Roger Ebert: We Were Both Fans of Bo Diddley

The title of this post refers to the closest I have ever gotten to my favorite film critic and one of the most influential people in my life, Roger Ebert. Now, this wasn't a closeness in the physical sense or even in a relationship sense, though I wish I had the chance to meet him. It was during the 2011 summer and I was browsing Facebook like I have done for countless hours of my life when I stumbled upon...no that's foolish, I never stumble upon Ebert's Facebook posts, I got on Facebook religiously just read them. Anyways, I scoured through my newsfeed for the most recent Ebert post and he happened to post about the birthday of Bo Diddley. Now, Bo Diddley is one of my favorite musicians of all time and to see Ebert post about his birthday, something that I had done an hour before, was, for lack of a better word, cool. It was even better that I actually had a worthy comment to post with Ebert's. I had recently seen a concert film, titled Let the Good Times Roll, that showcased Bo Diddley as he sang, wailed, gyrated, and eroticized (is that a word?) his performance to create an unflinchingly visceral experience. So when I saw Ebert's post I was determined to comment on it with the sole purpose to ask him if he had seen and reviewed this film. Of course, I could have just searched it on his website, something I have done countless times by other films, but that would be stupid. Here was an opportunity to ask a reasonable question while also letting Ebert know I exist in this world. Along with saying that Bo Diddley appeared in this film and asking him if he reviewed it, I explained that the film had an editing style that was a descendant to the landmark film Woodstock, a film that was elegantly analyzed by Ebert in his Great Movies section here (disclaimer: I'll be linking a lot of my favorite Ebert essays throughout this piece. They are all worth reading over and over and over again).

So, yea, I commented on his post and was all giddy with curiosity and anticipation, awaiting if this man who I have observed digitally for years and have admired for his infinite knowledge of a topic I was passionate about would respond to one out of his hundreds of thousands of fans. Well, later in the day, I checked Facebook once again...actually almost forgetting about the earlier post...with the pleasant surprise of seeing my name, my full name, in Ebert's latest post:

Yeah, like, my full name and all. He dedicated a whole post to me. Not only that, he even quoted me and all the glory that was my naive analysis (okay, using the word 'descendant,' wouldn't really be called naive but maybe rash). Well, eventually my fanaticism gave way to humbleness. My admiration for his willingness to connect with his fans grew insurmountably. It struck as to how much he probably wanted to continuously share his own passion and experiences with everyone else. I'm not sure how mush sense that must make for someone who is not me, but there was just a click in me where I said to myself, "sharing is a damn good thing." I had a blog a while before I started reading Ebert's reviews and essays, yet I wrote really for myself. It wasn't a form of writing that invited discussion or imagination, it was rehashing cliched descriptions one after another to construct a passive excitement for subjects that reanimated my passion for creativity and exploration. I felt like I wasn't doing any justice to anything I was talking about. Reading Ebert's blogs and essays, and a lot of his reviews, I felt an established connection, an allowance for the reader to share an experience had by the film critic. Ebert's writing style creates an intriguing relationship between the intricate and the simple, such that his more complicated prose holds this elegant simplicity and his simple statements echo with profound depth.

There is a certain intuitive approach Ebert uses when he observes and studies films. It has remnants of academics but I certainly don't even consider it a loose derivative. Frankly, he pours too much feeling into each and every word that it would be far too personal to be much of an academic style. I say that because his foundations rests in the way we learn how to view films, one of his influences if the incomparable David Bordwell, who made studying film its own discipline and not come constituent of other literary studies. Ebert took that and made it his own, flexible style. This style approached its zenith whenever he wrote for his Great Movie Collection, a series of films he deemed important historically, aesthetically, and emotionally. It was a perfect, canonical list. Instead of depending on a ranking system that, ultimately, obscures the greatness that each film would have just for being on the list, the Great Movies Collection is unnumbered and dynamic, meaning it is ever-growing. This list offered me the most compelling and wonderful expose of films, genres, history, culture, and people. He introduced me to some of my favorite films that I hold dearly, films like Ikiru, which happens to be my favorite Akira Kurosawa film where he states, "And here we see the real heart of the movie, in the way one man's effort to do the right thing can inspire, or confuse, or anger, or frustrate, those who see it only from the outside, through the lens of their own unexamined lives." 


He was the first to introduce me to another one of my favorite filmmakers and films, Errol Morris's Gates of Heaven, a documentary that is as dazzling as it is simplistic, showing the compelling, infinite landscape of the human mind. It was in one of my first moments of perusing the Great Movies Collection and I was just going down the list and looking at films I have never heard of. Gates of Heaven was one of the few documentaries on his list, and reading the first few paragraphs I realized how mysterious, silly, and exciting this film could be. I never thought a film about a pet cemetery relocation could capture my imagination and lead me down a road of more Morris films that are all just as captivating (see The Thin Blue Line, Fast, Cheap, and Out of Control, and Tabloid). That is what set me off to obsessively watch the films on his list and to anxiously await his next film to be added.

