What
we've learned (or relearned) about late film critic Roger Ebert over the past few days has been
exhilarating. In addition to the nearly universal veneration of his contributions to the film world, our Facebook and Twitter feeds have been overwhelmed with tributes to his
humanistic, positive outlook on life. There was no snark (that I could find) in announcing his passing. Even Gawker kept its big mouth shut, sticking with a simple "Roger Ebert, Legendary Critic, Dead at 70." The Onion naturally went with a hyperbolic Ebert review of human existence, but at its core, the parody wasn't too far off from his true feelings on our collective condition.
How do you not fall in love with a guy who says this (and yes, I vetted it to make sure it's not one of those social media hoaxes where someone attributes a quote to Gandhi when Bret Michaels really said it — it's an excerpt from Ebert's memoir Life Itself):
"Kindness covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out."
Or someone who posted this for his wife on the eve of their 20th anniversary. If you're not reduced to a withered, weeping mess on the kitchen floor after reading it, you must be a cyborg — the contract between us has been terminated.
What we did already know was that Ebert was a great writer. Roy Peter Clark thinks that calling him a good writer is "good enough," though he does transition to "damn good writer" by the end of his assessment. I'm comfortable in going with "great."
Ebert was a writer in every practical sense of the word. Not even counting his astonishingly prolific film-based output (he was known as the fastest writer in the business), he also penned the screenplay for "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls," a book about his favorite walks through London, and "The Pot and How to Use It: The Mystery and Romance of the Rice Cooker." He won a Pulitzer in 1975 for his movie analyses — the first film critic to do so.
The quality of his writing set him apart not just from other film critics, but from most writers who have to meet demanding deadlines and provide consistently compelling copy. I'm a proponent of conversational writing that's clear, simple and immune to the temptation to veer unnecessarily into the Web of Really Big Words or the stubborn overuse of punctuation or other stylistic quirks that effectively stop the reader's flow and disrupt easy comprehension. The rage that I succumb to when I see "April, 2013" or the spelling-out of "four hundred and forty-eight thousand troops" in the New Yorker is epic.
I also hate movie snobs (and snobs in general). I changed my major in college from English to psychology because I couldn't take the highbrows in my upper-level lit classes. Which was really silly and stubborn, now that I look back, but I did a lot of silly and stubborn things in college (and still today, come to think of it). Anyone lower down on the learning curve than you with a genuine curiosity for a subject isn't ignorant — it's called wanting to LEARN. I've had the humbling experience of being the dumbest one in the room on more than one occasion — not dumb in terms of intelligence (because I'm S-M-R-T!), but in terms of my overall knowledge base. Some of the gaps in my brain's foundation are stunning.
I never felt like the dumbest one reading Ebert's reviews. Despite his hilarious evisceration of video games, he was no snob. Through his reviews, blog posts, and tweeting addiction, he communicated his thoughts on movies and a variety of other subjects (politics, inspirational stories, his illness) in an accessible, conversational way that was never condescending and always inclusive. That's the mark of a truly gifted writer who's confident in his own voice.
With his clear, concise writing, he made you feel like his opinion — and, by extension, your opinion — mattered. In the wake of his passing, Forbes called Ebert a "great American writer"; the New Yorker explained how he "didn't waste time clearing his throat" when crafting a review or blog post. Ebert himself expressed disdain for critiques that excluded the curious couch potato: "Jargon is the last refuge of the scoundrel." (For more on Ebert's thoughts on writing, check out this excellent compilation of quotes on The Atlantic site.)
Not everyone was enamored with his "accessibility" — namely Armond White, the contrarian New York Press critic who believes Ebert "destroyed" film criticism. Just a few days before Ebert's death, White got some digs in about his nemesis during his excoriation of Stanley Kubrick fans and The Shining-inspired documentary Room 237, a movie that White histrionically labeled as "confirmation of the end of cinephilia." (That's not to say you shouldn't read the review. It's classic Armond White gold). Ebert had graciously defended Armond White in the past (with caveats), but sadly, this never happened.
White has probably never seen an episode of Survivor and is now shooting daggers at me through the Internet for even suggesting he'd watch such a thing. On Survivor — an interesting (albeit producer-manipulated) microcosm of how people in the real world deal with challenging situations — the most informed player isn't always crowned the winner. That game, like the game of life, isn't just an intellectual one: There are also social, psychological, and emotional factors to consider. Armond might be the know-it-all cinephile with the facts and strategy on his side on a theoretical level, but he acts like a dick and doesn't bother getting to know the others, because he thinks it doesn't matter. He'd have no chance of nabbing the grand prize. Roger's tribemates respected the way he played the game AND simply connected with him better. Maybe it's not "fair," but the tribe has spoken: Communication is facilitated by personal connection.
* * *
Ebert once said that he often relied on how a movie made him feel during his valuation process: “Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions never lie to you.” That probably explains his favorable review of Booty Call and other films that more "serious" critics thought should have landed in the straight-to-video pile. It made him laugh — what else is there?
