Roger Ebert is often cited as one of the best film
critics of all time, but he regularly expanded his writing to include much more
than just movies, especially in his later years, when his journal became as
essential as his weekly missives on the latest Hollywood blockbusters. Writing
about deeply personal issues, including his fight with alcoholism and his
political views, Roger was often as eloquent and moving as at any other point
in his career. If you think about it, Roger always put himself out there. He
became famous not by hiding behind a byline, but by humanizing the role of the
film critic, not only on “Siskel & Ebert” but through his deeply personal writing and
even his talk-show appearances. I grew up feeling like I knew and related to Roger Ebert in a
way distinctly different from other film critics, and that relationship between
critic and reader influenced his writing throughout his life.
Over the
weekend leading up the third anniversary of his passing, I read dozens of his
most memorable journal entries, gaining a further appreciation of the scope and
fearlessness with which he wrote, along with the dynamic he had with his
readers. Roger would regularly write a post like “Video Games Can Never Be Art,” see the response (5,234 comments and counting),
and then follow-up on how his readers reacted (in this case, in “Okay, Kids, Play On My Lawn”). It’s no wonder that Roger was such an early
adopter of social media. He was always a social critic, understanding that the
reader is as essential to the process as the writer. Here are some of his
greatest hits, in chronological order:
“Ten Greatest Films of All Time”
The “Roger’s Journal” section on this site naturally
includes a lot of Roger’s top ten lists over the years, along with his more
personal writing. While I tend to gravitate to the latter when I’m looking over
Roger’s work, this piece stands out for a simple reason: It’s still incredibly
highly trafficked, more so than any other on the channel last year. Why
is that? It’s 25 years old. Sure, there’s a natural inclination to want to know
what one of the greatest critics considered the best films of all time, but
there’s also a definition of criticism in this piece that I think people find
appealing. Roger writes, “If I have a criterion for choosing the greatest
films, it’s an emotional one. These are films that moved me deeply one way or
another. The cinema is the greatest art form ever conceived for generating
emotions in its audience. That’s what it does best.”
“Start the Revolution without Digital”
“I have seen the future of the cinema, and it is not
digital,” wrote Roger Ebert in 1999. Of course, before he passed away, he knew
the likelihood that these words wouldn’t be proven true, but this is one of
those pieces that makes one wonder how Roger would have responded to recent
developments in the “film vs. digital” debate. Would he have admired Quentin
Tarantino for shooting “The Hateful Eight” in 70MM or Oscar winner László Nemes
for championing the importance of shooting his “Son of Saul” in 35MM? And Roger’s
questions still resonate: “Hollywood has not spent a dime, for example, to
research the intriguing question, do film and digital create different brain
states? Some theoreticians believe that film creates reverie, video creates
hypnosis; wouldn’t it be ironic if digital audiences found they were missing an
ineffable part of the moviegoing experience?”
I was always fascinated when Roger directly addressed
controversy caused by his film reviews and even responded to filmmakers. When
Roger reviewed “Chaos” in 2005, he wrote, “’Chaos’ is ugly, nihilistic, and
cruel—a film I regret having seen. I urge you to avoid it.” The filmmakers took
note, and some offense, writing Roger a provocative letter that argued, “Real
evil exists and cannot be ignored, sanitized or exploited.” Roger’s response in
this post is a wonderful example of how he viewed the relationship between
cinema and morality, an often-tricky minefield for writers, especially young
ones who argue that a film can’t be offensive. He wrote, “It is not enough to
record it; what do you think and feel about it? Your attitude is as detached as
your hero’s. If ‘Chaos’ has a message, it is that evil reigns and
will triumph. I don’t believe so.” Roger’s overwhelming belief in the goodness
of people, and in cinema’s ability to capture that, informed so much of his
work, especially from this piece to the end of his life.
