Some thoughts on turning 69 (With Musical Accompaniment by Lyle Lovett)

On this, my 69th birthday, I cannot help recalling William Holden’s line – well, OK, Paddy Chaveysky’s line, but Holden said it – in Network: “All of a sudden, it’s closer to the end than it is to the beginning, and death is suddenly a perceptible thing to me – with definable features.”

In other words, I can no longer consider myself middle-aged. Unless, of course, I plan on making it to 140. To put it another way: I am now 17 years older than Francois Truffaut when he died, 12 years older than Humphrey Bogart when he died, 11 years older than George Harrison when he died, 10 years older than Clark Gable when he died, 6 years older than Lee Marvin when he died – and, not incidentally, 6 years older when William Holden died. 

And yes: 33 years older than my mother when she passed away.

Every time a major holiday rolls around, I find myself thinking: How many more Christmases will I get to see? How many more Thanksgivings?  How many more Independence Days?

And, perhaps more important: How many more film festivals do I get to scam someone, anyone, into picking up my tab so I can attend? (Priorities, people!)    

On the other hand: I have already fought cancer, and cancer lost. And if the SOB wants a rematch, hey, I’m ready, even if my friend Roger Ebert is no longer around to be in my corner. I remain reasonably sentient and, despite arthritic knees, ambulatory. I am still paid to do two things I love to do – writing and teaching – even though it doesn’t look like I’ll ever make the grade as full-time college faculty, and I gave up on winning a Pulitzer Prize way back when The Houston Post shut down. I can’t really think of retiring, because I owe too many people too much money. So I will press on, like those damn boats that F. Scott Fitzgerald describes at the end of The Great Gatsby, and continue to enjoy the ride whenever possible, as much as possible.

Besides: Not only do I still get paid to go to the movies, I get paid to talk about movies (to students, who have to listen). And thanks to my status as senior writer for Cowboys & Indians magazine, I still get to interview notables like Kevin Costner, Diane Lane, Matthew McConaughey and Bruce Dern. Truly, as my immigrant father recognized, this is the land of opportunity.

Looking ahead, I see books yet to write (and/or revise), movies yet to see (and review), students yet to teach, people yet to meet and interview, and places yet to go. (But no friends to mourn – only lives to celebrate.) I once wrote that, if I had any choice in the matter, I would like to shuffle off this mortal coil while in the line of duty – preferably at a film festival, after seeing something absolutely terrific, or at least really, really entertaining. On the other hand, if I wind up being shot by a jealous husband at age 90, well, that wouldn’t be too shabby, either.

There’s another bit of movie dialogue I’m remembering today. From Citizen Kane: “Old age. It's the only disease, Mr. Thompson, that you don't look forward to being cured of.”

I’ll drink to that. And to this. Take it away, Lyle Lovett:

In the darkest hour, in the dead of night, 
As the storm clouds gather, and the lightning strikes,
And the thunder rolls, and the cold rain blows,
The future it holds, what God only knows.

And I will rise up, and I will rise up, 
Though I be a dead man, I said yes and amen. 
And I will stand tall, and I will stand tall, 
Until I meet my end, until I meet my end. 

A lifetime achievement award for... me?!?!

I have just learned -- seriously, I got the email only a few minutes ago -- that I am going to receive a tribute next weekend from a group of my peers, fellow members of the Houston Film Critics Society, for my "long and important contribution to film criticism and education." This award will be given during the annual HFCS awards show, during which far more prestigious people also will be honored.

As anyone who knows me can tell you, I don't believe in fake modesty -- or any other kind, for that matter. Still, I feel very humble, immensely grateful and altogether unworthy. I can only assume I am getting this award primarily because, at 63, I have somehow attained the status of gray eminence while I wasn't looking. 

Right now, I am reminded of something Roger Ebert wrote about our friendship back in 2009: “I first met my old friend Joe Leydon when he was the film critic of the Houston Post. When we see each other at the Toronto Film Festival, we are usually the oldest active critics in the room.” I also am reminded of John Huston's classic line in Chinatown: "Of course I'm respectable. I'm old. Politicians, ugly buildings, and whores all get respectable if they last long enough."

