I always feel vaguely dispeptic after watching the Oscars, an event that has everything to do with marketing, and the peculiar social rituals of a particular segment of Los Angeles, and very little to do with the actual purpose of the movies: to amuse, to emotionally engage, and to convey beauty. My friend Ross, in the midst of a wonderful meditation on the greatness of Roger Ebert, and its treatment as an amazing archaeological find in recent months, has a great reminder of the interaction between love and criticism:
Culture, of course, has no analog. I love music because it touches me in a way that nothing else does. I love Paul Thomas Anderson not because he references a million other movies -- if that's all I cared about, I'd be the president of the Martin Scorcese fan club. Despite the calls of "Hipster" thrown at me, I don't love David Eggers because he's twee. I care about his work because it hits me emotionally. And I'm not detached from Eggers' story. I'm not detached from our commons Suburban Chicago background or our love for the written word or our general outlook on life. Which is to say that the point of this piece was to simply say this: Roger Ebert endures. If I put on my cultural atheist hat, I say this: Illness or no, Ebert endures. He's just as good a writer now as he was a year ago. His illness hasn't made him great, it's just made us appreciate his greatness. He didn't win a Pulitzer (you know I'll bring that up. I'm a journalist.) yesterday, everyone. He didn't write his obscenely great 8 1/2 piece last week, everyone. He's been doing this for forever. He's the best we've ever had. This didn't happen overnight, but I'm glad everyone's taking notice. He still writes and writes and writes.
Rereading it made me feel a lot better this morning. It's like a hangover cure, or something.