“Critic is a Four-Letter Word”
Roger continues to define his role in the conversation about
art with this excellent piece, especially essential in light of the recent “Batman
vs. Superman” debate, one in which the exact purpose of the critic has
been questioned yet again. How many times have we heard that the role of a
critic is “to criticize”? It’s an easy, offhand way to write off a negative
review you don’t agree with by essentially dismissing a whole profession.
Roger writes, “I would suggest that the average piece of junk is not meaningful
at all, apart from the way it conditions the minds of its beholders to accept
more pieces of junk. How important is criticism of it? Powerless, usually. Why
do critics bother with it? I will appoint myself spokesman. We had to endure it
and want our revenge. We enjoy writing scathing and witty prose. We know we are
rarely writing for those who seek out junk. Perhaps we hope we entertain, and
encourage the resolve of those who avoid it.”
“My Name is Roger, and I’m an Alcoholic”
More than most of his journal entries, this piece feels
deeply personal, like something Roger had been working through in his brain for
years and simply had to express. It opens with a memory: “In August 1979, I
took my last drink.” The piece is too eloquent and detailed to quote here, but
if you do click over to it, and you should, look at the comments. Look at the
people moved by Roger’s personal admissions and struggle. “I’m struggling and
you helped”; “Thank you Roger. You were a good reviewer, but you were a better
man.”; “I think it might be time to try to get on that wagon again.”; “I went
to my first meeting yesterday. I remembered this entry from when it was first
published and re-read it. I think it had much to do with my attending my first
meeting and I thank you.” Looking at the comments, it’s not hard to believe
that this piece pushed someone to get sober. Roger never talked down to people
or lectured. He knew just sharing his story as deeply and personally as
possible would have greater power.
“Who Do You Read? Good Roger, or Bad Roger?”
I don’t believe Roger ever could have known what this piece
would become, which is something of a meeting place for regular commenters. The
piece gets comments almost every single day, even now in 2016, when it’s
crossed 4,600 such comments and is still going strong. I’m not even sure why.
It’s an interesting entry, but I think it’s almost one of those random
happenstances of the internet in which people took a subject and ran with it on
their own. It’s indicative of Roger’s relationship with his readers, turning a
site that bears his name into a community.
Ten years after the passing of Gene Siskel, Roger wrote one
of his most moving elegies, revealing the depth of the relationship that often
looked contentious to the public but was essential to his life. As he relays
Buddy Rogers telling him, “You guys have a sibling rivalry, but you both think
you’re the older brother.” This is such a beautiful piece, as Roger eloquently
remembers the life of his colleague and friend. Roger really conveys the
details of their history in ways he hadn’t done before, telling anecdotes and
even including clips. It’s not an overtly emotional piece, but the emotion is
there, under every paragraph, like an old friend telling stories of someone
they’ve lost. You can almost see Roger smiling as he writes it, the memories
coming back to him as he conveys them.
“Video Games Can Never Be Art”
I so wish I could debate this piece with Roger, but there
are enough commenters willing to do that, as this is another one of those
articles that looks like it will be inspiring responses long after we’re all
gone. Roger writes, “One obvious difference between art and games is that you
can win a game. It has rules, points, objectives, and an outcome. [Video game producer] Kellee Santiago
might cite an immersive game without points or rules, but I would say then it
ceases to be a game and becomes a representation of a story, a novel, a play,
dance, a film. Those are things you cannot win; you can only experience them.” This is a great piece that became a conversation, with
comments refuting Roger’s points and Roger responding to them. He was always
open to disagreement, something all writers could stand to embrace a little
more. In fact, Roger seemed to thrive on it sometimes, deepening his arguments
while never feeling like he was belittling writers who disagreed.
Perhaps it was because of some of the responses to the
articles above that Roger wrote this, a deeply moving commentary on loneliness. In return, so many commenters responded to this examination
of the human need for connection. And consider for a minute how this worldview
impacted the way that Roger viewed film. He was a man who was popular and
afflicted enough to become a narcissist; to refuse to see the world outside of
his own. And he never came close to doing that. If anything, in his later
years, he seemed more fascinated with other people, other cultures, other
viewpoints. He writes, “One woman who posted wonderful comments later revealed
she was almost completely paralyzed. I think of her often, and think of her as
reading. Others have disabling diseases. You already know how I’m screwed up.
