Ebert sure is sour on “The Last Waltz.” He writes:

Watching this film, the viewer with mercy will be content to allow the musicians to embrace closure, and will not demand an encore. Yet I give it three stars? Yes, because the film is such a revealing document of a time.

Yes, it’s true that the Band looks ravaged by drugs and life on the road. That’s precisely why they were calling it quits. But to look at “The Last Waltz” as anything but a pure celebration of their music is to miss the big picture as plain on the screen as comical ’70s outfits.

Listen to the way Levon Helm — who was against the project, but participated anyway — sings his heart out on “Up On Cripple Creek,” “Ophelia” and “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.” Look at the joy Rick Danko radiates as he picks bass and warbles his way through “It Makes No Difference.” Feel the soul pouring out of Richard Manuel’s voice on “The Shape I’m In” and from Robbie Robertson’s lead guitar on every song.

And it’s not just the Band. “The Last Waltz,” which I had the chance to see on the big screen for the first time last Friday night, features a long list of legends who deliver top-rate performances. Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Muddy Waters, Dr. John, The Staple Singers, Emmylou Harris … on and on it goes.

Ebert wants to turn this movie into a signpost for its times. In a way, it is. But what’s it’s all about, after the drugs and death and bitterness passes, is the music itself. And the music is pure joy. That is what made the Band a legend in the first place, and it is while they’ll continue on as legends long after the remaining Band members pass on.

Ebert writes:

At the end, Bob Dylan himself comes on. One senses little connection between Dylan and The Band. One also wonders what he was thinking as he chose that oversized white cowboy hat, a hat so absurd that during his entire performance I could scarcely think of anything else. It is the haberdashery equivalent of an uplifted middle finger.

In a way, Ebert’s writing this off as a sad exercise is like writing off Dylan’s blistering performance because of his hat. Ebert focuses on the ridiculousness of the time while missing the sublime art that was borne of it.