This is somebody who could not be a rapist!” one exclaims.

As for the judge, Laurence J. Rittenband, why, he’s a risible self-promoter. If Polanski is Byron, the judge is an Oliver Hardy or a Billy Gilbert, all but twiddling his tie in a series of ever-more-comical photographs. He actually kept a scrapbook about the celebrities who came through his Santa Monica courtroom. He had two girlfriends.

Now, that’s one way to portray those two men — and one that Polanski’s current lawyers would prefer. But there’s another way, too: You could show one as a child-sex predator who drugged a 13-year-old girl with quaaludes and champagne; lured her to pose for naked photographs; ignoring her protests, had sex with her; and then anally raped her.

The other could be cast as a canny jurist — possibly a brilliant one, smart enough to have gone from high school directly to Harvard Law and graduated so young he wasn’t allowed to take the bar exam — who may have gone too far in his intent to block off the legal escape hatches celebrity wrongdoers use.

The truth is somewhere in between, but it’s probably a lot closer to the second version. Yet that initial stark contrast — the tragic hero, the goofy jurist — permeates the film. Documentarians should have a wide leeway to argue their case the way they want, but there’s a point at which ethical lines are crossed. Zenovich, like many other chroniclers to the stars, seems to have been blinded by her contact with Polanski.

Here’s an example: The word “sodomy” is briefly referenced in Zenovich’s documentary, but it’s a somewhat ambiguous term, and it’s never explained. Zenovich has fun flashing bits of the victim’s grand jury testimony on the screen, but she never gets around to using this exchange from that testimony, which was made public in 2003 and published by the Smoking Gun:

“Then he lifted up my legs and went in through my anus.”

“What do you mean by that?

“He put his penis in my butt.”

In the girl’s grand jury testimony, which is slightly sickening to read, she also said that she had repeatedly told Polanski no, but that she was too afraid of him to resist.

It’s a drag to include a scene of anal rape of a 13-year-old in your moody documentary about such a Byronic figure, but it’s also fairly relevant.

At the same time, Zenovich doesn’t have time to tell us about the exceptional back story of Rittenband. In other words, she withholds the most damaging bit of information about Polanski from her viewers, and the most favorable bit of information about the judge.

Zenovich seems to have a tin ear when it comes to sexual politics, too. The film spends a lot of time telling us that Rittenband apparently had two girlfriends, using some goofy graphics to underscore the point. Zenovich doesn’t say the judge was married, so it’s not clear exactly why this information is relevant. But given what Polanski is accused of, the irony seems to be that the judge was a womanizer, too.

But Polanski, of course, wasn’t on trial for womanizing. He was on trial for drugging and raping a 13-year-old girl. The director’s ear, here as elsewhere, seems a bit … continental when it comes to such issues.

In “Wanted and Desired,” it’s weird how detached Zenovich stays from the victim, and how she undermines her in subtle ways. The tone is set early on, when a friend of Polanski’s tells of being woken up and informed that the director had been arrested. The moment is actually played for laughs, with interspersed shots of a worried Mia Farrow using the phone in a scene from “Rosemary’s Baby.”

A filmmaker attuned to the psychological undercurrents of the characters in her drama might have been conscious of the state of a 13-year-old girl, who had just been drugged and raped and had spent the next period of time at a police station reliving the incident; and shaken by the story of “Rosemary’s Baby” — that, too, about a horrifically abused woman.

But the scene isn’t used to illustrate the victim’s story — it’s about poor Roman. He’s the person making the desperate phone call. It’s an odd juxtaposition when you think about it. That’s when the friend, having just been told Polanski has been arrested, says, “This is somebody who could not be a rapist!” Here again, Zenovich is playing with semantics. It’s obvious the friend was saying he couldn’t imagine Polanski, say, following a woman down the street and grabbing her in an alley.

If Zenovich wasn’t tipping the scales in Polanski’s favor, she could have asked the guy, “Well, what about statutory rape, having sex with an underage girl? Could you imagine him doing that?”

We also hear people note, meaningfully, that meeting someone like Polanski could help a potential young actress’s career. Such a remark about a grown woman would be slightly offensive; about a 13-year-old it’s exceedingly so. The girl told police at the time she had repeatedly told Polanski no; on the screen Zenovich runs a line to that effect from the girl’s grand jury testimony, but immediately follows it with a quote from Polanski’s: “She was not unresponsive.” This creates a subtle he-said-she-said dynamic that, in a case in which consent isn’t a issue, represents another bit of moral prestidigitation.

It’s strange to see a female filmmaker anchor her documentary’s arguments with such atavistic attitudes. It gets worse: In the media circus of the time, some of the European press reported that the victim hadn’t been a virgin. We then get to watch as Polanski’s attorney, Douglas Dalton, stands in front of a gaggle of media, Polanski nodding by his side, to say, “The facts indicate that before the alleged acts in this case the girl had engaged in sexual activity. We want to know about it, we want to know who was involved, when, we want to know why these other people were not prosecuted. It’s something we want to fully develop.”

A more feminist-minded director might have used her interviews with Dalton to explore some of the Neanderthal ways he was prepared to wage the case, had the director gone to trial. But, of course, the director didn’t go to trial. As the film shows, Polanski accepted a plea bargain and pleaded guilty to the formal felony charge of unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor; he and his lawyer knew he could face prison time. Polanski also stood in front of the judge and admitted what he did and that he’d known what he was doing.

In the wake of that, Rittenband was trying to figure out how to make sure Polanski was punished; he was apparently concerned that the director would act contrite, get a short prison term and then assemble a pack of legal wolves to get him out of trouble. And the film makes a decent case that Rittenband ultimately went off the rails.

But even this isn’t exactly a revelation; Rittenband got in trouble for his actions at the time, and was ultimately removed from the case. But by that time the director had already fled, which lost him whatever legal high ground he might have obtained.

