For more on Scorsese’s Stones movie, go to timesonline.co.uk/shinealight

The first film about the Rolling Stones, a documentary called Charlie Is My Darling, came out in 1966. Back then it was assumed that pop groups were ephemeral sensations: here today and gone tomorrow. Well, here we are, 42 years and six Rolling Stones films later, and the band are still together. The question Martin Scorsese’s new film never asks, but can’t help provoking, is this: are the Rolling Stones still “the world’s greatest rock’n’roll band” or are they a bunch of musically defunct and decrepit dinosaurs?

Transferring the energy and excitement of a live rock’n’roll concert to a film is the most difficult of artistic translations. Shine a Light starts with Marty – as everyone calls him – anxious about this challenge. The needs of film and the demands of live rock’n’roll seem destined to clash. Mick is worried that Marty’s cameras will get in the way of his performance; Marty is worried their performance will get in the way of his cameras. Scorsese comes across as an anxious Napoleon, as played by Woody Allen, who doesn’t know where to place his great army of 15 camera operators.

This promising theme of rock v film is dropped as soon as the Stones hit the stage. Unlike other film-makers who have portrayed the Stones – Jean-Luc Godard, the Maysles brothers – Scorsese has stripped them of their dark, druggie, rock’n’roll past. He gives us the Rolling Stones as a venerable and beloved institution: Uncle Mick and the boys as the first family of rock’n’roll. We even see the former president Bill Clinton embracing Keith Richards – but not inhaling.

Shine a Light covers two concerts at New York’s Beacon Theatre. There is no stadium grandeur, no big tongues or dazzling light shows for the band to hide behind here. It all looks so real and honest; here are the Stones unplugged from the seduction of spectacle. Only the strategic placement of pretty young girls up in the front rows seems fake. Where are the real Stones fans? There is not a single sagging, white, middle-aged boogying buttock in sight.

This is a great rock’n’roll film – but it’s a shame it stars a band who are no longer great. Scorsese has managed to get up close and personal with the Stones in a way no other film-maker ever has. Instead of taking the band to the viewer, he takes the viewer to the band and dumps you right between the crouching Richards and the leaping Jagger. The director and his invisible army of cameramen swoop and swirl around their subjects, providing a visual energy that makes up for the musical entropy on stage.

It’s easy to mock the Stones for being old and rich, and to complain that they are the house band of corporate entertainment. But what can a rich grandad do, ’cept sing for a rock’n’roll band? We are meant to admire the way Richards has blossomed into a beautiful wreck, while Jagger remains in such trim, athletic shape – and sexy, too. Call me ageist, but there is a moment when Jagger is dancing, and his little black T-shirt rises above his flat belly and he gives a little salacious wiggle of the hips, and you think: “Yuck, leave it out, grandad.”

What is really disappointing about this film is the very thing it wants to celebrate: the music. This is a band who are creatively dead and past their musical prime, but who have enough slick professionalism to maintain their popularity as a live act. After the rousing start of Jumpin’ Jack Flash, the music quickly droops into a series of greatest hits and not-so-great album tracks. They all blur into a bland melting pot of whiteboy blues and Motown funk.

I never appreciated what a limited guitarist Keith Richards is until I saw this film. He just crouches there, churning out the same honky-tonk riffs and arthritic power chords, over and over. And will someone explain to me what is the point of Ron Wood? For my money, Charlie Watts is the only Stone who is actually cool.

Having lost his beauty, his menacing sexuality and mesmerising stage presence, Mick Jagger pouts and prances before us, a vocalist of breathtaking mediocrity. He has no idea about phrasing or a sense of nuance (listen to how he murders a beautiful song like Just My Imagination). The truth is, Jagger can’t carry a tune. He doesn’t sing, he imitates singing. Yes, he can do a good impression of a country-and-western drawl and fake the laid-back languor of Delta blues, but he can’t sing. Worse still, he has no soul, unlike his guest Chris-tina Aguilera, who really can sing.

So, thank you, Marty Scorsese, your love letter to the Rolling Stones is the first film ever to reveal the sad truth about “the world’s greatest rock’n’roll band”.

Shine a Light
12a, 122 mins

Editor's choice

• The 100 Best Films of the Decade
• 70 facts you didn't know about Marvel
• The 50 Biggest Movies Of 2010