He showed me some of the most jovial of films in My Neighbor Totoro and one of the most heart-wrenching in Grave of the Fireflies. He reintroduced me to the genius that was Louise Brooks in her greatest performance, Pandora's Box, an actress I had casted doubt upon after seeing her in an earlier silent film where she was portrayed as an overtly passive doll and rushed to generalize that that was the only kind of performances she like to give. When Ebert explained that, "Louise Brooks regards us from the screen as if the screen were not there; she casts away the artifice of film and invites us to play with her," it convinced me so much that not only did I view Pandora's Box, I went to go see Brooks' grave site, a humbling experience to say the least. On a similar note, he taught me how to regard actresses for their coupling of beauty and ingenuity. Katherine Hepburn, Louise Brooks, Grace Kelly, Ginger Rogers, and Olivia de Havilland became something more human than what I was brought up to think: the stereotypical classic glamour girl. Regarding beauty isn't considered objectifying but, with respect, illuminating. I feel I have gained respect for these actresses even more now that I can describe their personalities and mannerisms almost to the point to where one may think I knew them. 

Romance was never really a topic I discussed in films mainly because, frankly, I am not experienced in it. Reading the way Ebert describes romance as a delicate, fluctuating and sometimes painful phenomenon has at least brought me some nuance to the subject. But more importantly, like with the actresses of yesteryear, I came to respect its almost infinite complexity, generated from essays like Wings of Desire, Casablanca, and The Lady Eve. My growth intellectually and emotionally came when I first read about the films and then watched them, my eyes observed the many facets our our multi-layered world. At one point, following his thoughtful review of Shame, he made a blog post specifically about orgasms. I would be lying if I said I wasn't slightly nervous as to what the content of the blog really contained, but I read it anyways because I trusted in Ebert's intellect, experience, and vision of the human condition, which he attributed to his discussion.

He introduced me to foreign films, most significantly the Japanese films, which I have grown to love so so much, but also French, Italian, Indian, and Iranian films. He blew the door open with silent film, an era in film that is as pure, magical and beautiful but also somewhat disconnected from the rest of film history. He idolized Keaton for good reason, with one essay to culminate his whole cinematic career, and he gave praise to Chaplin, though I will always have a personal grudge against the way he softly denounces the endings to his films (here, here, and here). Nevertheless, his descriptions are always inspiring, and silent film has been a form that I have almost obsessively tried to recreate in my films and also promote to my friends and family.

It is strange, I actually found out quite awhile later after reading his essay religiously that he had his lower jaw removed from cancer. Indeed, it first struck me when I conducted a naive image search for him and saw many of the photos of his unfortunately disfigured face. Honestly, it did frighten me. It came as a shock and something I didn't know how to comprehend. Yet, this uncertainty dissipated with his unequivocal strength and perseverance as well as his loquacious attitude that gave me comfort. His ability to use the internet as his prime vehicle of expression turned out to be a great achievement. While many use it to unload superficial ideologies and feelings, Ebert, from his essays and blog posts to his tweets, made sure whatever he wrote was thought-provoking or at least an instigator for further exploration. I modeled my Facebook posts after that and refuse to write anything that only has a significance within a minute moment. At a given point, I forgot about his handicap, or maybe it just didn't seem like it mattered. What mattered was that he connected with his fans, he continued to express his passion, and he did it in what seemed to be a normal way, a consequence to rising above his weakness. That is not to say his cancer was something to ignore. No, no, it should never be ignored. It is just when it came to his brilliant ideas and imagery, they shone too brightly for my consideration on other facets.

Again, I did not know Roger Ebert. I wish I did. My envious notions ring in my head...for just once can I meet someone distinguished and passionate in film and just, well, talk? To talk about films four hours upon hours and then some. I came to love film at a young age, but he put my love in perspective. It is one thing to dream about doing the thing you love, it is another to improve upon its clarity, to lay forth a path that I could walk on and venture further into my dream, a dream that is slowly (but surely) coming into fruition, into a perceptible actuality. This coming from a man, a strong man, a smart man, and a thoughtful man, a man I never knew but that has become irrelevant  Hell, that is why it was quite pleasant to see that we both enjoyed listening to Bo Diddley. Maybe I'll go listen to some of him now.


I've embedded Roger Ebert's TED talk, a speech about how he is in the process of gaining his voice back, no matter the physical limitations. Bravery seems to surround the animated film critic.