Flash forward 30 years, and Polanski has to try to make that very old issue seem new. His lawyers are also basing their case for dismissal on two other, lesser issues. Rittenband, who Polanski has said was playing with him like a mouse, was actually nice enough to the director after the guilty plea to let him go to Europe to make a movie, an option the L.A. courts system, one suspects, affords few other accused child rapists, then or now. While there, he had the misfortune to be photographed carousing at an Oktoberfest in Munich. One of the district attorneys in the documentary says he called the judge’s attention to the photo and suggested that Polanski was making a fool out of him.

(This photo, which Zenovich attacks with the zeal of a Kennedy assassination conspiracist examining the Zapruder film, is exhaustively analyzed, with multiple interviewees testifying in all sorts of ways that Polanski really wasn’t having fun — an assertion the victim was never allowed to make unchallenged about her photographic experience with Polanski.)

Polanski’s lawyers have tried to paint what the D.A. said as an example of an inappropriate communication, but the D.A. mentions it openly in the documentary (it’s not a “revelation”) and has said it was no big deal.

Finally, the lawyers are incensed that the L.A. court responded to a press inquiry by saying Polanski had to surrender before anything was going to happen with his case. Polanski’s lawyers say this was “ruling publicly” on a matter before the court. It could be that. It could also be called “stating the obvious” — which is what Judge Espinoza did Tuesday.

The coverage of Polanski’s legal maneuverings in the last year took its cues from Zenovich’s documentary. The charges against Polanski were often vaguely described; though the charge of sodomy was in the original case, and the Smoking Gun posted the girl’s wrenching grand jury testimony in 2003, these issues were almost never mentioned.

The New York Times finally did a detailed story on the charges last month. But the story still concentrated on supposed “troubling” and “uncomfortable” issues raised by the film. Just listen to this portentous passage: “For the elder Mr. Dalton, who urged Mr. Polanski to pursue redress after reviewing the documentary, however, the issue turned from the original crime to questions about the way authorities here handled it.”

Dalton was given a lot of time in the documentary to spin wildly for his client, so it’s hardly surprising that he managed to convince himself that he was correct after seeing it — or that, given the fairly incontrovertible facts of the case, that he would like to turn the issue just about anywhere other than “the original crime.”

Polanski has had a wrenching life, of course, but it is overplayed in “Wanted and Desired.” I think it’s true to say that there are many people who survived the Holocaust who don’t drug and rape children, for example. More apposite and logical questions, in turn, aren’t explored. For example: Polanski was photographing the girl for a photo spread for a European edition of Vogue. Someone could have asked him, or his lawyer — just for the record — if he had drugged and raped any other of his photo subjects.

The girl in the case is now in her 40s; she has said the case is behind her and that she has forgiven Polanski. (The documentary waits until the end to note that this came only after she settled a civil case against the director.) But the issue here isn’t Polanski being left alone; he’s the one trying to get his case dismissed.

The movie tries to drum up sympathy for Polanski by playing up the media firestorm he was at the center of; but that’s Polanski’s fault, too. (Before they rape children, celebrities should consider how the media attention sure to result will have adverse consequences for their victims, as well as themselves.) Celebrities complain about “the dishonesty of the media,” as Polanski does repeatedly in the film, only when the dishonesty doesn’t suit them. If the coverage helps you — a portrayal as devoted husband, say — then it’s fine, true or not. But when it doesn’t, they scream.

But that’s just the Polanski team’s legal strategy: keeping as many balls in the air as possible to make it seem as if the director has something to negotiate with, which he hasn’t. Around the time of the documentary’s release, they actually cut a deal to settle the case — but balked at the prospect of cameras in the court. This too was an irony, considering that Roman Polanski got himself into trouble with a camera so many years ago. Thirty years later, the director was still trying to call the shots.

In that context, it seems like no big news that you can see some rock stars in “The Last Waltz,” recently released in theaters and just out on DVD. Its technical claim to fame is based on the fact that it was shot in 35mm. The group the film is about — a band called just the Band — were once somewhat famous but dropped out of sight around the time the movie was filmed, in 1976, and haven’t been heard much of since. And the music they made — today you’d call it Americana, or alternative country — is as unfashionable a genre as you can imagine, the success of the yuppie coffee-table CD that is the “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack notwithstanding.

The film “Woodstock,” which came out about eight years before “The Last Waltz,” contains head-snapping performances by Jimi Hendrix, the Who, Sly and the Family Stone, Santana and many others; it’s a searchingly filmed and edited documentary of a larger-than-life event and remains a larger-than-life touchstone of an era of social upheaval and a landmark in documentary filmmaking. That film aside, however, “The Last Waltz,” as the pristine DVD version attests, is the single best movie about rock ‘n’ roll and only rock ‘n’ roll ever made.

At the time “The Last Waltz” was created, the rock film was still a rarity, despite the magisterial “Woodstock” and the shockingly fun mid-1960s Beatles outings. You could see the occasional 16mm concert films — “Pink Floyd Live at Pompeii,” “Ladies and Gentlemen the Rolling Stones,” “Ziggy Stardust” and so forth — but only in theaters, and only in the cities that might have an offbeat movie house that would play such stuff. Rock appeared on TV only rarely (on cool shows like “The Midnight Special”).

So, in 1976, when it was filmed, and 1978, when it was released, “The Last Waltz” had some striking features. The film chronicled a concert in which appeared not only the Band and Neil Young and Joni Mitchell and Eric Clapton but also Bob Dylan and Van Morrison and Muddy Waters, many of these at something near their psychic best. The occasion of the show was the announced retirement from the road of the Band. Even back then, the group was a somewhat mysterious ensemble, Canadian save for an Arkansan drummer but uncompromisingly dedicated to the investigation of American music. After nearly a decade of tangential obscurity, the members found themselves Dylan’s electric backup band in the mid-’60s. Later they would hole away with him to make rock’s most famous bootleg, “The Basement Tapes,” and release influential records on their own, most notably “Music From Big Pink” in 1968. At their peak, they revealed a Crazy Horse-style force and Stones-like libidinousness, both leavened by a predilection for drolly fatalist Americana populated with R. Crumb-like characters and romantic losers.

