Life Itself by Roger Ebert

       Looking back on it, the influence Roger Ebert had on pop-culture throughout my youth is unreal. Even when he appeared as a cartoon parody, he was immediately recognizable. I was probably a little too young to recognize his insight and his importance then; even now, I’d have to conduct a thorough perusal of his film reviews to really understand just how perceptive and influential he’s been to the movie industry. A friend of mine has put me on to some of Ebert’s viewpoints and in turn I felt compelled to read his memoir Life Itself.

Life Itself achieves what memoirs are meant to do: they provide some backstory to the author, explore and review some of the industry-related accomplishments of that person’s life, and discuss the trials and tribulations that give their life drama, depth, and texture. Ebert even makes a reference to the cliché of all memoirs starting with notable members of the central character’s ancestry before he cheekily does the same, diving into some backstory for his grandparents and the like. From there, he gives a reasonably chronological account of his life with some tangents and lack of linearity, each section designed to give some insight into his perspective.

The scope of the book is impressive. Ebert talks about everything from his first girlfriends to writing for his school newspaper and submitting his first articles as he worked towards being a newsman. He talks about his transition into working in television and his routine appearances at film festivals and even some work he did consulting on films or speaking with hot shot directors. His career is without a doubt an impressive one, but it’s the personal parts that really make the memoir notable. 

The book also captures a cultural moment, explored perhaps most specifically when Ebert reflects on his favourite Americana diner. Ebert encapsulates a historical ‘moment’ and evokes that 1950s and 1960s diner culture that seems a prototypical experience. Something that strikes me as a little funny is that in both Roger Ebert’s memoir and David Lynch’s memoir there’s an affinity for ‘hamburger and milkshake’ culture and I just now looked up Ebert’s thoughts on Lynch, suspecting they might be kindred spirits—only to find that Ebert panned Lynch’s early work and praised his latter ones. I digress.

Roger Ebert presents an American life, and I was pleasantly surprised by how progressive Ebert was. There’s always a risk that public figures of the era botched their involvement in the civil rights movement, and while Ebert didn’t stake his claim to fame, I appreciated that he reported on his involvement and engagement in anti-racism initiatives. While grappling with questions of faith, Ebert demonstrates a great deal of thoughtfulness, doubt, and concern with issues of religion, and self-consciously slips out of easy categorization. He brings that up in the context of defending the LGBTQ+ community, and again I found myself heartened by Ebert’s outspokenness on historically oppressed groups.

To return to the personal level, though, the book is touching and funny, as well. Some chapters recount stories with old friends and build towards what is essentially a punchline. The humour extends into character studies of famous personages. There’s a chapter about John Wayne, for example, that reads like a Gatsbyesque character sketch. His chapter about writing Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is an absurd read, but also has a thoughtfulness and reflective aspect that feels wonderfully sincere.

But wait. I’ve drifted away from the personal again.

Life Itself has a number of touching accounts of Ebert’s personal experiences. In an early chapter, for example, he discusses the death of his beloved childhood dog and that classic tragedy of an American boyhood hits hard. There are a number of other personal topics discussed with such candor that it gives the book a special sizzle. Some of these topics are light and beautiful: his characterization of his wife Chaz and their relationship is lovely and it’s clear from the way he describes her just how enamored he was with her. One of the ways that comes out in his discussion of his alcoholism and the way Chaz helped him through it. The memoir reflects on the power of AA in Ebert’s life despite his initial reluctance. He discusses his regular attendance at meetings and the way he was able to find AA meetings anywhere he went essentially within ten minutes. The memoir takes an optimistic and inspiring stance towards recovery and offers some good insight into addiction as a whole.

Ebert’s health is a focus in the latter part of the book. He discusses his weight, but more so in terms of public perception. He reflects on how he was seen (the fat one), especially in contrast to Gene Siskel (the skinny one). Ebert offers an engaging perspective about how media and society reinforces expectations around weight and health. There’s a pain there in recognizing how cruel people were, and seeing it from a man’s point of view (and not from a toxic man) gives a fresh dimension to the conversation. Following that, there’s also a lengthy section about Ebert’s cancer and the impact on his life (i.e. losing a portion of his jaw, losing his ability to eat, losing his ability to speak). In one section, he discusses his interview with Esquire and the photo they chose of him: one that put on full display his facial deformity. Based on his narration, I feel really compelled to go back and watch his television appearances following his cancer to really appreciate the courage and strength it took for Ebert to return to public life after losing his ability to speak, which was clearly a devastating transition for him—but not one that ever reduced him to self-pity.

