THE TALKATIVE KID, THE THOUGHTFUL ADULT – 25 Years as an Online Film Writer

25 years ago today, a young inexperienced journalist with a passion for gabbing about film took to the Internet on a journey to add his voice to the growing throng of web-based personalities, and yet another new amateur movie blogger was born. Eventually branding himself a “Cinemaphile” – that is, someone who prefers the experience of watching films in theaters instead of at home – he became tirelessly motivated by the panache of more experienced critics while he was formulating his own distinct voice, one that sought to add a little flair and wit to the mix while mirroring the values of an eccentric juvenile. Sometimes that aroused anger in readers, other times surprise and dismay. But it was all part of being in a fun and exciting new frontier, back when cyberspace was mostly in the grasp of computer nerds and the clap-backs came from genuine, hardcore film buffs. They didn’t just argue or dismiss a review, either. Some of them added enlightening contexts that were previously lacking, or at least had the patience to educate their target instead of just cutting him or her down to size. Those exchanges reflected the unspoken importance of criticism in a time when the validity of it was coming into doubt, just as the online world was allowing an entire generation of spectators to plug in and add their voice to a crowd of millions.

The Winds of Hope - 2018 in Review

In Hollywood’s second year as a force of dissent in the climate of Trumpism, no greater achievement resonated with the public more than “Black Panther.” Against all forecasts and most common trends it was a movie that broke the barriers of its genre, becoming the first film featuring a significant cast of black actors to cross the billion-dollar threshold. In a time when there is more demand for the representation of minorities in studio output, this was comforting: it meant that the mainstream element was, at long last, reflecting the diversity of modern American society, and doing so while sneering gleefully at traditionalists still pining for more of the same. Those were the sorts who nursed their cynicism into indignity, particularly as their more favored choices – violent action vehicles and remakes – often stalled at a box office overrun with the audacity of inclusion.

It Started With a Cauldron...

The imprint of “Cinemaphile” didn’t come to realization until 2004, but its function – and with it my identity as a web-based film writer – were founded six years prior, during the hot summer months of 1998. It was the morning of August 4 when I awoke to the arrival of a new VHS copy of Disney’s “The Black Cauldron” lying on my doorstep – a defiant and strange little discovery, like a rough gem refusing to remain hidden. Its release announced not only the recognition of a problematic production, but also the gradually emerging power of Internet campaigns; while access to the world wide web was still slowly catching on, a small petition gained enough momentum to earn the notice of Joe Hale, the film’s producer, and Roy Disney, then a key decision-maker in the studio’s home video market. A year’s worth of signatures and aggressive write-ins (mine among them) had scored a long-awaited victory in a time when the Mouse House was barely interested in reflecting on troubled times of the past. After “The Little Mermaid” reignited a key fire in the enthusiasm of moviegoers, their preceding endeavors had been cast in a shadow, with this release apparently being the most notorious stain on their reputation.

A Most Volatile Year

If you were a movie enthusiast at all during the last twelve months, the persisting narrative was less about finding good entertainment and more about searching for necessary distractions. A substantial ration of that search came down to two ongoing controversies: the ethical implosion of the Trump administration, and the alarming news of sexual assaults coming out of Hollywood, both of which dominated the headlines like dark clouds lingering over our mental periphery. On any normal year either scenario would have warranted responses of shock and disbelief (if not vocal action), but in a climate where sexism and race relations have dangled dangerously off the edge of social balance, potential alarm was replaced instead with an almost paralyzing despair. In the recent past it would have been almost absurd to assume those problems running so rampant in the age of information. But now, after hate culture has risen back into fashion, each new revelation simply played like another reason to withdraw from reality.

The Cinema Soul

Life as I know it began in the fuzz of an old television screen. Through it I gazed into what felt like projections of dreams, images frozen in a procedure of motion that meant we were free to imagine, to wonder, to long for adventures outside of the monotonous grind. Sometimes those realizations came out of old cartoons, other times sitcoms, and other times old Atari video game cartridges. But movies were something more. They seemed to withstand the erosion of time, of earthly cruelties meant to wither and decay all that was necessary to inform our futures.