The group planned its farewell at Bill Graham’s Winterland auditorium in San Francisco. The band’s leader, Robbie Robertson, knew Martin Scorsese, who was then in Los Angeles finishing up his wan tribute to the American movie musical, “New York, New York.” He was so late on that film, and so over budget, that he had to undertake preparations for “The Last Waltz” secretly. Once he took on the project, he decided to do what apparently had never been done for a serious rock movie — film it in 35mm, under controlled conditions. That meant turning Winterland from a concert venue into a film studio, with an appropriate set; stationary and moving cameras; storyboarded songs; and an intense communications network to capture what was needed to be captured — all of this for a complex show with an array of special guests, and in an era when “authenticity” was a rock byword and many musicians and concert production people were less than cooperative when it came to sacrificing spontaneity to decent filmmaking conditions.

Scorsese brought in Boris Leven, who had been production designer on “West Side Story” and “The Sound of Music,” to create a set; for cinematographers he had Vilmos Szigmond and Laszlo Kovacs, cameramen of choice for the “Easy Riders, Raging Bulls” generation. When Winterland’s floor proved shaky, the production sawed through it and anchored the cameras in the building’s foundation. Behind the stage, Scorsese built a rolling track for a moving camera. The San Francisco Opera lent the production pieces of a set from a recent production to create a lush and attractive backdrop.

After logistical problems that must have been nightmarish, given the egos involved, the concept came off. One of the things we learn on the commentaries on the DVD is that the group sent emissaries to the invited guests to find out what songs they were going to perform, to allow the Band to rehearse and prepare the proper arrangements, which could then be used by Scorsese for storyboarding purposes — the solos, the change in vocalists and so forth. Promoter Bill Graham served the 5,000 attendees a Thanksgiving dinner; then, tables were cleared to make room for ballroom dancers. The show began with performances by the Band (“Up on Cripple Creek,” “It Makes No Difference,” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, ” Stage Fright,” etc., etc.) alternating with tunes by the guests: Mitchell (“Coyote”), Young (“Helpless”), Muddy Waters (“Mannish Boy”), Neil Diamond (“Dry Your Eyes”), Clapton (“Further on up the Road”), Dr. John (“Such a Night”), Morrison (“Caravan”) and finally Dylan (“Forever Young,” “Baby Let Me Follow You Down”). There are two striking songs filmed later, on sound stages: “Evangeline,” featuring Emmylou Harris, and “The Weight,” with the Staple Singers. Then the show ends with an all-star ensemble singing “I Shall Be Released.”

All of Scorsese’s preparations combined to imbue “The Last Waltz” with a production sheen that, while never rendering the performance antiseptic or polished, gives it, paradoxically, a momentousness. Previous rock movies, virtually without exception, had been made cheaply and on the fly. This show, by contrast, was lit for high-quality filmmaking and was being shot by several of the most brilliant cameramen in the world; the performers’ faces glow, become alive. Scorsese’s extravagant plans — a network of moving cameras and refocusing lenses — combine to capture, seemingly, every nod and wink that passes between the artists. You can see the members of the Band, familiar with each other after 16 years on the road, each playing his part confidently and independently; but when others came on, you can see the members’ antennae become alert; shrugs, glances, nods and smiles drive the concert forward. Scorsese humanizes the performance in a way that is without parallel in rock films.

There are a couple of guests who aren’t that interesting, but most are spellbinding: Neil Young, spaced out of his mind on something, smolders; Joni Mitchell is a transfixing, alien-like presence; Dr. John fills the screen with wiseass geniality; even Ronnie Hawkins, the rockabilly lifer who gave the Band its start, mugs winningly. Dylan looks extraordinary with a beard, long, curly hair and a flamboyant pimp hat, and Morrison wears a spangled jacket over a purple shirt stretched tight over his barrel chest.

The Band themselves are revealed through their songs at the concert and through interviews with Scorsese that serve as a thematic intro to each song. In Helm’s eyes, during the interviews, you can see a humble Texas kid, shy and wary; onstage he becomes randy and cheerful, reaching over to shake each guest’s hand as they leave the stage. Garth Hudson, older than the others and more musically schooled, is the gruff professor. Danko, the goofy bass player, spends his time onstage rollicking, but offstage is simply unable to answer when Scorsese asks him what he will do next. And Richard Manuel, the keyboardist, has a maniacal charm; when Scorsese asks the band about women on the road, Manuel grins wildly and cracks, “That’s probably why we were on the road so long.”

Finally, there is Robbie Robertson, the band’s leader. Robertson wrote most of the group’s songs, letting Helm’s mournful drawl and Danko’s keening tenor animate them. There are a lot of ways in which the film is a love letter to Robertson, and a lot of other ways in which he is a politician; of the band members, he’s the most controlled, the most guarded; and of all of them, he remains the most unrevealed. His songs — piercing, funny, sui generis bits of cockeyed Americana — remain unplumbed. We never learn — we never get a hint — of where those themes came from. That shadow is the film’s biggest flaw.

That said, Robertson remains a smoldering, leonine, sexy presence. He’s featured in the vast majority of the film’s scenes, strange for someone who doesn’t sing. (Robertson has a rasp of a singing voice; it’s said the other members of the Band snicker at how Robertson is seen contributing backup vocals on so many of the songs in the film.) But you see him, again and again, framed with his fellows, lost in his guitar or gazing with pride or wonder at the songs played out around him, and in the end it’s hard to gainsay the film’s focus; you can feel him draw the camera to him. Indeed, Robertson stands on the stage with Danko and Morrison and Dylan and Young and Clapton and holds his own as a songwriter, musician and sheer physical presence — no small thing.