It also explains what happened when I took my then-4-year-old son to see Up a few years back. Within the first five minutes of the film, I was blubbering from what I thought to be a deeply complex montage that chronicled the life of main character Carl Fredericksen, pulling us through the timeline from Carl's childhood to his courtship to when he and his wife, Ellie, find out they can't have children to the quiet devastation of Ellie's death (which was not explicitly shown, simply implied). Plus all the stuff in between that makes up all of our timelines.
There was no way my preschooler could have understood some of the more nuanced aspects of that montage, yet when it was over, he turned to me in the dark and said, "Mommy, that was so sad. And why did she have to die?" It was emotion that shaped his understanding of the movie's message — not his encyclopedic knowledge of Bresson and Kurosawa.
* * *
Ebert used writing to mitigate the toughest days of his illness. He particularly lamented the "loss of dining," after cancer stole most of his jaw. Not the loss of food, necessarily — though he likely missed that, too — but the removal of the entire dining experience. The talking, the jokes, the arguments, the spontaneous poetry recitations — all of those things we take for granted when we sit down to sup with family and friends. "It's sad," he said. "Maybe that's why writing has become so important to me."
Words can transcend even the most debilitating disease, even if they can't cure it. Ebert showed us that the loss of his speaking voice didn't have to mean the loss of his real one — the voice that Roy Peter Clark said effectively exempted Ebert from some of his more "disastrous" ledes (just the messenger here), rambling sentences, and other literary rule-breaking that other, lesser writers would be taken to task for.
TED talks usually creep me out/annoy me, but this one where Roger, Chaz, and other panel members use Roger's own words to explain how he has "remade" his voice (Roger using the computer-simulated "Alex" as his spokesman) is inspiring, moving, and wow, I really have no excuses for half the stuff I make excuses for:
How do you not fall in love with a guy who says this (and yes, I vetted it to make sure it's not one of those social media hoaxes where someone attributes a quote to Gandhi when Bret Michaels really said it — it's an excerpt from Ebert's memoir Life Itself):
"Kindness covers all of my political beliefs. No need to spell them out. I believe that if, at the end, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out."
Or someone who posted this for his wife on the eve of their 20th anniversary. If you're not reduced to a withered, weeping mess on the kitchen floor after reading it, you must be a cyborg — the contract between us has been terminated.
What we did already know was that Ebert was a great writer. Roy Peter Clark thinks that calling him a good writer is "good enough," though he does transition to "damn good writer" by the end of his assessment. I'm comfortable in going with "great."
Ebert was a writer in every practical sense of the word. Not even counting his astonishingly prolific film-based output (he was known as the fastest writer in the business), he also penned the screenplay for "Beyond the Valley of the Dolls," a book about his favorite walks through London, and "The Pot and How to Use It: The Mystery and Romance of the Rice Cooker." He won a Pulitzer in 1975 for his movie analyses — the first film critic to do so.
The quality of his writing set him apart not just from other film critics, but from most writers who have to meet demanding deadlines and provide consistently compelling copy. I'm a proponent of conversational writing that's clear, simple and immune to the temptation to veer unnecessarily into the Web of Really Big Words or the stubborn overuse of punctuation or other stylistic quirks that effectively stop the reader's flow and disrupt easy comprehension. The rage that I succumb to when I see "April, 2013" or the spelling-out of "four hundred and forty-eight thousand troops" in the New Yorker is epic.
I also hate movie snobs (and snobs in general). I changed my major in college from English to psychology because I couldn't take the highbrows in my upper-level lit classes. Which was really silly and stubborn, now that I look back, but I did a lot of silly and stubborn things in college (and still today, come to think of it). Anyone lower down on the learning curve than you with a genuine curiosity for a subject isn't ignorant — it's called wanting to LEARN. I've had the humbling experience of being the dumbest one in the room on more than one occasion — not dumb in terms of intelligence (because I'm S-M-R-T!), but in terms of my overall knowledge base. Some of the gaps in my brain's foundation are stunning.
I never felt like the dumbest one reading Ebert's reviews. Despite his hilarious evisceration of video games, he was no snob. Through his reviews, blog posts, and tweeting addiction, he communicated his thoughts on movies and a variety of other subjects (politics, inspirational stories, his illness) in an accessible, conversational way that was never condescending and always inclusive. That's the mark of a truly gifted writer who's confident in his own voice.
With his clear, concise writing, he made you feel like his opinion — and, by extension, your opinion — mattered. In the wake of his passing, Forbes called Ebert a "great American writer"; the New Yorker explained how he "didn't waste time clearing his throat" when crafting a review or blog post. Ebert himself expressed disdain for critiques that excluded the curious couch potato: "Jargon is the last refuge of the scoundrel." (For more on Ebert's thoughts on writing, check out this excellent compilation of quotes on The Atlantic site.)
Not everyone was enamored with his "accessibility" — namely Armond White, the contrarian New York Press critic who believes Ebert "destroyed" film criticism. Just a few days before Ebert's death, White got some digs in about his nemesis during his excoriation of Stanley Kubrick fans and The Shining-inspired documentary Room 237, a movie that White histrionically labeled as "confirmation of the end of cinephilia." (That's not to say you shouldn't read the review. It's classic Armond White gold). Ebert had graciously defended Armond White in the past (with caveats), but sadly, this never happened.