I sensed this the first time I saw “The Wizard of Oz,” probably the most important live action film of my youth. For me it was as current as the visual of my schoolmates running across the playground, and made more profound by the belief that those peers could sprout wings and take off midflight if they felt inclined. That, I believe, is one of the primary strengths of a timeless picture: if its images could reach you in a way that blurs the lines between worlds, then they slip past the notion of mere escapism and become extensions of personal experiences. For what seemed like years after I would often reflect on Dorothy’s adventures – in film and in book – and how my own would seem had that cyclone come and carried me away instead. And Oz, as whimsical as other worlds come, felt like the hidden fortress of a backyard daydream that could become tangible with just the right squint of a young eye.

2015: The Final Curtain

Few things calm the turbulent waters of the world better than the presence of a good movie. They are an act of release, a culmination of visceral desires to liberate audiences from the confines of ordinary existence in order to propel them towards mental or emotional enlightenment. Good ones can educate about the paths we neglect to walk, but greater ones will show us the way to them, like roadmaps to a destination of one’s better self. And in more paradoxical scenarios, some can even rouse the fires of rebellion burning within, giving us windows into places and people that are on the razor’s edge of negative extremes. A balance of both is key in establishing some level of connection to our personal structure, and who would we be if we didn’t know how to deal with the downtrodden as equally as we do with the fantastic and absurd?

The New Revolution

We are both blessed and befuddled to be part of the growing accessibility of knowledge. What once must have been sought out in the corners of obscurity is now constantly at our fingertips, and our incessant thirst for information has been quenched by a rush of new devices plugged into the outer-reaches of cyberspace. The advancement of modern technology is, by all measures, the new frontier of the human existence. Fifteen years ago it was seen as remarkable that anyone with a home computer could plug into a worldwide network to exchange ideas and communication; now, even those realities seem primitive, and with the advent of tablets and smart phones people can now swap data while constantly on the move, never losing sight of their busy lives even while the Internet stretches their conscious focus.

Wes Craven, 1939 - 2015

“Horror films don’t create fear. They release it.”

That quote – as well as many morsels of seasoned wisdom, both on screen and off – is now all that is left of the man that once was the gifted Wes Craven. Gone at the age of 76 due to brain cancer, the assemblage of dedicated fans that he acquired over the course of a prosperous 40-year career must now unite in contemplative pause, jolted by the shock of his sudden passing all while trying to remain in perspective of celebrating an extensive backlog of notable film accomplishments. Many referred to him as the “Master of Horror” during the height of his popularity, and perhaps that title is as apropos as any singular classification can be; he was a pioneer that brought foreboding ideas to the height of their fearsome possibilities. What was a scary movie, really, other than a collection of grotesque visuals meant to inspire momentary outburst in local multiplexes in the early years of cinema? When he took hold of the concept, he did the unthinkable: trapped it all into a context of shuddering realism.

Precious Wisdom from a Silent Balcony

From the first moment that movie criticism awakened these youthful senses, Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert have been at the driver’s seat of my creative aspirations. In life, they took on an almost mystical essence as figureheads of a quiet destiny; while they years have chugged along, the remains of their influence reverberate with the kind of astounding richness that settles within, and adds drive to an evolving perspective. That their careers – and their interactions – now remain frozen in a stasis of countless YouTube videos and ongoing personal discussions is as inspiring as it is haunting, and for nearly every week of my adult life I have ventured into their world for more thoughtful insight. That world seems much smaller now that their guidance in informing our future has been silenced by mortality, and yet they remain a symbol of the enduring work ethic of movie journalists. How they did it for so long, and so tirelessly, is a prospect few of us can begin to comprehend, much less compete with.