He remains a mystery on the DVD. There’s an audio track in which he and Scorsese talk over the film. Scorsese is at his rapid-fire best, discoursing on Italian directors and frankly discussing the problems he had during the production; Robertson, by contrast, offers nothing but the highest praise for everyone involved.

The second audio track is a treasure. On it, a mass of people — musicians like Dr. John, Helm, Hudson and Hawkins; critics like Greil Marcus and Time’s Jay Cocks; and various film production people — gleefully dish on the movie as it plays in front of them. Marcus, who wrote a book on the “Basement Tapes,” patiently explains some of the themes of each of Robertson’s songs as they come up; Cocks is at his best nailing the personas of some of the players, as when he calls Morrison a “half-homicidal elf.” Even this supplementary material is searchingly edited, as when a halting Hudson rhapsodizes about the saxophone — and we watch as he then steps up to the stage on-screen for a gorgeous alto sax solo.

In these scenes and a dozen others the heart of the movie beats, as well as in the rumbling Muddy Waters, the New Orleans shuffle of Dr. John, the hyperintellectuality of Mitchell, the molten Dylan, the earthy evanescence of Hawkins; yes, even in the chuckleheaded Neil Diamond. It’s partly about that olio of sound, either unshakably American or unshakably informed by American music — from Chicago blues to Appalachian gospel, from Celtic soul to Tin Pan Alley — in all its unfettered and sometimes grimy glory, played by a group of malcontents and miscreants: Canadians, British guitar gods, Irishmen, chumps from Brooklyn.

The poignancy of “The Last Waltz” is this: That while all of the major stars present were still producing impressive work, it was, in fact, the twilight of their genius. (Only Neil Young, with “Rust Never Sleeps,” would go on to record a reverberating album.) The era these acts represent is now a bygone one, however much some would like to think an act like Dylan or Young has relevance today. Still, it’s worth noting that that era did exist — not the ’60s era, precisely, because everyone knows about that — but a slightly faded and braver one. “The Last Waltz” is our best insight to a moment when the giants of the previous decade raged against time, in the shadow of an age that changed them all inalterably.

On the other hand, it’s possible that the people in previous eras looked at Michelangelo’s frescoes in the Sistine Chapel, or gazed on a Bernini statue, and simply took it for granted.

Perhaps today we take things for granted as well? What if the true cultural brilliance of our time existed right under our noses?

It might be something that was well liked and even respected, but might not be recognized for its mastery.

It might be something that we’d not even suspect of such artistry, precision and meticulous attention to detail. It might be a TV show. It might even be a sitcom.

It might be … “Seinfeld.”

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I didn’t watch “Seinfeld” for most of its run. I sneered at broadcast television. Friends met every Thursday to hoot over it, but I never deigned to join them.

It wasn’t until its last year on the air, sometime in 1999, that I happened to catch a scene — a rerun, as it turned out — that brought me up short.

George Costanza (Jason Alexander), Jerry Seinfeld’s schlub friend, is sitting in a car with a woman, outside her apartment, late at night. The dynamic was appreciable in an instant: A tubby bald guy with a nice looking woman, the date winding down.

You could see the emotional accounting of the moment trip through the woman’s mind, and you could see her all-but-perceptibly shrug when, in the end, the bottom line appeared, and it favored the schlub.

Sitting next to her was George, enduring the calculations; he was at an age, 30-ish, by which such moments were familiar. Indeed, he could recite the thoughts going through his date’s mind: He’s a schlub but he’s obviously willing to please; I don’t have to get up that early in the a.m.; it’s been months since I’ve been laid; I don’t have to go out with him again; my friend downstairs is out of town so there’s no chance of her busting me with him; it may be just that I had two glasses of wine but he’s not that bad looking …

The shrug. “Would you like to come up for a cup of coffee?” she asked.

This seconds-long moment was already an exquisitely brutal and compressed masterpiece of conception and acting. And here we, the viewers, sighed with amused sympathetic relief for the schlub (this is how guys like George get lucky, after all; it’s not pretty, but it works for them) when George broke into our reverie.

“Coffee?” he scowled. “No! It keeps me up all night!”

The woman looked at him with a burst of disbelief, and then the quick realization that she’d lucked out — been given an inadvertent reprieve by someone who was a bigger loser than she’d appreciated. “OK,” she said, and got out of the car.

George remained in his seat, stunned at what he’d just said and marveling savagely at the urges that moved him.

That scene was my introduction to the show, and I quickly saw how a significant part of it was created along those lines: tableaux of human fecklessness imagined and presented with an adamantine clarity no less intoxicating than the smooth stone of “Apollo and Daphne,” the riotous imagery on the dominant wall of the Sistine Chapel.

There are great movies released every year, great rock albums, great TV shows. “The Simpsons” is as dense as — even denser than — “Seinfeld,” but its deliberate cartooniness and shotgun approach to humor, however devilish, limit its timelessness. “Will & Grace” and “Frasier” are both scintillatingly written and mischievously themed, but both have a too-small worldview. Only “Seinfeld” combined extraordinary writing with incredible acting and lucid direction.

“Seinfeld” was not really about how evil humanity is, though it’s about that to some extent. The show is really about the joy of charting, in exquisite, unrelenting, almost celebratory detail, the infinitely variegated human interactions that, closely watched, will ultimately tell the story of the disintegration of our species.

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The show, for those who are unfamiliar with it, features a guy named Jerry, who makes a decent living as a stand-up comic. (I’m using the present tense because it’s still viewable on a daily basis in many markets.) We never see him practice, and his interest in his work seems deliberately casual. He has some unspoken code of his art — he looks down at certain other comedians — but he’s not too edgy himself.

He doesn’t run with a fast showbiz crowd; rather, the great part of his existence is spent in the company of a loser friend of his from high school, an ex-girlfriend and an unconventional mooch across the hall.

