A message from Chaz and Roger: Thank you for your positive feedback on our Classics From The Vault segments on “Ebert Presents.” We are happy to provide these vintage shows augmented with discussions from Christy and Ignatiy, instead of running reruns of our First Season shows, or instead of going off the air for the summer season.
All movie critics are asked two inevitable questions: (1) “How many movies do you see in a week?” and (2) “What’s the greatest film of all time?” Gene Siskel found that it didn’t matter what his reply to (1) was: “I can say one or a dozen–it doesn’t matter. The real answer is between four and ten, but they don’t really care.” The answer to (2), as we all know, is “Citizen Kane.” When naming that film, I sometimes even joke, “That’s the official answer.” The most respected “best film” list in the world is the one the UK film magazine “Sight & Sound” runs every 10 years. They poll the world’s directors, critics, festival heads, archivists and others. Ever since 1962, the top film has been “Kane.”
Ten years ago I was the emcee of my high school class reunion. This year I sat and watched. It was better this way. As I’d walked into the room I realized I knew almost everyone on first sight.
Now, as they passed in review, called up one by one, I saw a double image: The same person in 1960 and 2010. The same smile, the same gait, the same body language, the same eyes.
Lars von Trier’s “Antichrist” is poised to detonate at the Toronto Film Festival. This willfully controversial director will inspire, as he often does, a storm of controversy, debate, critics clamoring to get into advance screenings that are already jammed, and a contentious press conference. Of the 400 or so films at TIFF this year, “Antichrist” was the first that sold out in advance. It was the same last May at Cannes, and that was before it has even been seen.
Von Trier was nothing if not canny in his title for the film. By naming it “Antichrist,” he provides a lens through which to view its perplexing behavior. By naming his characters only He and She, he suggests the dark side of an alternative Garden of Eden, and then disturbing his ending becomes a mirror image of Christ welcoming the faithful into the kingdom of heaven. The title instructs us where to begin. If he had named the characters John and Mary, and titled the film “A Nightmare,” what conclusions might we have arrived at?
Of course, no one is really robbed of an Academy Award nomination. It’s a gift; not a right. The balloting procedure is conducted honestly and reflects a collective opinion, which was demonstrated this year when the Academy voters had the curiosity to seek out Demian Bichir for best actor for his deeply convincing performance as a Mexican gardener in Los Angeles in “A Better Life.” He wasn’t on my mental list of possible candidates, but when I heard the name, I thought, “Of course! Good thinking!”
O’Rourke’s was our stage, and we displayed our personas there nightly. It was a shabby street-corner tavern on a dicey stretch of North Avenue, a block after Chicago’s Old Town stopped being a tourist haven. In its early days it was heated by a wood-burning pot-bellied stove, and ice formed on the insides of the windows. One night a kid from the street barged in, whacked a customer in the front booth with a baseball bat, and ran out again. When a roomer who lived upstairs died, his body was discovered when maggots started to drop through the ceiling. A man nobody knew was shot dead one night out in back. From the day it opened on December 30, 1966 until the day I stopped drinking in 1979, I drank there more or less every night when I was in town. So did a lot of people.
Jay Kovar and Jeanette Sullivan behind the bar
A joke should have the perfection of a haiku. Not one extra word. No wrong words. It should seem to have been discovered in its absolute form rather than created. The weight of the meaning should be at the end. The earlier words should prepare for the shift of the meaning. The ending must have absolute finality. It should present a world view only revealed at the last moment. Like knife-throwing, joke-telling should never be practiced except by experts.
For many laymen, a joke is a heavenly gift allowing them to monopolize your attention although they lack all ability as an entertainer. You can tell this because they start off grinning and grin the whole way through. They’re so pleased with themselves. Their grins are telling you they’re funny and their joke is funny. The expert knows not to betray the slightest emotion. The expert is reciting a fact. There is nothing to be done about it. The fact insists on a world that is different than you thought. The fact is surprising and ironic. It is also surprising–you mustn’t see it coming. That’s why the teller should not grin. His face shouldn’t tell you it’s coming. If the joke is also vulgar, so much the better, but it must never exist for the sake of vulgarity. That’s why “The Aristocrats” is not only the most offensive joke in the world, but also, in the wrong hands, the most boring.
Sometimes in the noise of the news there will be a single item that pops out with clarity. That happened when I heard about Tracy, California, which is charging $300 every time the fire department answers an emergency call that doesn’t involve a fire.
