On the cusp of the most irrelevant Oscars in the modern era — and with theatrical moviegoing joining the Endangered Species list — Siskel & Ebert At The Movies has become nothing short of a beautiful anachronism, a glorious flashback to a Golden Era of film.
You remember that era: Movies played on big screens back then. And two newspaper reporters argued over them. Reruns of the shows are all over YouTube, and they’re worth repeat viewing.
As a kid, I always preferred Gene Siskel, the film critic for the Chicago Tribune. Later, I’d realize that Roger Ebert, the film critic for the Chicago Sun-Times, was the real novelty and driving force of the duo’s popularity. But being the son of a newspaperman, I knew the Tribune was a superior paper to the Sun-Times, so I usually sided with Siskel in their storied debates over whether thumbs should gesture up or down.
Of course, it was that showdown that made us avid viewers. And I’d argue that it was their city’s newspaper war that fed a genuine resentment for the other’s opinion — and made the show irresistible bottled lightning. And the lack of feuding news outlets is why we have never seen a worthy imitator.
Certainly, their Laurel and Hardy/Abbott and Costello physical differences created a natural punchline neither could predict. And their love of film seemed equalled only by their love of argument, and both were on equal display in At The Movies.
But their open hostility and disdain isn’t something you can act or rehearse. It comes from a very specific place: money; politics; religion.
And a newspaper war. Siskel and Ebert competed like two cop reporters working a homicide.
There was the time Ebert said Siskel should be ashamed of himself for liking Baby’s Day Out. Or the one where Siskel cracked that the reason Ebert liked Free Willy so much was because the portly critic could relate to the titular orca.
More important than their feuds, however, was their fandom. Ebert, in particular, was the beta version of a fanboy. He was Comic Con before there was a Comic Con. He was Tarantino before Tarantino (he actually wrote the sequel Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, a $900,000 movie that took in more than $7 million). As much as the show crackled when the men bickered, it sang when they gushed, as they did over some odd movies, like Swamp Thing, a cheesy monster flick both admitted enjoying.
Alas, tumors would eat them both alive: Siskel died of cancer at age 56; Ebert, the first film critic to win a Pulitzer Prize, would fall to the disease at age 70. RogerEbert.com remains a highly-regarded film site that employs scores of film critics.
But the Crossfire format of the show would never recover in popularity after Siskel’s death. While Ebert invited critics on his show, which lasted years following Siskel’s passing, it was never the same. Guests tried to be argumentative, tried to put their passions on display.
But, like moviegoing itself, the news business finds itself in existential crisis. We stopped buying newspapers years ago, and going to a theater in a pandemic feels as about as safe as unprotected sex behind a needle exchange clinic.
Which makes their YouTube revival such a blessing — and a chance to once again save them an aisle seat.