The annual Houston Film Critics Society awards show will be at 4 p.m. January 9 at the Sundance Cinemas in downtown H-Town. Admission is free and open to the public. And don't worry: My tribute is only a small part of the program, and I promise to keep my acceptance speech reasonably brief. Remember: I'm old, so I can't stay on my feet too long anymore. 

Godzilla: A brief history of The Original Gangsta Lizard

Much like Madonna, Matthew McConaughey and Miley Cyrus, Godzilla illustrates a time-honored showbiz dictum: The best way to sustain your superstardom is to repeatedly reinvent yourself.

During six decades of Japanese-produced low-tech monster mashes and made-in-America CGI-stuffed spectacles, Big G has remained au courant through the miracle of image makeovers. From nuclear-age nightmare to doting single parent, from freelance global defender to butt-kicking tag-team wrestler, he has evolved and developed, evincing a versatility that might make Meryl Streep turn green – or, perhaps more appropriately, charcoal gray – with envy.

In Godzilla, slated to open this weekend at theaters and drive-ins everywhere, The Original Gangsta Lizard has a bit less spring to his step, and a tad more spread to his waistline. But never mind: Even as he approaches eligibility for Social Security, Big G remains ever ready to rumble, and authoritatively defends his title as King of the Monsters in this terrifically exciting flick.

Of course, it helps that he has in his corner Gareth Edwards, a filmmaker who, suitably enough, first attracted attention with a 2010 movie titled Monsters. Edwards’ latest creature feature benefits greatly from the director’s ability to pull off a tricky balancing act: While ingeniously reimagining the legend, he also respectfully acknowledges the tradition. In short, he lets Godzilla be Godzilla.

The mythos began in 1954, when the Toho Company of Japan introduced Big G as Gojira, a rudely reawakened dinosaur who developed toxic halitosis and an extremely bad attitude after exposure to H-bomb testing in the South Pacific. (The plot device of mutation through radiation was profoundly impactful on Japanese moviegoers less than a decade after the nuking of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.) Growling and grouchy, the fire-breathing behemoth sauntered though Tokyo with a sumo-wrestler shamble while burning buildings, gobbling trains, stomping bit players, and generally making an epic nuisance of himself.

Two years later, legendary producer Joseph E. Levine and a group of associates renamed the movie and its eponymous star when they released Godzilla, King of the Monsters, a redubbed and re-edited version of picture designed for English-speaking audiences. Some of the Toho-produced footage was trimmed to allow for new scenes featuring Raymond Burr as a gravely serious journalist – named, no kidding, Steve Martin -- who provided the creature-feature equivalent of play-by-play commentary. (“A prehistoric monster just walked out of Tokyo Bay!” Geez, ya think?)

But none of these alterations dulled the movie's surprising power as a cautionary Cold War fable about the threat of nuclear annihilation. Keep messing with the forces of nature, Godzilla warned, and this could happen to you.

In the three sequels that followed, Godzilla continued to come across as a cranky bully who enjoyed nothing more than incinerating large portions of major urban areas. Whether he was trading punches with an ornery dude in a monkey suit (King Kong Vs. Godzilla) or trying to pluck the wings of an economy-size insect (Godzilla Vs. Mothra, a.k.a. Godzilla Vs. The Thing), Big G made The Incredible Hulk seem like a paragon of polite decorum.

But then, as though sensing audiences might be tiring of his anti-social tendencies, Godzilla transformed himself into a kinder, gentler creature. The rehabilitation process began in Ghidorah, The Three-Headed Monster (renamed Ghidrah, The Three-Headed Monster for U.S. release), a 1964 opus that introduced the infamous triple-headed beast who would go on to become Big G's most frequent foe. In the next 10 Zilla Thrillers, Big G solidified his antiheroic image as an international pop icon by repeatedly saving mankind from alien invaders and their mutant monster henchmen. In Son of Godzilla (1967), he actually became a bachelor father, adopting an orphan hatchling and teaching the Muppet-like critter how to breathe fire and stomp bad guys.

