I remember when I first
discovered that television and movies were something that people actually MADE.
I was sitting on the couch, a few feet from my father (who was still the
ultimate voice of authority) watching an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation. The captain and all his red shirts
had charged off on some unlikely scheme that I knew was doomed to disaster, so I turned to my dad and asked: “Why did they do that? It doesn't make any sense.” To
which my dad responded (as he still does to any film criticism) “Because it’s
in the script.”
From that time on I knew the
score. The people and worlds that enthralled me on the screen were creations,
puppets of real people who wrote stories and made props and pretended on
camera. A little bit of the magic died for me, but a new bit of magic took its
place. Why did they do things the way they did? What was right and what was
wrong? And how do I put into words the feelings I get when I watch a film, how
do I even know why I feel what I feel?
Again, it was my father who introduced
me to the next piece of knowledge that would change the way I thought about
entertainment. Though my dad - who worked three jobs for little pay to provide for five children - didn't stay awake through more than a handful of movies during
my entire childhood (probably because of his struggle with severe health
problems while also working so tirelessly) he made a point of watching two men
talk about movies on PBS. The two, a toad-like man in huge glasses, and a
skinny, balding naysayer, would give their trademark thumbs up or thumbs down,
and if both thumbs were down, then my dad, who didn't buy into film criticism,
would declare that THAT was the movie we were going to see.
This was how I found Siskel and Ebert at the Movies.
Siskel and Ebert were a great
pairing. Like a classic comedy duo, one was fat, one skinny, one short, one
tall, one quiet and sarcastic, one loud and bombastic. Both were from Chicago,
and both wore horrible 90’s sweaters and lounged around in what looked like the
oddest movie theater I’d ever seen. They were The Muppet Show’s Waldorf and Statler in the flesh, and like those
grumpy old puppets they groused and argued their way through each week’s
releases with obvious relish. I loved watching them describe all the movies I
was either too young or too poor to see, and as I watched them more and more it
made me realize that there was more to movies than passive viewing. That film should
start a conversation and make statements that could stay with you beyond the
end credits. That their creators can and should be questioned, and that a
meaningful story passionately told is far more important than flash or popularity or box
office figures.
My favorite by far was Ebert.
Though he WAS toad-like and sometimes even seemed cold blooded, he was funny.
He made me laugh and by doing so he made me think. He achieved many great
things in his life, such as being the first film critic to win the Pulitzer Prize,
and the first to place his name on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but numbered
among his successes is the 10 year-old boy who looked for the story elements in George of the Jungle, or was scandalized
by his thumbs down to The Pagemaster,
or eventually grew to try his hand at criticism himself. Anything I type in
this blog is my meager attempt to be as fair, as erudite, and as funny as that
man in owlish glasses who existed in my TV along with all of the other characters
he spoke about week to week.
There are many better writers
than I that will talk about Roger Ebert’s life, his triumphs, his long
struggle with illness, and the vast affect he had on entertainment in America,
but I can only speak to his legacy in my own life. He taught me that the worlds
and characters I love ARE magic. Even more so now than when I was 10, because
he gave me the tools to appreciate the love and craft that goes into making
the best movies work. He also taught that I’m a part of the movie. That the
source of a film’s power is what I bring to it as a viewer, and what I carry
away with me. I make the magic too. If he was faced then with that little boy confused by Star Trek, Ebert might
have quoted himself: “Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions never
lie to you.”
I hope that his family finds
some peace over the coming days, as does Roger. He wrote all the way to the
end, saying: “When I am writing, my problems become invisible, and I am the
same person I always was, All is well. I am as I should be.” If there is
some heaven, he’ll be writing still.
PS: When Esquire magazine
asked him what movie would be shown beyond the pearly gates, and what snacks
would be served, he answered, “Citizen
Kane and vanilla Häagen-Dazs ice cream.” I can see him there, sweater and
all.
PPS: Here’s just one person who said all this far better
than me:
"Roger, I hope
you're in an infinite movie palace, watching every film the great directors
only dreamed of making. RIP,” -- Patton Oswalt
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