That summons up not only the prospect of little Susie’s kitten being left to die up in the tree, but also of her dad who has just collapsed with an asthma attack. One citizen said if her husband had a heart attack, she’d set her kitchen table on fire to dodge the fee.
Leave it to Quentin Tarantino to find a climax unique in the history of war movies. Also trust QT to get away with a war movie that consists largely of his unique dialog style, in which a great deal of action is replaced by talk about the possibilities of action. His “Inglourious Basterds,” which premiered Wednesday morning here at Cannes, is a screenplay eight years in the writing, and you can’t fill 148 minutes with descriptions of special effects. At least not if you’re a motormouth like Tarantino.
My review will await the film’s August 21 opening. I know, I wrote a lot about “Antichrist,” but with this one I’d like to hold out until opening day. No, that doesn’t mean I disliked it. It means it inspired other kinds of thoughts–about Cannes, Tarantino, and the way the movie industry seems to be going these days.
It was my last film of the festival, on the morning of the day I was flying home, and it turns out to have been my favorite one. Tim Blake Nelson’s “Leaves of Grass” is some kind of sweet, wacky masterpiece. It takes all sorts of risks, including a dual role with Edward Norton playing twin brothers, and it pulls them off. It is certainly the most intelligent, philosophical and poetic film I can imagine that involves five murders in the marijuana-dealing community of Oklahoma and includes John Prine singing “Illegal Smile.”
Tim Blake Nelson
Sometimes you cannot believe your luck as a movie unfolds. There is a mind behind it, joyful invention, obvious ambition. As is often the case, I had studiously avoiding reading anything at all about “Leaves of Grass” before going to see the movie, although I rather doubted it would be about Walt Whitman. What I did know is that the actor Tom Blake Nelson has written and directed three films enormously admired: “Eye of God” (1997), “O” (2001) and “The Grey Zone” (2001), all three dealing in a concrete dramatic way with important questions: Religion, redemption, race, the Holocaust. And that the actor Edward Norton has never agreed to appear in a film he didn’t believe he had reason to respect.
The Answer Man got a message the other day from a guy who wanted to know why the major critics all run with a herd mentality. He goes to Cream of the Crop at Rotten Tomatoes and on some films they all agree, with maybe a couple of holdouts. I’ve noticed this, too.
At the end of December, our public television program “Ebert Presents At The Movies” will go on hiatus while we find necessary funding. This move is necessary to allow the public television stations that carry our show to plan their programs for the beginning of the new year. We held off as long as possible but we had to give notice today.
Can a film be great without question? Is it demented to find fault with “Inception?” Or “Citizen Kane?” Not at all. Scolds have emerged in recent days to smack at those critics who disapproved of “Inception,” but as a fervent admirer of the film I can understand why others might not agree. In fact, the reasons cited by David Edelstein in his much-attacked negative review seem reasonable. I don’t agree with him, but that’s another matter.
I’ve been trying to think of one film that everyone reading this entry might agree is unquestionably great. You might think I’d name “Citizen Kane” or “The Rules of the Game,” the two films that in recent decades have consistently been at the top of Sight & Sound magazines’ poll of the world’s directors and cineastes. But no. I’ve taught both shot-by-shot and had many students who confessed they didn’t feel the greatness. There are people Bergman doesn’t reach. And Ozu. I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like Hitchcock, but I promise you I will in the comments under this entry. Many Hitchcock fans don’t admire “Vertigo,” which I think is his best film.
In 1975 an artist named Chris Burden announced that he would lay down on the floor beneath a large sheet of plate glass on the floor of the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. He did not say what he would do then. I covered that story for the paper, not because it was assigned, but because the concept held an eerie fascination for me. It still does. I have no idea what he was trying to prove. But, surely, he was proving something?
I recently had occasion to read The Hunger Artist, by Franz Kafka. It involves a sideshow performer who goes without food for long, long periods of time. This becomes a futile exercise, because while he’s starving there’s nothing much to see, and most people assume he isn’t really starving; a man need only be thin to lock himself in a cage and say he is fasting. Who watches him at night or when the show is moving to another town? The story has a famous ending that is savage in its implacability. I’ve linked to it below.
Bloodletting man, from the Calendar of Regiomontanus (1475)
Reading Kafka, I was reminded of the article I wrote about Chris Burden, and looked it up. It engaged and perplexed me. I will quote from it here, and then in italics I will think some more about Chris Burden.