Most Zilla Thrillers of Big G's good-guy era received minimal theatrical exposure in North America. And with good reason: Badly dubbed, simplistically plotted and hopelessly cheesy, they were best suited as fodder for drive-in double bills and Saturday afternoon TV. But despite their exuberant tackiness — or maybe because of it — these are the movies that elevated Godzilla to folk-hero status among camp-savvy baby boomers and thrill-seeking Gen-Xers. Indeed, Godzilla was such a lovable cuss during the 1970s that he popped up as an animated adventurer in a TV cartoon series.

Nearly a decade after Terror of Mechagodzilla (1975), the last "good guy" Z-movie, the bigwigs at Toho decided it was time to let Godzilla again be as nasty as he wanted to be. So they reintroduced him as a fire-breathing fiend in The Return of Godzilla (1984). Once again, a U.S. distributor hired Raymond Burr for an Americanized edition, Godzilla 1985. (Trivia note: A poster for this flick appeared prominently in Roger Ebert’s office during the intro for the syndicated Siskel & Ebert TV show.) Oddly enough, however, this retrofitted version was a box-office disappointment. Maybe U.S. audiences were uncomfortable with the idea of a bad-to-the-bone Big G. Or maybe they simply preferred to see Godzilla shooting hoops with Charles Barkley in TV ads.

In any event, Toho continued to crank out sequels for domestic Japanese consumption – and sporadic home-video release in the US – until the 2004 production of Godzilla: Final Wars. They actually killed off Big G in 1995’s Godzilla vs. Destoroyah. But, of course, you can't keep a good monster down: By the end of the movie, a leaner and meaner Godzilla Jr. was ready to carry on the grand tradition of crushing innocent bystanders and blowtorching through Tokyo.

In sharp contrast to this born-again behemoth, the computer-generated creature of 1998’s American-made Godzilla was something of a wuss. Part of what has always made his Toho movies so popular is Big G’s badass, take-no-crap attitude. Even during his “good guy” phase, he was at his crowd-pleasing best whenever he was swatting buildings, flaming trains, and laughing out loud at heat-seeking missiles. But when Godzilla did Manhattan in director’s Roland Emmerich’s lavish but sluggish remake, the CGI weenie usually ran away from his attackers, and caused most of his damage by accident.

Rest assured, Gareth Edwards doesn’t make the same mistake in his new and improved Godzilla reboot. True, he mercilessly teases his audience during the first half of the film, giving us only sporadic glimpses at the title creature while employing the same delayed-gratification technique he used in Monsters. But when push comes to shove and the battle lines are drawn in the climactic Kaiju-vs.-Kaiju clash – yes, you guessed it, Godzilla isn’t the only monster in this particular mix --  Edwards’ Big G is bodaciously large and in charge, romping and stomping with a purposeful pugnacity that recalls both the whup-ass heroism of the ‘60s and ‘70s “good guy” Godzilla and the fearsome ferocity of the bad boy that razed Tokyo back in 1954.

Better still, this Godzilla – unlike Emmerich’s pretender – actually breathes fire. And let’s be honest: Isn’t  that what really makes a Godzilla movie a true Godzilla movie?  

ZILLA FACTOIDS    

If you want to pass as a diehard G-Fan, always remember: The Original Gangsta Lizard is charcoal gray, not green, in the overwhelming majority of his movies. And no, despite all the stories you’ve heard to the contrary, he doesn’t emerge victorious in the Japanese version of King Kong vs. Godzilla. To further enhance your ability to bluff, study the following factoids.

A.K.A. GODZILLA: The original Godzilla was such a smash in Japan that a sequel – Godzilla Raids Again – was rushed into production, and released domestically in 1955. Four years later, however, this follow-up was re-dubbed and restructured, and released by Warner Bros. as Gigantis, The Fire Monster. No kidding: Warners sold the movie as an original, not a sequel, featuring an entirely different creature with a completely different roar. Mothra got even less respect when Mothra vs. Godzilla (1965) was picked up for US release by American-International Pictures. That film was retitled Godzilla vs. The Thing, and sold with advertising art that depicted Godzilla fighting… a giant question mark.