On the topic of Ebert’s television appearances, it was entertaining to hear about the frenemyship Ebert shared with Gene Siskel. He recounts times of their disagreement (and there are some clear public and televised ones) and the way they challenged each other. He characterizes their relationship as one of challenge, critique, and ribbing. In Ebert’s account, Siskel always had clever and cruel comments to make about Ebert and made him a punching bag of sorts. At the same time, Ebert perpetually asserts the depth of their friendship despite and perhaps because of their friction. It’s a nice insight into what became one of the most recognizable duos of the 90s—up to and including a reflection on the passing of Gene Siskel.

Life Itself offers a great deal of humour and tenderness towards Roger Ebert’s life. It’s clear he was a thoughtful, reflective man, and the sheer breadth of the text has a lot to offer. I sometimes wonder if a memoir is meant to serve as an ad of sorts for a person’s career. If I take that premise, I would say that Life Itself is an effective one: I feel more driven to revisit Ebert’s oeuvre and television show. He is a critic that has a lot to offer—ironically, perhaps, he keeps his commentary on film to a relative minimum in this memoir—and hearing more about his perspectives on life helps to elevate his significance to me.

May we all live our lives so fully. Happy reading!

Room to Dream by David Lynch and Kristine McKenna

    David Lynch is such an incredible force in the world of art and film, having spent decades cultivating his distinct voice—and voice, both figuratively and literally, is an important component of Room to Dream. I listened to the audiobook of Lynch’s biography / memoir, co-written with Kristine McKenna, and hearing Lynch himself speak adds a unique charm, given his voice’s unique charm.

    In terms of structure, the book is pretty engaging. McKenna writes sections of more objective biography and reportage and then David Lynch ‘corrects the record,’ as it were, giving his own perspectives and anecdotes that would generally not warrant inclusion in a biography. Those moments standout as particularly endearing, narrated kind of like grandpa Simpson talking about tying an onion to his belt, which was the style at the time, where the main narrative is suddenly interrupted by David Lynch talking about the best chocolate milk or donut he has ever had, or his discussion of being in France and how he “found out how great these pommes frites are, these French fries, and they coaxed [him] into doing these interviews by giving [him] all these pommes frites, which were incredible”.

    One of the things I find so engrossing about Lynch as an artist and personality is his capacity for finding an exuberant pleasure in such simple things. His films explore such bizarre depths that it seems a contradiction that something as simple as French fries are a transcendent experience. It points towards Lynch’s focus on minutiae. The grand vision of his work is comprised of details significant, sometimes, only to him. In one section, for instance, the book notes that Lynch hides things around the set that would never be noticed and yet are supposedly crucial to the scene—coffee beans under the bed, for instance. The book suggests the intensity of attention that drives Lynch’s work and that is demanded of his audience. One witness to Lynch’s early art career describes how Lynch was creating an oil painting of a boat by a dock: “He was putting the paint on really thick at that point and a moth had flown into the painting and as it struggled to get out of the paint it made this beautiful swirl in the sky. I remember he got so excited about that, seeing that death mixed in with his painting.” 

    In fact, a central tension of the text is between the divine and the macabre. Lynch finds such beauty in all facets of life: light and darkness in equal measure. In the beginning of the book, there are scenes of Lynch playing in the street with his friends in a vision of classic Americana juxtaposed with chilling moments, including one in which he encounters a naked woman wandering in the street who has been beaten. Not to give too simplistic a reading, but there are parallels with Lynch’s filmic language. I’m picturing a scene in Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me that presents a similar vision to the one narrated about Lynch’s youth. In another scene, he talks about driving high at night where the darkness surrounds the road and narrows his vision: for that, it’s almost as though his teenage shenanigans are the inciting force for Mulholland Drive: the iconic shot of the centre lines in the road and the irresponsible young drivers that cause the crash that saves Rita’s life echoed in my mind’s eye.

