By Leonard Klady Klady@moviecitynews.com
Roger & Renee
They say that bad things happen in threes but this past week two was more than sufficient. Two heavyweight critics, colleagues and friends left this mortal coil.
Roger Ebert was certainly the better known of the duo _ perhaps the most famous cinema scribe in the world; one of the rare folk in this profession that movie goers could pick out in a lineup.
Renee Jordan was the long-time film reviewer of the Miami Herald in Spanish. Born in Cuban but more than happy to be living and working in the U.S. he was passionate about movies and provided a major assist when the Florida metropolis started its film festival.
He could be prickly about virtually anything but also puckish and was a great raconteur. Renee lived life big, cinemascope, without being objectionable. As with Roger he’d been in declining health for several years and hadn’t been in touch for a couple of years. Last week he fell in his apartment, experience a brain hemorrhage and lingered in a coma for three days before expiring. It was a sad end to a full life.
Roger lingered for considerably longer following health issues that began almost a decade ago and left him unable to talk. Fortunately he continued to be active and communicate through his writing.
The first time I saw him following his cancer treatments was admittedly a bit of a shock. It was in the streets of Toronto and he was physically diminished; a stark contrast from the robust, exuberant guy I’d known for decades. His wife Chaz noticed me first and said, “It’s Len.” Roger lifted his head, beamed and gave me a fist bump. I signed “hi” but as I later learned he never learned sign language.
It was a difficult conversation largely because part of me expected him to transform into his old self and spar playfully.
To that point Roger had been blessed with a serendipitous life. Though his early relationship with Gene Siskel on Sneak Previews was often fractious, it proved to be a rare chemistry. The long cue of subsequent co-hosts never came close to replicating their banter, charisma and facility to entertain.
He was a very good writer and one of the few film critics that bridged the chasm between high art and trash. I have to assume he was thrilled when Russ Meyer asked him to write the screenplay for Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (he’d write two more films for Meyer _ his only screenwriting efforts). The association never hurt him and one can only wonder what might have happened had he gone Hollywood.
Back in 1983 I was in Chicago and rang up Roger to say I was in town for a couple of days. “Perfect timing,” he said, “we’re having a wrap party for the show at my new place tomorrow night.” I said I’d be late and Roger said “great,” by that time Gene would be gone and the party would just be getting going.
The following night, after a tour of the town house, we settled in downstairs with about a dozen other guests and just gabbed, gabbed, gabbed. About an hour later one of the group _ the owner of the Music Box Theatre _ said “it sounds like you guys have known each other a long time. Where did you meet?”
Roger proceeded to tell a total fiction that requires some explanation. About four years earlier at Cannes we were attending a ceremony at which Billy Wilder was being bestowed with the Legion of Honor. Wilder was late and we jornos were going over Telex’s of copy we’d sent back to our papers. Everyone was complaining about it being a dull festival with not much news value.
I piped in with the old saw about “when you’ve got lemons …” and proceeded to recount my column. The prior day (really) I’d gone to the local market and bought stuff for the apartment I was sharing. If memory serves it included wine, a panier, vegetables, eggs, ham, etc. That evening on the way home I stopped at the Carlton and had a drink at the bar with my apartment mate. Two drinks literally came to the same amount I spent at the market.
Roger loved the story and asked if he could use it. “Sure,” I said, “but you have to credit the source.”
The next day I was talking to my office and my editor said, “Roger Ebert wrote about you … it’s a bit different than the column you sent.”
He proceeded to read Roger’s story that began with Roger and me and Dusty Cohl _ one of the founders of the Toronto Film Festival _ sitting on the Carlton terrace having a drink (Roger had yet to give up alcohol). Dusty comments on how expensive everything is, Roger wonders what one could get at the market for the same price and I’m sent out to find out.
That, by the way, is the story Roger repeated that evening in 1983.
I was speechless and sputtered out “that’s not true, Roger. We met in Denver at a conference.” I proceeded to tell the true story as best as I could remember.
There was a briefly silence and finally Roger punctuated with, “that might be the case … but mine was the better story.”
Roger always told the better story … maybe the best story. He was always an entertainer and a scholar. Those are awfully big shoes to fill and he wore them so well. Good viewing, squire.