So, you get on with it, and you do what you can. The internet is a godsend.” We
often see the vitriol on social media as indicative of the anger that the
internet can engender but Roger saw the powerful connectivity it offered as
well.
Especially in light of the responses to his video games
piece, I picture Roger writing that headline with a glimmer in his eye, knowing
what would happen. And he wastes no time, opening with “Women are nicer than
men.” Some of the angry commenters never got past those first five words. This
entry is particularly interesting in light of the recent discussion about women
in film criticism. What would Roger have to say about Meryl Streep’s comments
about female film critics? How would he have felt about Women Writers Week? It’s
easy to lament not knowing how Roger would respond to a specific film (“Would
he have liked ‘The Revenant’?” was a common question last year) but I more
often find myself missing how Roger would have addressed an entire issue. The
blog entries he would have written about #OscarsSoWhite. The commentaries about
Donald Trump. The way he would have addressed the rise of companies like
Netflix and Amazon into the world of theatrical distribution. There are many carrying
on his mantle in those arenas, but this is one of those pieces that makes me
miss “Roger the Writer” as much as “Roger the Critic.”
May we all know such love as Roger and Chaz Ebert. This
chapter from “Life Itself,” which Roger printed on the 20th
anniversary of his marriage in 2012, is one of the most beautiful, loving
things that he ever wrote. It’s like a great love song in its ability to turn a
phrase into an emotional truth, and it is so unapologetically heartfelt. Writers
often fear opening themselves up to the public, fear letting their emotions
show in their work. Roger writes, “She fills my horizon, she is the great fact
of my life, she has my love, she saved me from the fate of living out my life
alone, which is where I seemed to be heading.” And he’s just getting started.
His willingness to share this love with his readership and the world is what’s
so inspirational. It teaches us what love can and should be. Near the end, he
writes, “She continues to make my life possible, and her presence fills me with
love and a deep security. That’s what a marriage is for. Now I know.” May we all
know such love.
Three days after writing “Roger Loves Chaz,” Roger published
the most strident of his several pieces about gun control. Perhaps directly
addressing the love of his life and the woman who saved him allowed him to see
a new side of how guns can tear apart families and destroy love. It seems
likely that Roger would still be writing about gun control, especially in light
of the near-daily school shootings we’ve had in 2016 and the once-unimaginable
murder rate in Chicago. If anything, this piece reminds me how long this
problem has been going on. Four years ago, Roger was calling for stricter gun
control. He’d still be calling. Or maybe not. Even in 2012, he writes, “You
know what? The hell with it. I’m tired of repeating the obvious. I know with a
dread certainty that I will change nobody’s mind.” Somehow, I think he’d still
be trying.
“What Was My Aunt Martha Trying to Ask Me?”
Less than six weeks before his passing, Roger wrote this
eloquent true story about the death of his Aunt Martha. It’s impossible to
read it now, especially around the anniversary of his death, and not relate it to
Roger himself when he writes things like, “There are always
questions you wish you’d asked after it’s too late to get an answer. Sometimes
years can pass before you realize they’re questions.” He goes on to tell a
detailed history of his family in ways that we don’t often get from writers,
especially film critics, offering further context for his worldview,
upbringing, and deep humanism.
A piece that always makes me cry. It’s Roger’s last, of
course, and so it’s bittersweet that a lot of what Roger writes in it didn’t
come to pass. However, I also think it’s a fitting finale, a man talking about
his condition, life and love. He opens with the words “Thank you,” always
respectful of his readers in ways that very few are. And he closes with similar words of gratitude that feel like a goodbye, like maybe he had some idea it would be his last
piece: “So on this day of reflection I say again, thank you for going on this
journey with me. I’ll see you at the movies.” No, Roger, thank you for taking
us.