BLESSED ARE THE PEACEMAKERS: Mothra had her hands full... er, her wings full... well, she had a pretty tough time of it while rehabilitating Godzilla in Ghidrah, The Three-Headed Monster (1964). When she initially approached Big G to join her and Rodan in a triple-team assault on Ghidrah (a.k.a. Ghidorah), Big G in effect bellowed: "Help those pesky humans? Fuhgedaboudit!" In the end, though, Godzilla fought the good fight because -- well, hey, a monster's got to do what a monster's got to do.

MADE IN USA: Raymond Burr appeared in scenes added to Godzilla and Godzilla 1985 by US distributors, but only one Western actor ever actually played a lead role in a Toho-produced Zilla Thriller. Monster Zero, a 1965 feature also known as Invasion of Astro-Monster, had ‘50s TV star Nick Adams (The Rebel) improbably cast as Astronaut Glenn -- no, not that Astronaut Glenn -- a blunt-spoken, two-fisted hero of the Tokyo-based World Space Authority. Rodan could flap his wings, and Godzilla might break into a victory dance, but only Adams could sneer at the evil extra-terrestrials and – in the English-language version, at least -- growl: “You rats! You stinkin’ rats!”

THE ORIGINAL SURVIVOR: During his “good guy” phase – roughly speaking, from Monster Zero to Terror of Mechagodzilla (1975) – Big G sought R&R between battles on Monster Island, a sort of creature-friendly Club Med where he swapped war stories with Mothra, Rodan and other occasional allies. Fortunately for all parties involved, no one ever suggested a tribal council to expel any pariahs.

ZILLA SPEAKS: In 1972’s Godzilla vs. Gigan (a.k.a. Godzilla on Monster Island), Big G inexplicably gained the ability to speak. Mind you, he was limited to conversations with another rubbery beastie, the spiky Anguirus, and he remained a monster of few words. ("Something funny is going on! You better check!") But the effect was jarring enough to unsettle long-time G-Fans. So much so, in fact, that the gimmick was never repeated in subsequent Zilla Thrillers.

PAST IMPERFECT: Toho waited until 1991 before spilling the beans about Godzilla’s war record.  In Godzilla vs. King Ghidorah, a densely plotted time-tripping melodrama, we learn that a pre-irradiated Big G made first contact with humankind as a long-necked dinosaur who, during World War II, helped Japanese soldiers repulse American invaders on a South Pacific island. Which, of course, may help explain why this picture never got a U.S. theatrical release.

Coming soon to a theater near you: Life Itself, starring Roger Ebert

The good news about Life Itself comes to us from a Magnolia Pictures press release:

New York, NY (February 4, 2014) – The Wagner/Cuban Company's Magnolia Pictures announced today that they have acquired US theatrical, VOD and home entertainment rights to Life Itself, a documentary about the life of Roger Ebert directed by Oscar-nominated documentary filmmaker Steve James (Hoop Dreams, The Interrupters). A Kartemquin Films and Film Rites production in association with KatLei Productions, Life Itself premiered to critical acclaim at this year's Sundance Film Festival. Magnolia is eyeing a summer release, followed by an exclusive broadcast on CNN later this year, reprising a successful collaboration with CNN Films on the hit documentary Blackfish. 

Roger Ebert was a beloved national figure and arguably our best-known and most influential movie critic, and his passing in 2013 was deeply felt across the country. Based on his memoir of the same name, Life Itself recounts his fascinating and flawed journey — from politicized school newspaperman, to Chicago Sun-Times movie critic, to Pulitzer Prize winner, to television household name, to the miracle of finding love at 50, and finally his "third act" as a major voice on the Internet when he could no longer physically speak.

"Roger Ebert gets the tribute he deserves with Life Itself," said Magnolia President Eamonn Bowles. "Steve James has done a beautiful job capturing Rogers complexity and energy in a loving but wonderfully clear-eyed portrait."

"Magnolia is the perfect partner for bringing this film on such a seminal figure in film to the big screen," said Steve James. "Roger's story deserves it."