    As expected from the biography of an artist, there is thorough account of Lynch’s various projects. Given the opacity of his works, the book does not reveal their meaning, of course, but gives a glimpse into the world of filmmaking. The projects with which I’m most familiar are the sections of the book I was most invested in, particularly Mulholland Drive, Inland Empire, and Twin Peaks. While I’m familiar with Eraserhead, Dune, and Lost Highway, I’ve only seen them once each and my memory is less faithful. That said, the behind-the-scenes anecdotes are all compelling either for revealing how the projects come together or how certain choices came to pass. The coincidences behind casting Mulholland Drive, for instance, are pretty serendipitous to the project. There’s also accounts of projects that never materialized which are evocative to the imagination in compelling ways. Poor, poor Ronnie Rocket.

    Some details I knew—Lynch being asked to direct a Star Wars sequel, for instance—but I didn’t know the depths of their connection. He was also offered American Beauty, and I can’t help but imagine what a different film that might have been with him at the helm. As I mentioned, the sections that David Lynch narrates himself are incredibly endearing and add to the humour of the book. He narrates an anecdote in which Marlon Brando was given a private screening of Lost Highway (Lynch had wanted him to be in the film). Hearing Lynch tell the story is hilarious: “Marlon came in and the man who owned the theater had a bunch of treats [...] and Marlon filled his pockets with all sorts of candies, this man told us, and then Marlon went in and he also had hamburgers and different things in his pockets, so basically, he was eating during the whole screening—hamburgers that he brought on his own. So, after the screening he left and the next day he called me and he said, “David, it’s a damn good film, but it won’t make a nickel.’” It’s such an absurd image. Imagine a guy with pockets full of hamburgers just pulling out burger after burger the length of the film. Now imagine David Lynch’s voice saying that. I laughed every time I listened to it.

    The same is true when Lynch went on tangents about his own affectations. I’ll fail to reproduce the full effect, but in one moment Lynch describes his personal style and its rationale: “I button the top button on my shirt because I like the way it looks but also I don’t like any air on my collar bones. For some reason, that really bothers me. I don’t like, anyone, you know, fiddling with my collar bones, and I don’t like air on them.” Why are people fiddling with your collar bones, David?!

    Actually, reading the book would suggest that Lynch has had his collarbones fiddled with a fair amount. He’s a charming man—and a bit of a philanderer. You can get the impression of his habits early in his life, a throughline you can trace through the accounts given by his four wives. If there’s something that will retroactively challenge Lynch’s artistic achievements, it will be his relationship with women (though, to be clear, none of the women seem to bear ill-will towards him, just a recognition that he loves love and he loves his work). If there are two things that will retroactively challenge Lynch’s artistic achievements, it will be his confusing political affiliation.

    Yet, in some ways, issues like politics seem beneath Lynch. Again and again, Lynch returns to an endorsement of transcendental meditation. It arises at critical moments in his life and he presents a pretty persuasive case for engaging in the practice. He refers to the brain research of transcendence, offers it as a means for ensuring we treat others well, and an avenue for creativity. In his words, “I always say that negativity is the enemy of creativity and this conduit through which ideas flow, stress and all this tension, it squeezes that conduit and blocks the little beautiful little ideas from flowing through so you can catch them.” Transcendental meditation brings us to the level of consciousness that allows for inner happiness, external happiness, and, by extension, our creative faculties flourish. And, judging from Lynch’s manic productivity, it really does inspire you to make the art you want to make.

    Recently, I was having a conversation with a friend who is very much not a fan of Lynch, for understandable reasons. When she asked me why I liked Lynch, and my answer was that I am drawn into the not knowing. When I think of books that I love, films that I love, and so on, there’s a kind of unanswerable mystery at the core. I am compelled by what requires deciphering, particularly when it evades a conclusive response. Even though Room to Dream gives some answers to Lynch’s life, it does not do so in a way that diminishes his art. Despite the fact that this biography is as likely as we are to get to a definitive account of his life and work, it maintains the impression that there is always more to discover, always more left unsaid.