The Mirror of Perspective

I am slowly emerging from the shadows of the worst period of illness in my life. Never one to resist the attractions of common viruses, 2015 stuck me with three (four, if you can residual contagions). The first, commencing on Mother’s Day after a visit with sickly family members, was the Norovirus. A crippling cold came just a month later. And three weeks after that, I developed a throat infection – later discovered to be bacterial in nature – that quite literally paralyzed me in the clutches of fever and weakness. We thought it might have been strep throat, but after symptoms dissipated in four days, I paid the idea little regard (no one near me contracted anything, either, which violates the principle of strep as a very contagious infection). But then that relapsed further into heavy breathing problems, uncontrollable body sweats and a concerning heartrate. For the first time in most of my adult life, I was fearful that I might have contracted something life-threatening.

The Unlikely Master of Widsom

By some inexplicable measure of fate, the identity of Alfred Hitchcock eluded my awareness for much of my youth. A few of his movies had become staples at late night gatherings where family dinners were held in front of an old television set – namely, “The Birds” and “Psycho” – but somehow his notoriety as the most influential filmmaker of his generation simply did not register beyond the acknowledgment of a mere name on a credits list. And as those years progressed and the movies became more of a guiding force of interest, my enthusiasm was caught up in too many modern indulgences (animated films and blockbusters, namely) to be willing to understand the source of cinematic language he helped to craft.

Boys, Birds and Budapest Hotels – 2015 Oscar Predictions

As enthusiasts of the movies, there are certain rituals we partake in that are equal parts amusing and infuriating. The annual ceremony of the Academy Awards is the most definitive of those traditions. Each year they seem to creep up on us without warning or rhythm, and in nearly all instances our enthusiasm is evenly matched by a sense of exhausted de ja vu, as if to imply not enough time has gone by to warrant yet another exercise in public popularity contests. Yet we watch on without reservation like spectators at a game of chance, knowing full well that the outcome is always the same even as the selections of movies evolve creatively and artistically through the pass of time.

Concerning Beginnings

The movie critic in me came to fruition in the fall of 1997, during a moment that now seems like the seed of a pivotal destiny. At the time, the industry was in the middle of a thriving creative thrust; scarcely a week was going by when something original was not opening at the local multiplex, and the influence of art-house cinema was just beginning to infiltrate the consciousness of casual moviegoers as local chains began adding them to the line-up of major first-run releases. Knowing this reality, and armed with it in a class of eager high school reporters waiting for assignments, my voice shot over in a room when the Editor asked: “who wants to write the movie review?” Writing was as natural to me as breathing well before the demands of school turned it into a prerequisite, but now it was more than just that: it would provide me a voice for opinions over storytelling, and the impulse inspired just as much fear as it did enthusiasm.

A Night at the Globes

Tonight is the night when the final act of the award season begins, the night when the Golden Globes – the first precursor to the Academy Awards push – are handed out and the biggest movie contests of the year reach the last pitch of competitiveness. From this moment on, few people in the movie business will be able to breathe in comfort. Two days is all that separates these awards from the announcement of the Oscar nominations, for instance, and beyond this moment the industry also must contend with the onslaught of Guild awards, which effectively narrow the margin of primary contenders in Hollywood’s last dash for prestige. One may continue to wonder what a ceremony like the Globes can possibly offer in that context considering the Foreign Press’ distant association, but the specifics have never really been the point. If anything, the awards are the perfect benchmark for establishing the tone of the next two months, especially as the drama and hysteria of competitions range from friendly contests to the outright cynical campaigning we come to expect of some powerful studio heads.

2014: The Year of Existing Dangerously

Within the myriad of downbeat human experiences attached to the movies in the past twelve months, none was more heartbreaking than the loss of a Hollywood clown. On the day that Robin Williams was found dead of suicide, unrelated lives seemed to collectively unite in a pass of grief that also served to highlight the tragedy of the times: not only were we all inching ever so closer to the gates of mortality, but the journey towards it was losing its comic edge. His loss was echoed just a mere month later when Joan Rivers also passed on, and the conscious acknowledgment that we are now growing older in a world without either of them seems to create unnecessary shadows in peripheral hindsight.