My only worry: Since Mark Cuban, owner of Magnolia, also own the Dallas Mavericks -- does that mean I now have to root for the Mavs even when they play against my beloved Houston Rockets? I mean, I loved Roger and everything, but damn...

Life Itself -- Roger Ebert in the role of a lifetime

Thanks to the miracle of modern technology, I have just now been able to view a downstream of Life Itself – Steve James’ extraordinary documentary about the late, great Roger Ebert – at the same time the film had its world premiere at the Sundance Film Festival.

I promise to write about the movie in greater detail further down the road, after I have had a chance to think about it more and, in all likelihood, view it again. But please indulge me as I share a few first impressions.

For openers: Roger and I were not bowling buddies, and I would be grossly overestimating the intimacy of our relationship if I said we were extremely close confidants. But our friendship was a long and mutually respectful one. (“I first met my old friend Joe Leydon when he was the film critic of the Houston Post,” he wrote in 2009. “When we see each other at the Toronto Film Festival, we are usually the oldest active critics in the room.”) And we were close enough for me to contact him when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer a few years back, and for him to offer me not only sympathy and encouragement, but also a few good laughs as I underwent radiation treatments.

(Roger always had a great sense of humor – and often made himself the butt of his own jokes. At one point in Life Itself, you can hear him remembering his first reaction to a theater poster for Russ Meyer’s notorious Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! “The poster displayed improbably buxom women,” he says, “and I was inside in a flash.”)

So when I say that Life Itself offered me a welcome opportunity to share quality time with an old friend, well, that’s only because it did. And for that, I am immensely grateful.

I also am grateful for the honesty and balance of James’ film. And no, I am not talking just about the way Life Itself details Roger’s battle with alcoholism, or his sometimes petty, sometimes vitriolic disputes with fellow critic Gene Siskel. (One of the more fascinating things in the documentary is an outtake from a taping session where it appears the wordsmiths might eventually come to blows as first one, then the other, flubs a blurb for an upcoming show.) I am impressed by the way James faces head-on the long-standing, still-raging dispute over whether Ebert and Siskel somehow “cheapened” film criticism with their reliance on quick quips and flexible thumbs.

Of course, I stand firmly on the side of those who will always praise them for raising the profile of indies and documentaries through their coverage of these and other “art house” releases on their nationally syndicated program. But Life Itself gives fair time to the counter-argument posed by the naysayers represented here by Jonathan Rosenbaum (formerly of The Chicago Reader). It’s not really James’ fault that Rosenbaum comes off as a snobbish scold.

Another thing: Life Itself  very often recalls L.P. Hartley’s oft-quoted line – “The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there” – as it harkens back to a time when film critics like Roger Ebert, Gene Siskel, Pauline Kael and Andrew Sarris were influential figures in popular culture, when critics actually could play vital roles in helping launch and sustain the careers of great filmmakers. Martin Scorsese (who served as one of the documentary’s producers) is deeply affecting as he speaks in Life Itself about Roger’s early review of his debut feature, Who’s That Knocking at My Door?  His heartfelt words make you appreciate Roger Ebert all the more – but also make you wonder who, if anyone, has the credibility and influence today to launch the next generation of filmmakers.

After seeing Life Itself, I immediately Tweeted: “A smart and moving tribute to an irreplaceable critic and a singular human being.” I’m sure Roger could have phrased it better. (After all, he was Roger Freakin' Ebert.) I wish he were still around to do so. But I guess I’ll just have to settle for reading, and re-reading, all the wonderful words he left us with. And when even that is not enough... well, we'll always have Life Itself.

Somewhere in that great screening room in the sky, Roger Ebert is offering a thumbs-down to this crowd

Oscar Wilde once noted: "You can always judge a man by the quality of his enemies." I think Roger Ebert -- and, come to think of it, Oscar Wilde -- would be amused to know that hatemongers from the Westboro Baptist Church, the sort of "Christians" who give Christians a bad name, plan to protest at Roger's funeral. Why? Hey, why not. Haters got to hate, right?