The friend is George Costanza, who can’t keep a job and is devoid of talents or ambition in an almost systematic way — which is to say, he determinedly devotes more time and effort to avoiding work than he does actually working. He is so amoral as sometimes to seem almost a monster, ready to lie, cheat or steal to give himself a slight edge up in a world he firmly believes dealt him the worst of hands.

The ex is Elaine Benes (Julia Louis-Dreyfus), a not-unattractive woman whose laudable penchant for confrontation is taken to almost sociopath levels and who in this way functions as the closest thing the show has to a traditional male figure.

And the mooch is Kramer (Michael Richards), a gangling elf across the way who doesn’t work but seems blessed with a cosmic guardian angel, though he, like the others, is most often taunted by fate than rewarded by it. (And in the “Seinfeld” worldview, fate is nothing more than the world the characters make for themselves.)

The show’s lore has it that Costanza is a stand-in for the show’s executive producer, Larry David, a stand-up comic like Seinfeld who is generally given credit for providing the show’s mordant worldview. (David left before the last season but came back to write the final episode.) George may be the show’s most precise realization — born a white male in the most fabulously wealthy country in the history of the world, George uses nothing of what nature gave him in a resentful, infantilizing war against reality. To him, life is a very long line to get some necessity, and he views virtually everyone around him with the suspicion and hostility of a Soviet housewife waiting all day for a loaf of bread.

George is capable of eating an iclair he finds in a garbage can; pushing children and the elderly out of the way if he thinks he’s in danger; smiling when he learns his dreaded fiancie has died, taking advantage of — even physically combating — the infirm or physically handicapped; and lying and then sticking to the lie even though everyone in his immediate vicinity knows he’s prevaricating. He’s selfish and self-pitying, cheap and reflexively untruthful, and lives in a world of such flattened ambition that even his fantasies are pathetic. “I always wanted,” he says elegantly, in an early episode, “to pretend I was an architect.”

(The gaunt, acerbic David has since gone on to star in his own odd sitcom, “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” While invariably amusing, the show strikes me as problematic, from its forced title on down. Most particularly, what makes George tolerable — even, in a slightly twisted way, noble — is that we all know that in the brutal calculus of the modern urban environment, he is a loser; life isn’t fair, and there are a lot of nice fat bald guys out there who aren’t getting a break.

(“Seinfeld’s” uncompromising take on him, of course, is that George has a largely unattractive personality in addition to his genetic complaints; this gives his character its almost unwatchable pathos. David, by contrast, plays himself in his new show — it’s about the wacky situations the co-creator of “Seinfeld” gets into in the celebrity-driven world of Los Angeles. David jousts against many of the same dragons George did, but the difference is that, in “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” David is an unthinkably wealthy guy, who spends his time hobnobbing with actors and studio execs. Too much of the humor is merely illustrative of the fact that rich and famous guys can get away with a lot.)

Anyway, “Seinfeld” watches the four cast members go about their lives, debating the tiniest of life’s details: The first lines between Jerry and George in the show’s very first episode are a fabulously reductionist sample of Jerry’s stand-up humor, as he takes aim at a new dress shirt George is wearing: “To me, that button is in the worst possible spot. The second button literally makes or breaks the shirt. Look at it, it’s too high, it’s in no man’s land. You look like you live with your mother.”

What followed was eight seasons of this stuff. Jerry and George pitch a sitcom about nothing to NBC. Elaine plots to rid herself of her reputation as the office skank. Jerry and George plot to help Jerry break up with a girlfriend and date her roommate. Some episodes are now legendary for the existential punch — the four spend an entire episode waiting for a table at a Chinese restaurant, or looking for a car in a parking garage. In perhaps the slyest of these, George tells the merciless parents of his late fiancie that he has a house in the Hamptons and then finds himself driving the implacable pair out there to see it, even though both he and they know that it doesn’t exist.

As in the set piece with George and his date, over and over again we saw modern man agonistes, swept up by banal urges about the most minor of comforts as they solidly trump once-stronger and more atavistic ones. Jerry, relentlessly chary of germs, tosses clothing items that touch bathroom fixtures and could never again kiss a woman whose toothbrush he saw fall into the toilet.

Nothing was too small-minded for Seinfeld and David to tackle, from discussions of the most minute of human behaviors to … well, to other minute behaviors. Constipation and masturbation, evasion and prevarication; the pettiest envies and the most banal euphemisms. George tries to give Elaine a sweater he got cheap because it had a spot on it; Jerry forgets the name of the woman he’s dating; another he drugs, not to rape her but to play with her toys — her real toys, not metaphorical ones.

The emotional relations between friends and lovers are a bottomless abyss of ontological inquiry. What defines a male friend (going to the airport? helping them move? being a “come with” guy who goes to the laundromat?) and what doesn’t (calling him to say thank-you for hockey tickets and washing your underwear together, among other things).

In a remarkable scene early on, Jerry and Elaine, determined to sleep together again, rationalize it in a hysterical discussion about “this” (i.e., their friendship) and “that” (i.e., sex). Foreplay is reduced to a ballet of sophistry.

In the late 20th century, Seinfeld and David argue, man is unmanned and woman unwomanned by these new urges. Once rampant and fecund, we are now epicene and unwanted, not only solitary but increasingly genetically forced into solitariness.

We don’t make war, we shove for position; we don’t mate, we bump around in the dark. And in place of the big pictures and magnificent vistas seen by those who built our society, we are obsessed with the small and the trivial, even the microscopic. We are at once appalled by procreation and strangely drawn to the act that produces it.

You don’t have to agree or disagree with this thesis to enjoy the show; but you must marvel at the Herculean ingenuity that created the set pieces that follow the characters’ moral prestidigitation.

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After a while it’s hard not to see virtually everything the show did leveraged against this worldview: The characters seem to operate almost as characters in a hellish, upside-down version of a miracle play, the saints replaced by sinners, their deeds endlessly examined.