White has probably never seen an episode of Survivor and is now shooting daggers at me through the Internet for even suggesting he'd watch such a thing. On Survivor — an interesting (albeit producer-manipulated) microcosm of how people in the real world deal with challenging situations — the most informed player isn't always crowned the winner. That game, like the game of life, isn't just an intellectual one: There are also social, psychological, and emotional factors to consider. Armond might be the know-it-all cinephile with the facts and strategy on his side on a theoretical level, but he acts like a dick and doesn't bother getting to know the others, because he thinks it doesn't matter. He'd have no chance of nabbing the grand prize. Roger's tribemates respected the way he played the game AND simply connected with him better. Maybe it's not "fair," but the tribe has spoken: Communication is facilitated by personal connection.
* * *
Ebert once said that he often relied on how a movie made him feel during his valuation process: “Your intellect may be confused, but your emotions never lie to you.” That probably explains his favorable review of Booty Call and other films that more "serious" critics thought should have landed in the straight-to-video pile. It made him laugh — what else is there?
It also explains what happened when I took my then-4-year-old son to see Up a few years back. Within the first five minutes of the film, I was blubbering from what I thought to be a deeply complex montage that chronicled the life of main character Carl Fredericksen, pulling us through the timeline from Carl's childhood to his courtship to when he and his wife, Ellie, find out they can't have children to the quiet devastation of Ellie's death (which was not explicitly shown, simply implied). Plus all the stuff in between that makes up all of our timelines.
There was no way my preschooler could have understood some of the more nuanced aspects of that montage, yet when it was over, he turned to me in the dark and said, "Mommy, that was so sad. And why did she have to die?" It was emotion that shaped his understanding of the movie's message — not his encyclopedic knowledge of Bresson and Kurosawa.
* * *
Ebert used writing to mitigate the toughest days of his illness. He particularly lamented the "loss of dining," after cancer stole most of his jaw. Not the loss of food, necessarily — though he likely missed that, too — but the removal of the entire dining experience. The talking, the jokes, the arguments, the spontaneous poetry recitations — all of those things we take for granted when we sit down to sup with family and friends. "It's sad," he said. "Maybe that's why writing has become so important to me."
Words can transcend even the most debilitating disease, even if they can't cure it. Ebert showed us that the loss of his speaking voice didn't have to mean the loss of his real one — the voice that Roy Peter Clark said effectively exempted Ebert from some of his more "disastrous" ledes (just the messenger here), rambling sentences, and other literary rule-breaking that other, lesser writers would be taken to task for.
TED talks usually creep me out/annoy me, but this one where Roger, Chaz, and other panel members use Roger's own words to explain how he has "remade" his voice (Roger using the computer-simulated "Alex" as his spokesman) is inspiring, moving, and wow, I really have no excuses for half the stuff I make excuses for:
Roger's devastation at the loss of his physical voice, and the loss of sharing that goes along with having one, was strikingly similar to that of Christopher Hitchens, who wrote about his own experiences in his goodbye tome, Mortality. Like Ebert, Hitch was stunned at how cancer had ravaged his body and stolen parts of him he hadn't anticipated:
"In the medical literature, the vocal "cord" is a mere "fold," a piece of gristle that strives to reach out and touch its twin, thus producing the possibility of sound effects. But I feel that there must be a deep relationship with the word "chord": the resonant vibration that can stir memory, produce music, evoke love, bring tears, move crowds to pity and mobs to passion. We may not be, as we used to boast, the only animals capable of speech. But we are the only ones who can deploy vocal communication for sheer pleasure and recreation, combining it with our two other boasts of reason and humor to produce higher syntheses. To lose this ability is to be deprived of an entire range of faculty: It is assuredly to die more than a little."
Like Ebert, Hitchens desperately wanted to reclaim "the freedom of speech," but more than that, he feared not being able to write. Regularly scheduled injections to relieve his excruciating pain numbed his arms, hands, and fingers, "filling me with the not irrational fear that I shall lose the ability to write. Without that ability, I feel sure ... my 'will to live' would be hugely attenuated. ... I feel my personality and identity dissolving as I contemplate dead hands and the loss of transmission belts that connect me to writing and thinking."
Despite the hell of cancer (and though writing about hell is often the sexier choice), Roger Ebert decided there was enough hell on Earth already and served up some weekly heaven instead, right to the very end. He may have lost his ability to use his vocal cords, but he never failed to strike a chord with his readership as he transported us, via the written word, to his cinematically inspired Shangri-la. Washington Post scribe Dan Zak put it best: "Roger Ebert taught me to love the movies, and therefore life itself."
Enjoy
your great gig in the sky, Roger. Keep kind and carry on.
If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is
where you should go stat.
UPI/Christine
Chew
Ebert's genius was that he appealed to both the film snobs and the common man. Hard to do. He did it with ease.
ReplyDeleteWell, except for Armond White. But yes.
Delete