On the other hand: I would advise these haters to stay clear of my own funeral after I shuffle off this mortal coil. See, I figure there will be a bunch of sorely hung-over Irishmen at this event, all of them barely recovered from the revelry of what I expect to be a robust Irish wake the night before. And since I suspect more than a few of these fellows will be former IRA confederates of my late father, they'll likely be packing heat. Think about it, Westboro Baptists: Cranky Irish dudes with guns. They'll not be patient with the scurvy likes of you.

UPDATE: A modest proposal to honor Roger Ebert

According to Chicago ABC affiliate WLS-TV: "The funeral service for film critic Roger Ebert will be held Monday at Holy Name Cathedral in Chicago. The 10 a.m. service will be open to friends and fans of the beloved Chicago Sun-Times film critic, though seating will be limited. Open seats are first come, first served."

Unfortunately, I won't be able to attend. But I have a modest proposal: If you, like me, want to share your fond feelings for Roger, go to Twitter at 11 am ET/10 am CT Monday and Tweet his favorite email sign-off, "//Cheers, Roger" -- and add the hash tag: #RogerEbert. Why? Because Roger freakin' loved Twitter. So let's make him trend like no one else in Twitter history has ever trended before.

Are you in? Then pass it on.

(And by the way: When do you think we'll ever again see a film critic referred to as "beloved" by so many people?)

UPDATE: The lovely and talented Carrie Rickey has made an inspired suggestion: Let's make our Tweets at 10:59 am ET / 9:59 am CT instead, so that right before the memorial we are all sending good vibes to Roger. Also, she suggested this alternative message:

// Cheers, Roger #seeyouatthemoviesrogerebert

OK, folks, let's make this happen.

R.I.P.: Roger Ebert (1942-2013)

He was a colleague, he was an inspiration, he was a friend. I bid him a fond farewell here.

Great news: Roger Ebert is just slowing down, not giving up

Roger and Me at SXSW 2011

Actually, I have to admit, more a tad enviously: Reviewing only the movies you really want to review sounds like a pretty sweet deal to me. Good luck and God bless, Roger. And keep the "Great Movies" coming during your "Leave of Presence." I steal from them... er, reference them all the time in my classroom lectures.

Evening Sun hasn't set yet

The good news: That Evening Sun continues its slow, steady roll-out across the country, defying the contemporary conventional wisdom that true indie movies have short shelf lives in theatrical release. The better news: Roger Ebert has joined the chorus of those mightily impressed by this quietly powerful film, and by the career-highlight lead performance of Hal Holbrook.

Update, 5:40 p.m. 4.25: Look like other critics are adding their voices to the chorus as well.

Remembering an unspoiled plot twist

For quite a few reasons, I was pleasantly surprised -- and deeply affected -- by Remember Me, a drama starring Twilight heartthrob Robert Pattinson that I got around to seeing only yesterday, even though it opened weeks ago at theaters and drive-ins everywhere. Perhaps the biggest surprise -- for me, anyway -- was that I was surprised: Somehow, in an era when spoilers can be stumbled upon in any number of movie blogs and websites, I had managed to miss reading anything that gave me any idea about how the movie ended. The plot deals with an emotionally wounded son (Pattinson) of an aloof Wall Street lawyer (Pierce Brosnan), and his potentially redemptive relationship with a lovely classmate (Emilie de Ravin) who has endured a devastating tragedy. And really, that's all you should know about the film before you see it.

Indeed, anyone teaching college courses in film criticism would do well to consider this class assignment: See Remember Me, then write a review -- favorable or otherwise -- that spills as few beans as possible. If students want to learn by example: Roger Ebert played very fair in his mixed review, duly noting his reservations about the surprise twist at the end while cleverly refraining from revealing much about what got twisted. But if you're of the opinion that any warning about a surprise twist is in and of itself a major spoiler, you might prefer the approach of USA Today critic Claudia Puig, who audcaiously decided to give her readers no hint of what might lie in store for them.

