true to each other) dies of cancer. Thenconsequences: the mother is still-neurotic,nthough she gains custody of the threenchildren; the ex-astronaut may flourishnwith the neurotic mother (two peas inna pod, so to speak); the banker, presumablyncontinues unchanged; the son isnsurly; New York never changes. Thenwidower, as far as 1 can determine, isnthe only one who will gain: not only isnhe free of the kids, but he doesn’t havento worry about getting a divorce. TherenLike aBadPenny…nBack in the mid-1960’s, Roger Dalttey,nlead singer of The Who, the group thatnwas then best known for smashing up itsnequipment, sneered, as only a cockynteenager can, “1 hope I die before I getnold.” Now fer on the far side of that greatndivide knovm as age 30, Mr. Daltrey,namong other activities, appears in ads fornwrist watches that would collectivelynbankrupt any group of Mods or Rockersnthat tried to buy one. Mickjagger, whonhad had a stint at the London School ofnEconomics, was more shrewd in thosenheady days of yore. The skinny punk (asnin petty hoodlum) moaned in his thankfuUyninimitable manner, “Time is on mynside—^yes it is!” At least the boy was morenhonest than young Daltrey. The RollingnStones have been too much with us forn20 years; there are no signs that they willngo away. Death, defection, drugs, detention—^nothinghasnstopped them. Mr.Jagger,nwho has now hit 40, seems to havenbecomeOldMan River: he just keepsrollingnalong.nThe image of The Rolling Stones has alwaysnbeen a seminegative one: they deliberatelyncultivated ruthlessness. Theynare not unlike a gang of bad boys who,nafter snatching a candy bar from die shelfnof an infirm confectioner’s shop, thinknthemselves to be Al Capones. However,npeople believed that that pose was reality,nand so it has been effective. When an30inChronicles of CulturenMl si(nis no catharsis for the viewer, just a lotnof soggy Kleenex tissues on the theaternfloor. Certainly, watching the cancernvictim is a sad experience. But at thenend of more than two hours, a questionnabout the entire production emerges:nSo what? It seems as if Bridges doesn’tnhave an answer; the movie simply endsnlike a skit in an actors’ class: poses arendropped and the students go back tonnormal life. The only difference in thisncase is that the film has credits. (SM) Dnman was killed, reportedly by one ornmore members of a motorcycle clubncalled the “Hell’s Angels,” while thenStones performed a pretentious dittyntitled “Sympathy for the Devil” on a stagenat Altamont raceway, the eyes grew widenon both the lovers and haters of thenmobUe geology: “Gee whiz, maybe theynreally are demons.” Parapsychologynaside, the fact of the matter is that ThenRolling Stones were, and are, inept musiciansnwho had, and have, to rely on allnmanner of nonmusical trappings to drawnattention away from their rudimentarilynorganized noise and to themselves. Thus,nthey’ve insulted supporters of a civil politynwith SDSesque numbers like “StreetnFightingMan”;women with their promotionalncampaign for the Black and Bluenalbum, which included a billboard toutingnbondage, and with an early tunencalled “Under My Thumb,”which was refurbishednfor thefr 1981 farewell tourn(one only wishes that it was goodbye);nand the world at large with thefr logo,nnnwhich consists of Jagger-like liver lipsnwith a tongue protruding, a sign of lumpishnessnthat’s popular with preschoolers.nWhat have they receivedin consequencenfor thefr crudity? Wealth, feme, magazinencovers, platinum records, newspaperncoverage, immediate access to Studio 54nwhen people wanted to go there, fans,ngroupies, imitators, and, most unfortunately,ninfluence. Like it or not, any culturalnstudy of the West that concentratesnon the past 20 years wiU have to givenmore than a footnote to the group of professionalnamateurs, for the zillions ofnrecords, T-shirts, concert tickets, posters,nbuttons, bumperstickers, badges,nphotographs, etc. have made a rathernlarge mark on the cultural landscape, onenmore obvious than the results of sodiumndioxide or PCB’s but no less noxious.nBut what’s Mr. Jagger to do when thenSpandex isn’t as appealing on him as it isnon a younger, lithe woman performernlike Pat Benatar, who is more nimble andnsupple than he ever was when it comesnto the bump and grind and who—showingnno greater talent—^almost imitates hisnraucous style, is selling beaucoup albums?nAnd there is another variable innher fevor: she can sing-shout, as she doesnon a recent release from Live from Earthn(Chrysalis), “We are young!” and getnaway with it; if Mr. Jagger were to try, nonamount of strutting his stuff could holdnback the howls. What can Mr. Jagger donwhen the avid viewers of MTV startnthinking that makeup really looks betternon a Linda Ronstadt than on his wrinklednvisage? Mr. Jagger and his cohorts, in thenface ofsuchchallenges,havetakenrefugenin arteriosclerosis. While musicians likenPaul McCartney—^who realize that if youncan’t beat it you must join Michael Jackson—^havenadapted. The Rolling Stonesnhave regressed. That is, they have releasednwhat is supposed to be a “new”nalbum. Undercover (Rolling Stones Recordsn), yet although the package is differentnand the titles of the cuts haven’t beennseen before, one feels a curious deja vunwhile both looking at the album and listeningnto the compositions. The groupnclimbed out of one hole and then wentn