We see them doing everything they can to do anything but break out of their characters. But in “Seinfeld” we knew that the group never would succeed. For one, it was obvious that the sensibilities behind the show were much too rigorous to allow any “Friends”-like shenanigans: Elaine would not get back together with Jerry; George would never marry; Kramer would never see a brilliant idea come to fruition; and Jerry, well, Jerry would continue to hang out with his friends, eat cereal, and identify an infinite number of character flaws that would rule out one vivacious, shapely, attractive woman after another.

And time and time again, their own behavior came back to bite them on the ass. In perhaps the show’s most slicing scene, Seinfeld meets the perfect mate — Janeane Garofalo, the perfect girl, who’s exactly like him — only to discover how quickly observational humor wears thin. A woman, breaking up with George, says, “It’s not you, it’s me.” This is a line George has heard before, coming out of his own mouth. He bursts into a rage — an unattractive rage, not a mock sitcom rage — and tells her: “That’s my line. Don’t tell me it’s not me; it is me. It’s me!” She concedes the point; it’s another small Pyrrhic victory for Costanza, in a life full of them.

You can look at Seinfeld, of course, as the Ur-sitcom — a bunch of people sitting around and doing, famously, nothing. This setup was a joke from the start, and course parodied in a later story line that saw Jerry and George attempt to get a sitcom on NBC, one that would be about nothing. And the idea of “nothing” would be a sly recurring motif as the show went on.

“Nothing” is also a nice way of describing star Seinfeld’s innocuous brand of comedy. And “nothing,” too, is that vast wasteland of most broadcast TV, which was assertively supposed to be about something but most often amounted to nothing.

But even joking about how “Seinfeld” is about nothing, few actually spent time examining what the show was really about. What that something was was obvious but nonetheless disturbing. Could the show have been made — or could two characters in an actual sitcom have gotten away with designing a new show — about what “Seinfeld” is really about? Something that bleak, that uncompromising? And, once proposed, could its creators have been allowed to drive home that thesis with the densest underpinning in the history of the medium, something almost play-like in its attention to details, thematic denseness and near poetic devotion to the theme?

Could they have said, that is, We’d like to do a situation comedy about man’s inhumanity to man? The petty desires, the arrant cruelties? The lack of perspective, the meaningless hostility? The lack of commitment, of sympathy; the confusion, the hostility, the isolation; the impossibility of love; the futility of even attempting to break out of the molds we’d stuffed ourselves into?

The creators quit at the top of their game and departed with one of the most widely misunderstood works of art of our time, the final episode of “Seinfeld.”

In that now infamous episode, you will remember, the group scores a free trip to Paris on an NBC jet. A bumbling Kramer nearly causes a plane crash — a nice feint at those rumors that the show would kill off the characters. The foursome is forced down at a New England town (the cradle of spiritual individualism) and watch amusedly, as they would in New York, as a fat guy is robbed.

But they’re caught in a local Good Samaritan law, and put on trial, at which local prosecutors call in a good chunk of the supporting players of the show’s eight-year run to act as character assassins; Teri Hatcher testifies that Seinfeld just wanted to know whether her breasts were real; a virgin testifies about the group’s masturbation contest; a woman in a wheelchair tells how George gave her a cut-rate wheelchair; a woman relates how Seinfeld stole a loaf of bread out of her hand; a Pakistani immigrant tells how he was deported after Jerry carelessly didn’t give him his mail with his immigration papers in it.

And on and on. The four are convicted with dispatch and sent off to a cell together.

Jerry looks at George: “That button, it’s in the worse possible spot … ”

The group had come full circle, adding a new level of existential desperation to their predicament. They’d been in the same vicious circle already but didn’t recognize it; in an insular, uncaring world, they’d acted alone in it, as if they didn’t need or want to relate to others, and then in the end found themselves in a spot where they got their wish — and then continued on as if nothing had happened.

A downer! cried the critics. Well, duh. Scriptwriter David’s semiotic coup in this episode was to try, in a last parting burst, to get the audience to consider the implications of a show about nothing that dominated the most powerful medium of its time. Finally, almost in desperation, he criminalized the act. Sometimes, he was insisting, nothing is something.

The entrancing wonderment of Elton John’s career is this utter ordinariness. At the beginning he made a name for himself being himself: He recorded albums full of courtly, pleasant songs far removed from the acid rock tropes of the day. He was polite and unassuming, and worked hard and persevered in a state of beatific (if sometime agitated) self-doubt. The outlandish costumes and ferocious stage shows that came later were merely a way to compensate for this humility, and not disappoint fans.

In the end, he accomplished, one could argue, three things. First, for a time, he recorded utterly distinctive, if unfailingly pop-based, albums and singles, a surprising number of the tracks of which are highly listenable and delightful to this day — albums like “Empty Sky,” “Elton John,” “Honky Chateau,” “Madman Across the Water,” “Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player,” “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” and “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy” among them.

Second, he became popular on a level very few pop stars are allowed to. Paul McCartney, after being a part of the dominant commercial pop force of the 1960s, put his mind to it and sold more records than the Beatles did during the subsequent decade, creating a commercial juggernaut that obliterated everything before it — save for the career of that dumpy boy from Metroland, who handily out-sold and out-charted McCartney through the ’70s. And finally, even after a long period of irrelevance, John pushed himself again into the spotlight, using little else but his agreeable personality to become a sober sight at celebrity funerals and an adorable toupee-wearing teddy bear at benefits.

His latest album hit the top 10 — and a few years ago a remake of a 25-year-old song became one of the biggest-selling singles ever. He’s now been a most unlikely star for 30 years.

The arc of John’s career, artistically speaking, is not an unusual one — early works of irresistible charm and prodigious commercial appeal, followed by a decline that, as the decades pass, takes on a length that eclipses, many times over, the period of the good stuff.

