It
began in earnest around age 10 or so, when my parents dropped me off at the local YMCA so that I
could swim, play Ping-Pong, and generally hang with my peers.
We were just average, middle-class boys who wanted to grow up to be solid
citizens and enjoy the right and privilege of voting for the Christian
Republican of our choice.
I entered through the front door, walked past the boys yelping combatively as
they played Ping-Pong, past the basketball court, and past the swimming pool,
where the smell of chlorine and mildew was almost dizzying. Out the back door I
went, enormously relieved that none of the older counselors had stopped me for
a chat or to recruit me for a friendly but (to me) terrifying game of
basketball.
I proceeded swiftly and confidently down Columbus Avenue, across on 12th
Street, and down again on Austin Avenue to the proud old movie palace called
the Waco Theater. Using all of my allowance, I plopped down the child’s
admission fee of 25 cents. My heart was already thumping with thrilled
anticipation. Can’t remember which movie it was exactly, but I’m pretty sure it
was The Tingler or 13 Ghosts by the inimitable William Castle.
The smells inside were strong and distinct, like those of the athletic parlors
at the Y, but these were so, so much friendlier. The odors of musty carpet and
fresh popcorn commingled in a sweet, intoxicating way, and now that I look
back, I realize that the smell of those old movie palaces was probably as much
or more sensually pleasurable than most of the movies that illuminated their
interiors.
I couldn’t have known it at the time, but a habit had been formed. It was a
habit that could be interrupted only by school, summer camp, or piano lessons,
and one that, sad to say, had to be kept secret from my parents. They believed
most movies to be too racy, not suitable for a youngster. (If they could only
know what you and I have been seeing lately!)
And trust me, what I really didn’t know was that this habit would morph
itself into a job and, eventually, something approximating a career.
People who go to movies almost every day become one of two things: poor, or
film critics. (In many cases, both.) I became a film critic officially around
1971, when the Waco Tribune-Herald agreed to publish a couple of reviews
of current films, Slaughterhouse Five and A Clockwork Orange. I
will be the first to tell you that these reviews were published primarily and
exclusively because my father was publisher of the paper. The reviews were
beyond awful; they stunk out loud. I know, because the managing editor, a
scrappy Irishman who did not fear my dad, told my mother.
Well, that was before I attended the National Critics Institute in
1972. This intense, five-week session for young critics, set in the stunning,
seaside environs of the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center in Waterford, Conn., was
a life-changing experience — boot camp and renaissance all in one. After weeks
of theater-going, reviewing and one-on-one tutorials, I emerged something like
a writer.
With new skills and a swelled head, I applied for and got a job as an
entertainment writer with the Winston-Salem Journal and Sentinel. A year
and a half later, a position opened at the Austin American-Statesman when John Bustin, an early and important mentor, vacated his post. I had really
missed Texas and had always wanted to live in Austin. It was a great stroke of
luck to get the job.
Film critiquing is nice work. You toil in air-conditioned comfort and there is
no heavy lifting (apart from the occasional clunky metaphor). You see movies
for free and then get to tell anyone who can read exactly what you think of
them — and get paid for it! The best part of film criticism, though, has
nothing to do with the pleasure of journalistic pursuit or the immense ego
gratification that attends self-expression through mass media. It is simply
intellectual and emotional stimulation. A person who sees a lot of movies,
especially those of our rising class of independent filmmakers, is constantly
being challenged by some idea or issue, and must always be deciding the
relevance and credibility of the people and situations presented. A person who
sees films on a regular basis is someone whose thought processes cannot
calcify.
Film reviewing is great, but daily newspapering is strenuous for all but the
most gifted and facile writers. After 16 years at the Statesman I
resigned in 1990 and almost immediately began a gratifying relationship with
the Chronicle as film columnist.
Back in the late 1980s, Chris Walters profiled me in a Chronicle article headlined “Awake in the Dark.” When I started this column I asked if we
could use the headline for the title. I’ve always liked it, in part for the
unintentional reference to a nasty insomnia problem that only recently has
abated.
The last six years have been a hell of a ride. A film columnist, as opposed to
a daily reviewer, has a thrilling and terrifying responsibility, which is to
observe trends, find hidden agendas, reveal how individual films or types of
films accommodate or stimulate us. So I couldn’t “merely” review Mr.
Holland’s Opus; it had to be examined as the latest film that attempts to
explain the wondrous hold of music on our lives. And rather than discussing the
merits of John Woo’s Broken Arrow in its own context, a columnist is
compelled to explore, among other things, the considerable contrasts to the
director’s earlier action films.
Space for this column is almost entirely consumed, and by now you’ve probably
guessed the real agenda. Yes, I have become another journalistic statistic —
the writer of a self-important farewell column. After six years of “Awake in
the Dark,” I’m turning on the light and heading for the open air. The reason:
Personal and business interests are proving to be too distracting for the
maintenance of a thoughtful film column. And the Chronicle and its
readers deserve nothing less.
I can’t recognize everyone for their help, feedback, encouragement and advice,
but I simply must thank Louis Black and Nick Barbaro for the honor of this
opportunity; and Marjorie Baumgarten for editorial perfection. The writer who
has problems with Marge’s gentle handling of copy is simply in the wrong
business.
Of course, I must also thank my late father, the hard-nosed, hard-working
businessman who gamely put up with a day-dreaming, sensualist son. He may have
viewed my career choice with befuddlement, but he opened doors and never ceased
to provide compliments and encouragement.
Here’s looking at all of you. n
This article appears in September 6 • 1996 and September 6 • 1996 (Cover).