Of course, it's possible to know that a surprise awaits you, and still wind up pretty seriously gobsmacked. I remember seing The Crying Game fairly early in its theatrical run -- but not quite early enough not to know that, at some point in the film, I would flabbergasted by an unexpected plot develpment. So when a key character was killed off, I found myself thinking: "Wow! Didn't see that coming! That was a surprise twist!"  Which, of course, set me up to be really shocked a few scenes later when the rug and the floor got yanked from beneath my feet.

Roger Ebert agrees: 45365 adds up to something special

Last year at SXSW, I noted that 45365 -- winner of the festival's jury prize for best documentary --"fashions a seductive, fascinating tapestry of small-town life by interweaving seemingly random glimpses of residents in Sidney, Ohio." Earlier this month at the Independent Spirit Awards, the inaugural Chaz & Roger Ebert Truer Than Fiction Award went to 45365. And now Roger has posted a full-length review singing the movie's praises. So take our advice: Track this movie down. Drive to another city  if you must. But if it's anywhere in your area: See it.

R.I.P.: At the Movies (1986-2010)

Even though I haven't watched the show much in recent years -- well, OK, except  for the few times I appeared as a guest in 2008, during the short-lived heyday of Ben Lyons and Ben Mankiewicz --  I could not help but wince a bit when I heard yesterday that, at long last, the ax had fallen on At the Movies, the weekly movie review program Roger Ebert and the late Gene Siskel began in 1986 (following in the tradition of their two earlier, similar series). It's always painful when a revered tradition comes to an end, even if that ending occurs long after much of the original reverence has dissipated. (Not that Roger or Gene had anything to do with that.). Still, as even Roger admits, the cancellation was inevitable:

At the Movies was one of the last survivors of half-hour syndication. It didn't fail so much as have its format shot out from beneath it. Don't blame Disney. Don't blame Tony Scott and Michael Phillips, the final co-hosts, critics I admire who still have five months left on the air. Don't blame Ben Mankiewicz. Don't blame my pal Richard Roeper, who didn't fancy following the show in a "new direction." Don't blame the cancer that forced me off the show. Don't even blame Ben Lyons. He was the victim of a mistaken hiring decision.

Blame the fact that five-day-a-week syndicated shows like Wheel of Fortune went to six days. Blame the fact that cable TV and the internet have fragmented the audience so much that stations are losing market share no matter what they do. Blame the economy, because many stations would rather sell a crappy half-hour infomercial than program a show they respect. Blame the fact that everything seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.

But don't despair: Rogert promises to soon launch yet another movie review program, one that "will go full-tilt New Media: Television, net streaming, cell phone apps, Facebook, Twitter, iPad, the whole enchilada. The disintegration of the old model creates an opening for us. I'm more excited than I would be if we were trying to do the same old same old." Good luck. We'll see you at the movies. But we won't forget the old show.

Can the indie "bloodbath" be traced to the decline of critcis?

After surveying the scene at the just-completed Toronto International Film Festival, Anne Thompson reports on the sad state of the indie film market. (Like me, she's surprised to see that Get Low couldn't nail down a distribution deal during TIFF.) Roger Ebert echoes her insights -- and adds a few of his own -- here.

For what it's worth, I posted this comment on Ebert's blog (which, like Thompson's, is required reading for any serious cinéaste):

I strongly suspect that, years from now, when pop-culture historians are writing about the early-21st-century indie film crisis, many will note a direct correlation between the decline in audiences for indie films and the decline of film critics on newspapers in major and secondary markets. Seriously. Yes, I know: Newspapers still run wire-service reviews. But that’s hardly the same thing as having someone on staff who’s an active advocate for indie movies, who’s eager to interview indie filmmakers – and who urges editors to occasionally make a review of an indie film the lead review in a Friday paper. Also: I think readers are more likely to heed the advice of a critic they have come to know, if not always agree with. That is, a critic who is a visible member of the community – someone who’s interviewed on local TV from time to time, who lectures and/or introduces films at museums and other venues, and whose reviews may get debated on radio talk shows.

