One of my favorite things to consume is film, followed closely by intelligent reviews of film. I grew up watching Siskel and Ebert, and while I have strong memories of agreeing more with Siskel on what to go see, there was something about Ebert that drew me in. He was often unreasonable and frequently arrogant, but give him a movie he didn’t like and that man could turn a phrase like Andretti in a Ferrari. Gene was great for unearthing a diamond in the rough, but nobody spotted a snake like Roger.
I guess it’s no surprise that during a period where I fiercely believe there is a snake in the grass, heading my loved ones’ way, I decided to grab one particular book off the shelf of “things I got from Dad”: specifically, “I Hated, Hated, HATED This Movie” by Roger Ebert. In my loss for words at what I watched unfold this week, I needed someone who, in their own moments of disgust and outrage, never failed to find them.
I also wanted to do anything but engage in conversations about this outcome. I wanted to retreat into fiction, things that aren’t actively trying to hurt me. I needed to let myself grieve, and had zero spoons to pretend I was ready for anything else. In particular, messages of “don’t be angry” or “just spread some love”. Even the wise advice of “keep going” and “get back out there with people” felt like a threat. A lot of those people had just done something that really, really hurt. I wasn’t exactly eager to enter back into their orbit.
When kind words and gestures feel like attacks, I figured it’s best for everyone for me to just not say a word.
Enter Roger Ebert. Much of the read this week was the good fun I was seeking. Mockery here, disdain there. Delightful zingers about the lack of a plot, too obvious of one, or simply plots he felt sent the wrong message to the movie-going populace.
Then I read his review of “Dice Rules”, and my breath caught in my throat.
I had to read it three times to confirm that it said what it said. That it was so frighteningly applicable, if you just changed “comedian” to … that guy.
That’s when the dam broke. Despite the many essays and posts and blogs that I’ve stumbled on, it was Roger Ebert who finally gave voice to what has been lodged in my intestines, impatiently waiting to be shat out.
The review is here. It may or may not reflect your views. Based on what happened this week, I suspect the latter will be the case for at least half of you. I’m not ready to find out who that is, so commenting is turned off. That said, if any of this resonates, know that you’re not alone. It’s okay for us to take a bit more time before we get back out there again.
Meanwhile, I’ll see you at the movies.
Muttering Retreats 