RIP Roger Ebert (1942 – 2013): Another Critic in the Room

I met Roger Ebert just once. I was invited beyond all good reason to Ebertfest in 2009 by his Chicago Sun Times print editor Laura Emerick. In between films, she asked, “Would you like to meet Roger?” Somehow I didn’t think it was an option. He had been battling cancer for several years at that point, but his appearance at the festival, to sit through 10 films in less than five days, was an enormous act of strength for someone who had just so recently attained stability with his health.

Those who have attended Ebertfest know where he sits. It’s the furthest back seat in Champaign’s Virginia Theater, right on the aisle and by the door on a slightly elevated platform. Chaz sits directly to his left.

Ms. Emerick walked me into the aisle as a flock of people gathered by the exit and by Ebert to say hello. He wore a bright white sweater that only seemed to amplify his then dangling chin, a newly defining feature that was impossible to forget, but somehow most everyone managed to ignore. Even for being a television star, Ebert was about his words, not his mug shot.

I was introduced and muttered something about how much I admired him and enjoyed reading his work, but because I was not about to have a stimulating conversation with him given his condition, the part I remember more vividly and painfully is walking away.

I said my piece, he smiled, or seemed to, and that was all. The more fulfilling memories of that weekend were talking with Michael Phillips, Richard Roeper and a handful of other critics and filmmakers. Ebert was just another critic in the room.

Some years later, I got the chance to attend a press screening of the movie “Don’t Be Afraid of the Dark” with RedEye film critic Matt Pais. Those who have been in that room, albeit a much smaller number, know where Ebert sits: the furthest back seat, right by the aisle and the door. Chaz was there that day too.

I didn’t make a scene or even try to say hello, because I definitely had no right being there this time. I don’t recall seeing him at the end either. He gave it three and a half stars. I gave it two, and I wondered which movie he had seen. I had more fun hashing out my thoughts with Pais. But regardless, I was content in knowing that I got to share this movie moment with Ebert, even if again he was just another critic in the darkened room.

Hearing about Ebert’s death Thursday afternoon devastated me. He was the movie critic I looked up to first, most and always. He is also the greatest film critic who ever lived. I’m a Paulette or a Sarrisite as much as the next guy, but anyone who says differently about Ebert hasn’t read enough of his work or is trying to sound smart.

And yet I’m not blind to the fact that Ebert as a film critic meant less to me over the years than he did when I was discovering the art. As I grew as a cinephile and he grew older and sicker, his reviews were not as profound as A.O. Scott’s, not as biting as Wesley Morris’ or Dana Stevens’, not as informative or as witty as The AV Club’s, not as intellectual as Jim Emerson’s or Glenn Kenny’s, and the list goes on.

He was, to put it another way, just another critic in the room.

It’s not so much that he changed and lost his touch as that even as he defined a whole new web presence, he was less interested in writing 2000 words about the use of the N-word in “Django Unchained” as he was in writing about his life and his observations on society.

It was this aspect that still stood out most for me. As other friends gave up on Ebert for two and a half star reviews of challenging films and four star reviews of sentimental dreck, he remained the most human, compassionate writer of all.

Ebert wrote plainly, but with eloquence. His recent blog posts on the environment and the Newtown shootings had the power of moving me to tears. He proved to be a pundit with an unmatched insight because he responded with simplicity and careful observations of the landscape without falling into the typical talking points. His beautiful last post, wonderfully titled “A Leave of Presence,” provided me with more hope and opportunity than despair, a tribute to his overwhelmingly optimistic view of the world, despite the more than occasional smarm in his reviews. His memoir “Life Itself” was uplifting and delightful in ways that made me wonder what I would write in my autobiography, should I ever get the luxury of writing one that people would care to read as much as I did Ebert’s.

But I also treated Ebert’s reviews like a Bible, and a handful even provided me with as much emotional reverie as his book and blog posts. His conveniently encyclopedic catalog of reviews of virtually every movie dating back to 1967 was invaluable to my education, and to this day there is not an occasion in which I do not cross-reference my thoughts with his.

Because Ebert never had formal film training, something that is becoming virtually nonexistent in today’s age, his reviews often provided that basic level of insight and truth that other critics would overlook in favor of technical analysis or cultural ties. His innovation was not in democratizing the movies with a pair of thumbs but in making us believe that the movies told us about ourselves and about human life in general.

Fitfully, his famous mantra, “It’s not what it’s about. It’s about how it’s about it,” is a simple idea about criticism that doesn’t stop at the movies. In the most rudimentary terms, Ebert found a way to say that life and the movies are about more than the “what” on the surface but the “how” and “why” that provide us context, understanding and that make us question and think deeply about what we observe.

Ebert’s observational reviews were incidentally the cornerstone to my education as a journalist. At the end of the day, Ebert believed that a movie review should reflect what you saw, what it was like and what was the most important thing I can tell you? That’s Reporting 101, but for many bloggers today it feels like Advanced Film Criticism.

That basic premise was Ebert’s real key to success. His arguments with Gene Siskel made him a superstar, but he’s a household name today because he formed bonds with people who had no interest in the movies. Even if you didn’t agree with him, he often reflected a collective experience about the movie that anyone could understand. He sat from a balcony during his tenure on “At the Movies,” but Ebert was never above anyone.

Critics aren’t exactly beloved by most people, but I watched my Facebook wall and Twitter feeds this afternoon and couldn’t find a bad word spoken. That’s because of something I sincerely believe: Although only some people care deeply about most movies, most people care deeply about at least some movies.

Ebert tapped into that idea. Movies are for everyone, and thinking about them isn’t isolated to a few either. Not everyone can write about film, but everyone can understand them, engage in meaningful discussions and embrace them.

This morning, my post will be one in a thousand of moving, intelligent, thought provoking pieces commemorating Ebert’s life and work. They will come from critics who knew him deeply and are able to speak to his strengths and virtues better than I ever could. My thoughts will make me just another critic in the room.

And yet what saddens me most of all is that the eulogy I would like to read most would be written by Roger Ebert himself.