Weathering the Storm

Was it just a minor coincidence that a downtrodden movie like “Gremlins” crept back into my awareness at the onset of the holiday season? Were there indeed universal energies that acted as a gravity in pulling my notice towards a film so clearly about the brutal shattering of lighthearted nostalgia? Just as the reality of adulthood acts as a decaying influence on the recesses of our youthful memories, so do the movies remind us that the innocence in all things must, yes, come to an abrupt end. That is not cynicism; that is reality. And as overpowering as the silliness may be in a story about gremlins that terrorize a small town at the onset of Christmas cheer, it nonetheless mirrors a universal sentiment in those scarred by the blast: we don’t get any younger, and fate does not get any kinder.

Mike Nichols, 1931 - 2014

The instinct to lead usually rises to the surface in the presence of new opportunities. For the brilliant Mike Nichols, that opportunity came in the form of a then-relatively unknown stage play called “Barefoot in the Park.” When he was handed the rights of the all-important director role for that new stage arrival in 1963 – early on in his extensive Broadway career, no less – he was marveled so tremendously by the influential connotations of the job that it informed his instincts for most of his life, at first with theater productions and then, ultimately, the movies. As revered as he was in the course of his stage career, the cinema is where his passions developed into something of remarkable profundity, and today we often cite a handful of his pictures as not just well-made undertakings but also vivid extensions of our most precious memories.

Joan Rivers, 1933 - 2014

“If you laugh at it, you can deal with it.”

What a troubling month this has been for the world of comedy. In a short span of a few days that also saw the untimely death of Robin Williams, the loss of Joan Rivers inspires contrasting reflections. In one respect, both of these gargantuan comedic figures were distinctly different – one was a showman with an unending zest for cheerfulness, and the other was honest and sometimes intensely scathing. Both also went through immense inner turmoil that quietly drove them to use stand-up as a treatment regimen, especially in their later years; for Robin, unfortunately, such factors could not cure him of emotional unrest. What takes Joan away at the ripe age of 81 is unfortunate considering how active she was right until the end of her lengthy career, but her death brings with it the acknowledgment of the great (and sometimes unending) power of laughter: that in many cases, it creates an opportunity for us to neutralize the things that so frequently destroy our peace of mind. That she remained a steadfast champion of that belief until her last waking moment goes to emphasize her status as the most disciplined comedian of our time.

Richard Attenborough, 1923 - 2014

Towards the end of Shekhar Kapur’s “Elizabeth,” the elderly advisor William Cecil is brought to a sobering concession during a scene he shares with his resolute queen. In that moment, there is no politics or intrigue influencing their dialogue – only gratitude, which briefly releases them from the enslavement of their professions so that they can share an exchange of subdued recognition. Her respect for him is emphasized in a face of growing wisdom, and the kiss he bestows on her hand is an impulse of civility that seems to hold back tears. It is not an act of defeat to be dismissed, but a gesture of goodwill for a man who gave his all for the safety of his monarch. Knowing now that it will forever be one of Richard Attenborough’s final keynote performances in a major motion picture, the scene seems to take on new life as an autobiographical metaphor, as if to suggest that the final bow was his way of saying farewell to a cinema he had bestowed so much resounding influence on for well over fifty years.

Robin Williams, 1951 - 2014

“When in doubt, go for the dick joke.”

Reminders of our mortality usually arrive in cruel increments. Today, a collective sweep of grief underscores that notion as we are hearing news of Robin Williams, who at age 63 was found dead this morning in his California home of mysterious causes. Specifics regarding his untimely demise are ongoing, but there is one thing that will persevere as a certainty in the wake of this reality: Williams was more than just a good actor and comedian, he was also a man whose endeavors were delivered with such consistent zeal that it garnered him millions of enthusiastic fans. While most applauded his comedic ability – namely, his penchant for embodying characters of endless quirk, and his knack for skillful improv – it is his endeavors in a slew of thoughtful dramas that resonate in this moment, and seem to emerge as the first thing on our minds as we reflect on his remarkable career.