You develop a pathological low self-esteem like I have.

Actually, I’m talking about criticism as art and literature unto itself. Conventional wisdom holds that the relationship between artist and critic is mostly vampiric. The artist bleeds and the critic licks it up and then complains about the taste of it. Those who can’t do, teach. And those who fcuk up teaching just turn into critics. There are always going to be examples of this antagonistic relationship, but I think several counter-examples have eroded the absolutism of such an attitude.

Arguably, critics are responsible for the shape of good movies over the last fifty years or so. Those revolutionary scamps who sparked the French New Wave (which led to the best decade of international cinema on record in the ’60s and directly inspired New Hollywood in the ’70s) were, by and large, critics writing for Cahiers Du Cinema. Their writing inverted outdated approaches to movie love and then their movies applied those ideals to change how the world saw the form.

Plenty of critics have become artistic entities worthy of praise in their own right. Where would movie lovers be without Pauline Kael or Vern? Where would music fans be without Lester Bangs or Jeff Chang?

There may be no writer I have read more of than Roger Ebert. In addition to being a TV star and pop culture celebrity, he has been one of the finest and most influential film writers for over forty years. He is both poetic and pragmatic, and somehow immune for the most part to critical trendiness. He explains with great clarity the sometimes obtuse charms and beauty of the great masters. Even in his seventies, he is a tireless champion of innovative new artists. Effortlessly eloquent, Ebert never falls into the critical pitfall of slipping into a false omniscient voice of inaccessible expertise. Over the years, he has been a benevolent guide through the sometimes intimidating world of cinema for generations, and a reminder that one need not always believe the hype. Here are some interesting words on him by the pioneering web-based film essayist Alex Jackson:

I believe that I’ve called Roger Ebert the “Pillsberry Doughboy of film criticism”, and I have heard him called Santa Claus which I think is much funnier. But he’s like the post by which popular film criticism is measured; and while yes he gave thumbs up to “Simply Irresistable” and thumbs down to “Rushmore” in the same show, things like that are to be expected when you have been in the business as long as he has and you review almost everything that is released nationally for a mass market. (The Red Dragon over Rules of Attraction was more disturbing, but he was going with the flow of the critical community on that one.) I like that he loves Santa Sangre, The Cell, Dark City, and even Speed in the same measure that he loves stuff like Howard’s End. He’s a reader and loves books, but he also loves movies and it’s hard to get riled up at him because he just comes off as an innocent. He dismissed Parents and I had only recently re-discovered that, but I wouldn’t have given Christiane F. another look if it wasn’t for him. But yeah, he praises crap more then he dismisses gold and so that makes him okay in my book. Richard Roeper, however, who told people to stay away from The Piano Teacher. He’s a grade-A asshole.

Unlike Santa Claus, I still believe in Roger Ebert and read him on a weekly basis. Sadly, he’s not long for this world. Pretty old and never a skinny guy, he almost died a year or two ago and I believe still can’t talk. On a brighter note, he has made a vigorous return to writing and started one of the most interesting celebrity blogs out there. He is a voice to be cherished and so, in retrospect, was Gene Siskel. Though Siskel always stacked up like a bit of a lightweight, in more ways than one, next to Ebert, he was a formidable TV partner and, even through their greatest arguments, a genuine sense of friendship and respect was present. The pathetic Richard Roeper will ultimately be remembered for showing in contrast just how good Siskel was.

A few weeks ago I did a misguided blog experiment where I ended up calling Saturday Night Fever a great movie but not finding a good way to explain why. Incidentally, Saturday Night Fever was Gene Siskel’s favorite movie. Shortly after Siskel’s death, Ebert wrote a touching piece on Saturday Night Fever for his ongoing series of Great Movies. Not only does Ebert’s article do a much better job of analyzing the film and it’s success in a much more insightful an entertaining way than I managed to, but it subtly managed to say profound things about the power of cinema, what it can mean to anybody, and what this particular movie meant to one of his best friends. In a short review, it manages to touch on several poignant and human soft spots. How is this not art?