To Mr. Ebert on His Death

Dear Mr. Ebert,

I meant to send you a letter a month ago, but in the jumble of everyday rituals and goings-about, it slipped my memory.

I confess I was also intimidated by the thought of writing to you, the humble amateur blogger fan scribbling away to a witty Pulitzer prize-winner. How I regret that now.

I’ve been reading your reviews since the age of twelve, when I eagerly scrambled for the local newspaper’s tiny entertainment section every Friday before my sisters could get to it. I didn’t always agree with you – you like boobs and the occasional Nicholas Sparks adaptation – but you always write with wit, knowledge, insight and passion. Your writing has soul. No one who has read your work could doubt this one fact: you truly love films.

Because of you, I gained a greater appreciation for the art of film, even seriously considered majoring in it. I opted for science instead: I wasn’t sure I could endure watching movies like Mad Dog Time. Then again, your reviews of horrible excuses for films were some of your most entertaining. So there may be hope for me yet.

Your blog posts, too, are thought provoking and a delight to read. I wish I could have seen the end product of the many plans you had as you mentioned in your last post.

There is so much more that could be said about your accomplishments, your life, your influence on the film industry. I leave others to the daunting task. Never has the death of a complete stranger moved me so much. To your wonderful wife, Chaz Ebert, I offer my condolences.

You will be missed.

Roger Ebert, blogger, journalist, film critic, died today after a long fight with cancer. He was 70 years old.