Spoilers abound.
I watched Robert Zemeckis’s “Contact” again a couple of weeks ago, so I could add it to the Great Movies Collection. In 1997 I had some questions, but this time it was even more clear that the movie ends in enigma and paradox. Like many movies, that has little bearing on its effect.
Questions introduced from near the beginning seem to find answers at the end, and most viewers are satisfied–even exhilarated. For me, too, there was uplift. No matter that the scientific establishment scoffs; Dr. Ellie Arroway (Jodie Foster) knows what she saw, and we saw the same things.
One of my editors at the Sun-Times once asked me, “Roger, is it true that they used to let reporters smoke at their desks?” This wasn’t asked yesterday; it must have been ten years ago. I realized then, although I’m only writing about it now, that a lifestyle had disappeared. When I entered the business in the autumn of my 16th year, newspapering seemed the most romantic and exciting thing I could possibly do with my life. “But honey,” my mom said, “they don’t pay them anything.” Who cared? It involved knowing what was going on before anyone else did, and putting my byline on top of a story telling it to the world. “Roger Ebert” is only a name. “By Roger Ebert” are the three most magical words in the language, drawing my eye the same way a bulls-eye attracts an arrow.
In the way some kids might be awed by a youth gang, I was awed by admission to the fraternity of newspapers. I adopted the idealism and cynicism of the reporters I met there, spoke like they did, laughed at the same things, felt that I belonged. On Saturday nights about midnight at The News-Gazette, when we put the Sunday paper to bed, we gathered around the city desk, tired, released, and waited for the first papers to be brought upstairs. Ed Borman, the news editor was in the slot; Bill Schmelzle, the city editor, had Saturday nights off. Borman would crack open a six-pack. I tasted beer for the first time. I was a man. My parents, my family, my friends at school, nobody, would ever really understand the fellowship into which I entered. Borman didn’t care that I was drinking at 16. We had all put out the paper together. Now we would have a beer.
This entry is safe for work.
I hesitated just a moment before including Miss June 1975 in my piece about Hugh Hefner. I wondered if some readers would find the nude photograph objectionable. Then I smiled at myself. Here I was, writing an article in praise of Hefner’s healthy influence on American society, and I didn’t know if I should show a Playmate of the Month. Wasn’t I being a hypocrite? I waited to see what the reaction would be.
The Sun-Times doesn’t publish nudes on its site, but my page occupies a sort of netherland: I own it in cooperation with the newspaper, but control its contents. If anyone complains, I thought, it will be the paper, and if they do I’ll take it down.
A 2009 story about a 12-year-old musical prodigy caught my eye today. His name is Jay Greenberg. He composes in his mind. It comes to him naturally. When we think of musical prodigies we imagine a child on a piano bench, or playing a violin. Not many compose. Greenburg has written five symphonies.
Sam Zyman, a composer who is Jay’s teacher at Julliard, told Rebecca Leung of CBS News: “We are talking about a prodigy of the level of the greatest prodigies in history when it comes to composition. I am talking about the likes of Mozart, and Mendelssohn, and Saint-Sans.
It’s all coming to pieces, isn’t it — the world we live in, the continuity we thought we could count on, the climate, the economy, the fragile peace. The 20th century was called “the American Century,” with some reason. I do not believe the 21st century will belong to anybody, and it may not last for 100 years of human witness. There are nuclear weapons in the Middle East and on the Indian subcontinent, and if one is used, more will follow and who can say when the devastation will end?
The weather is unhinged. It is no longer a question of global warming. It is a question of what in the hell is happening? I do not have to rehearse for you the details of this horrible American autumn, and a winter not yet half over. The tornadoes, the hurricanes, the floods, the blizzards, the wild fires, the heat waves, the water shortages, the power blackouts. The White House declares “a state of emergency” and the federal government sends money. How many states of emergency are we still in? How much more money is there?
I saw “Aguirre, the Wrath of God” for the first time in a defrocked Lutheran Church in the Lincoln Park neighborhood, which Milos Stehlik had taken over for his newly-born Facets Multimedia. “It is a film you must see,” he told me. “Bring a pillow. The pews can get hard.”
I saw a great film, one of the greatest ever made. An essential film. In 1999, I made it one of the first titles in my Great Movies Collection. Now I wonder if I really saw it at all.