Of course, there’s another factor to consider: The decline of newspapers, period. Yes, there are many, many websites where people can read astute and/or entertaining reviews of films. But those sites are frequented by people already inclined to see movies. With newspapers, you have what I call The Happenstance Factor: Someone leafing through the paper might stumble across a review of an indie movie – a movie he or she might not otherwise know about – and become sufficiently interested to actually go see the film in a first-run theater. I can’t tell you how many times I had people (even editors and fellow staffers) tell me back when I reviewed films for the now-defunct Houston Post that they never would have heard about (much less gone to see) certain movies if they hadn’t serendipitously come across my review while looking for the comics page or the horoscope column. Unfortunately, that sort of thing rarely happens on the Internet.

Review: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen

For me, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen simply is what it is – more of the same, only louder – and, as such, can be appreciated in much the same way one might appreciate a vertiginous spin on a theme park ride, or two hours at a dance club where the techno-pop is turned up to somewhere past 11, maybe even 12. I saw it just last night, and I’ve already forgotten most of it, but I can’t truthfully say I was ever bored by any of the shape-shifting, gear-grinding, butt-kicking robot-on-robot action.

To be sure, all the heavy-metal mayhem (along with the overbearing musical score) drowns out a goodly amount of what the actors (and the robots) say. But you can hear just enough snatches of dialogue to suss out why this person moves from Point A to Point B, and that robot wants to do one thing or destroy another. The actors are… Well, they are, for the most part, upstaged by the machinery. Even so, director Michael Bay makes the most of Megan Fox as a special effect, often filming her in slow motion so that, as she and co-star Shia LaBeouf outrun explosions of various kinds, it appears two piglets are wrestling beneath her tight shirt.

And if this review reads like something less than a full-throated rave, trust me, Roger Ebert was far less kind.

Great minds think alike

I'm very glad to see that both Roger Ebert and Stephen Holden more or less agree with my take on Management, a slight but likable dramedy starring Jennifer Aniston and Steve Zahn that signals a promising directorial debut for playwright-screenwriter Stephen Belber (Tape). As I noted last fall in my Variety review from the Toronto Film Festival, Management is a low-key romantic comedy that "pivots on a serendipitous encounter between Sue (Aniston), a stressed-for-success sales rep for a company specializing in 'corporate art,' and Mike (Zahn), an aimless guy in his early 30s employed by his taciturn father (Fred Ward) and ailing mother (Margo Martindale) at an Arizona roadside motel where Sue providentially checks in." The movie offers an appealing mix of whimsical quirkiness, straight-faced absurdity and affecting melancholy. Better still, as Holden notes, it "has a generosity of spirit that makes you believe that good people summoning a lot of pluck can make good things happen."

Ebert & Roeper without Ebert or Roeper?

Richard Roeper is pursuing other career opportunities. Or something like that. And Roger Ebert is departing as well. Excuse me, I have to go get my audition tape ready.

Ebert does Indy

Roger Ebert on Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: "I can say that if you liked the other Indiana Jones movies, you will like this one, and that if you did not, there is no talking to you." Sounds right to me.

The slow fade of film critics

Matt Eagan of The Hartford Courant offers an intelligent, insightful and... and... oh, hell, just plain goddamn depressing piece about the seemingly irreversible decline in the number of film critics -- and fine arts critics -- at newspapers across the United States. Among the money quotes:

"The era of the newspaper film critic, the era of newspaper criticism, seems to be coming to a rapid and unceremonious end. As recently as a decade ago, no self-respecting mid-sized daily newspaper would have dreamed of publishing without a film critic.These days only major cities have them and those that remain (other than [Roger] Ebert) have seen their influence wane."

Every so often, I am asked by a young writer how he or she can get a job as a professional film critic -- that is, how he or she can get paid to write film reviews for a daily newspaper. And I must admit: Increasingly, I am tempted to respond: "Well, you can't. Not anymore. You're better off starting your own website. Pretty soon, the Internet is the only place you'll find serious film critcism." On the other hand, maybe I should just direct them to Eagan's article.

At long, long last: The best movies of 2006

Boy, and I thought I was late getting my list completed! But, what the hell, I guess we can cut Roger Ebert a little slack, right? I mean, he did have a few distractions...