But … his good stuff is so good. Fans forget that his first few albums — “Empty Sky,” “Elton John,” “Tumbleweed Connection” and the soundtrack to the 1971 movie “Friends” — are for the most part soft and moody exercises of slightly elevated singer-songwriting, chamber rock division. (His seminal ’70s albums, with the exception of “Friends” and “Blue Moves,” are available now in terrific remastered versions, complete with outtakes, non-album singles, live tracks and so forth.)

His record company liked his work but worried that, amid the furious psychedelia of the day, his music would get lost. This was not without reason; many of those who heard it simply loved John’s self-titled second album, yet so complex and overwrought were the dominant sounds of the day that the record languished as single after single was released. It was months before someone noticed that John had written a pop standard for the album — “Your Song.”

The hit that resulted suddenly made him a star. By this time, fortunately, he was poised to capitalize on it. A body of artistic support had cohered around him, including a songwriting partner, lyricist Bernie Taupin, who hailed from a town in eastern England called Owmby-by-Spital; arranger Paul Buckmaster, who would create the striking, sometimes shattering string backings in songs like “Madman Across the Water”; and the members of what came to be called the Elton John band, including Nigel Olson, Davey Johnston, Dee Murray and Ray Cooper.

Perhaps the most important of these was producer Gus Dudgeon, whose remarkable good taste virtually never erred, from the deceptively plain (“Daniel”) to the deceptively outré (the alluring “Rocket Man”). (If nothing else, consider how John has never delivered a persuasive live album, despite decades of trying; and for one small example, think about how the futuristic “Rocket Man’s” most telling touch is an anachronistic slide guitar. Dudgeon may be the most underappreciated producer of the era.)

From this point on John released a succession of lucid and accomplished constructions: “Madman Across the Water” remains one of the great albums of ’70s rock, including songs like “Tiny Dancer,” “Levon” and the ambitious title track. “Honky Chateau” contained “Honky Cat,” “Rocket Man” and the pretty “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters.” The next album, “Don’t Shoot Me I’m Only the Piano Player,” had a fabulous retro hit, “Crocodile Rock,” and a luminous song about a man “leaving tonight on a plane”: “Daniel.”

Both became big hits in America and the U.K.; indeed, as Philip Norman notes in his well-reported biography, “Elton John,” John had unexpectedly become a teenage idol. Even as he retained the reluctant respect of the rock intelligentsia with his undeniable flair for melody and his partner’s enigmatic lyrics, he became a safely and lovably outlandish glitter boy, sexless in a cuddly way and artistically dependable like no other star of the day.

John followed these estimable works with a gold-plated suces d’estime, the double album “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” which took his pop expositions to both fanciful and quite moving levels. It is at once bombastic and overwhelming and yet also dotted with unexpected twists and turns and melodic delights. It’s not as picaresque as the White Album — John and his collaborators are merely high pop artists, not geniuses — and it lacks the production vision of something like the Rolling Stones’ “Exile on Main St.” or Fleetwood Mac’s “Tusk.” That said, “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” still swept the kids off their feet with track after track of surprising pop virtuosity.

Even after the lugubrious but powerful “Funeral For a Friend (Love Lies Bleeding),” the refreshingly unironic “Candle in the Wind,” the rocking “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting,” the giddily incomprehensible “Grey Seal,” and the surprisingly melodic title song, there is more — tacked on at the end is arguably Taupin and John’s simplest and prettiest song, the mournful “Harmony,” and bursting off the first side (after “Funeral for a Friend” and “Candle in the Wind” and yet trumping them both) is John’s greatest pop triumph, a sui generis masterpiece and a sonic marvel laden with falsetto, whistles and crowd rustle called “Bennie and the Jets,” which unaccountably became a massive pop and R&B hit and a platinum single, back when that meant something.

The follow-up, “Caribou,” is the least attractive work from this period, despite the powerful ballad “Don’t Let The Sun Go Down on Me.” John finally capped this productive era with an odd album. “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy” was a surprisingly sweet and confessional dual autobiography in which he and a suddenly straightforward Taupin recreated their first years together. “I wrote such childish words for you,” Taupin tells his partner and their audience; looking back, he is right (too many people praise Taupin for his unconventionality, which is different from being good), but that only underscores the fact that the more mature reminiscences here represent laudable growth. On this album, too, there are surprises, most particularly the overwhelming and emotional “Someone Saved My Life Tonight,” a bald confessional that told the story of a brush with marriage John had during his and Taupin’s early years together.

It is, as a whole, overly mannered but audacious nonetheless, and its shocking commercial success — “Captain Fantastic” debuted at No. 1 on the charts and stayed there, a feat unheard of in those days — solidified his stardom.

John then did what many stars like him have done — delivered a few more albums of fairly superior but relatively uninspired product. “Blue Moves,” is a stark and emotional but uninvolving double album and after that … well … Even if, like me, you find his latter career dotted with tracks that range from the enjoyable (“Mama Can’t Buy You Love,” “Empty Garden”) to the oddly likable (“I Guess That’s Why They Call It the Blues,” “I’m Still Standing”), it’s hard to get really worked up about them.

As John’s artistic life unfolded in this way, he lived like a surprised but willing star. To compensate for his portly appearance and studio tendency toward the soft, his stage show had evolved into a multi-costume, well-lit rock extravaganza, and he became a media darling with his fondness for his mother and his wholesome splendor — a Liberace for the teen set.

Taupin’s muse seemed unconcerned with what society demanded — he could be cheerfully ribald, nasty, flippant — but his lyrics and the melodies John set them to came in both instances from good souls with unwavering artistic integrity. The pair would never deliberately say something to offend people, true, but if they ever did offend people one could be sure they would never back down.

In the meantime, John was living with his manager — a sometimes dictatorial martinet named John Reid. Let’s see, a guy who traveled with his mom and shared an apartment with a special male friend. Could he be gay? Nah! It wasn’t until a sensational Rolling Stone cover story in 1975 that he dropped the news, saying that he was “bisexual.” The word seemed a euphemism at the time, but John periodically had female relationships and abruptly married a woman named Renate Blauel in 1984.

Yet no one — aside from rival fans of the British soccer team he bought — paid much attention. Soon came “Captain Fantastic” and a greatest hits collection that would become one of the biggest-selling albums of all time, but behind the scenes, he was beginning to drift. The quality of his albums tanked, whether he was working with Taupin or other lyricists. I saw him in the early 1980s at a small theater; he was more than plump — bloated, really — and, clad in what looked like blue silk pajamas, he padded around the stage like a drugged bear.

The ’80s became a lost decade of pill and cocaine addiction, a fight against bulimia, and financial profligacy. The outside world intruded again and again — there was a debilitating court fight against his original song publisher, Dick James Music, spearheaded by the relentless Reid, by then his ex-lover. In the late-1980s, he was dragged into an extraordinary, unprecedented years-long range war with the Sun, Britain’s most merciless tabloid. His lawyers filed nearly two-dozen libel suits against the paper for its flame-throwing reports on everything from the star’s alleged orgies with young boys to charges that he’d abused his guard dogs. But he persevered, and eventually won 1 million pounds, court costs and a front-page apology from the paper, which admitted the charges were untrue.

By the 1990s things had settled down. He broke up his professional relationship with Reid, abruptly, in 1998. He then sued his former manager, saying Reid had mishandled his money. Reid went gleefully to court and demonstrated that John was capable of blowing tens of millions of dollars a year. (The most notorious expenditures: $200,000 a year on flowers.)

But John has a gift for minting money on a scale that perhaps no other pop performer ever has. In just the last 10 years — writing songs for hit Broadway musicals (including “The Lion King”), touring and collecting songwriting royalties — he has probably made more than $100 million. A star like Elton John doesn’t have to worry. He can set himself up for life again with just another short stadium tour with Billy Joel.

His commercial feats are impressive to this day; from 1972 to 1975 he had seven straight No. 1 albums; during this period he occupied the No. 1 spot on the Billboard album chart approximately one week out of four. In the meantime, he was by far the dominant singles artist of his era, and remains second only to Elvis Presley in terms of singles charted. Throw together singles, albums and tours, and he can safely be placed among a commercial pop elite of the 20th century that includes Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Paul McCartney and no one else I can think of.

He is of course the least of this pantheon, but so what? In some primal way, John tapped into something his audience of the day desired deeply — a star outlandish enough to tickle its fancy, yet ingratiating enough to like without hesitation, and safe enough to take home to mom. He was never a great artist, because he wasn’t supposed to be one; he’d make the necessary mumbled demurral when the idea came up. It made him and his audience feel a bit more elevated, and that, too, is one of the pleasures of pop John dispensed so unselfishly during his heyday.

In the 1990s, he evolved into a chuckling celebrity, someone whose agreeable persona and beloved back catalog reach such a critical mass that his star could continue to burn merrily for as long as he’d like. Accordingly, he acted the part in an unfortunate way; the documentary “Tantrums and Tiaras,” directed by his boyfriend of the time, filmmaker David Furnish, was accurately titled. In England he’s a knight, that meaningless honor that makes some people ooh and credulous journalists suddenly begin calling him Sir Elton.

He served us as lead mourner to a dead princess and a martyred designer; his grief seemed genuine in both cases, and it must seem sometimes to John that his venerable if useless species — the beautiful people — is endangered.

But he persevered — his retooling of “Candle in the Wind” for the dead Princess Diana, captured by a world awash in grief both real and nostalgic, may be the bestselling single of all time. He is still able, when he concentrates, to produce an album of some seriousness, if not actual quality; his latest, “Song From the West Coast,” with a single called “I Want Love,” is a good example of this. A video for the song has actor Robert Downey Jr. mouthing the words as he wanders through an empty apartment.

John is apparently one of those who think Downey is being unfairly prosecuted for victimless crimes that hurt no one; others, like me, resist a world in which celebrity lawbreakers are given Get Out of Jail Free cards while other anonymous ones are ground down by society’s indifference. Does John care about matters like this?

Perhaps he does. He is unquestionably the greatest charity force in rock. (His knighthood was specifically for his charitable work, notably for AIDS-relief organizations.) John’s support for Downey, however, comes from a slightly different strain of his psyche. It is tinged, perhaps, by his sadness over recent deaths in his life; but there are also overtones of the emotional commitment and personal philosophy that, recently, created the finest moment of his latter-day career.

That was a year-and-a-half ago, when he stepped out on stage at the Grammys, to pound an electric piano and sing the chorus of Dido’s “Thank You” in accompaniment to a young man named Eminem.

Eminem’s a difficult call — depraved on account of being deprived, true, but an unrepentant fag-basher, a guy who hits women, and something of a fuckhead generally. But he’s also merely a boy, one with real talent as a writer, a scintillating rapper, a manipulator of pop symbols of some accomplishment and a provocateur who seems to choose his targets, even the inappropriate ones, with giddy integrity.

Eminem’s appearance on the Grammys, heavily hyped, was no epochal moment — both he and the Grammys were using each other to bolster their credibility, after all. But it is important to note that John himself was getting nothing out of this. Yet he stood on stage to sing backup for a homophobe. And he did it because … why?

Because rock’s not always pretty, and art gets created in weird places. Because John was a chubby boy once whom no one took seriously. Because sometimes, when an artist is attacked, however justifiably, there’s a danger that Art is at risk as well.

John believes in all these things, but there was something more as well: Elton John knows that fuckheads need love too. In this manner he made a political point, and a human one too. Or rather, he made the point that the human sometimes must trump the political, which some in a fractious age will find confusing. But to rock’s kindest and most malleable star, it came naturally.