‘Opposable Thumbs’ – a book about movie reviewers Siskel and Ebert

From “Romeo and Juliet,” Act One, Scene One:

Abram (a Montague): “Do you bite your thumb at us, Sir?”

Sampson (a Capulet): “I do bite my thumb.”

It never came to that. 

Bitten thumbs, I mean.

But not so very long ago, a pair of digits, as in “thumbs up” or “thumbs down” were as synonymous with movie criticism as stars (“Three out of five!”) or grades (“C+”) or whatever demented (and yes, to me, they always were somewhat demented) rating system that film reviewers or, more likely, their editors, ever came up with (Five boxes of popcorn!).

And yet today, in the age of the “Everybody’s a Critic” Internet, a couple of odd-looking white guys arguing over movies in a pseudo-movie balcony seems not only quaint, but almost classic.

Hence, “Opposable Thumbs: How Siskel & Ebert Changed Movies Forever” a loving, respectful and extremely thorough look back at rival Chicago newspaper movie critics, Roger Ebert (the Sun-Times) and Gene Siskel (the Tribune). Informally known (uncharitably, too, I guess) as “the bald one” and “the fat one,” Siskel and Ebert together sailed through several decades as the best-known and most likely, best loved/hated movie writers in America. 

The author, Matt Singer, himself a movie reviewer (ScreenCrush.com), is an admitted fan of the pair (he had a personal relationship with Ebert) and his chronicle of their seemingly irresistible rise has something of that fan’s obsessiveness.

That is, Singer doesn’t just delve into the men’s contrasting backgrounds – University of Illinois for the fat one and Yale for the bald one – he explores how their irascible chemistry made for such enjoyable viewing for so many people. Their show, which began at a local PBS station as “Opening Soon…At a Theater Near You,” went national in 1978 as “Sneak Previews.” It soon became the highest-rated weekly half-hour on PBS.

In 1982, they shifted to commercial syndication as “At the Movies with Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert.” 

That’s when their memorable “thumbs up/thumbs down” signature was introduced. Discarded, we’re reminded, were bits like “Dog of the Week” with a real dog in a movie seat beside them. Writing about one of the canine “reviewers,” Sparky the Wonder Dog, Singer reveals that during one of his segments, Sparky jumped off the set, making it look like he’d flung himself off the balcony to his demise. (As a sometime professional critic, I know the feeling….).

No such fate awaited Siskel and Ebert. Eventually they were picked up by Disney, and while murmurs of “conflict of interest” were small but inevitable, the bucks were big. And even more than the bucks, so became their reputations. That they looked so different was a fortunate accident. 

That they tangled so well in front of millions of viewers, well, that may have been a fortunate accident, too.  The show was at its best at its most unscripted, when the pair simply went at each other – even when they agreed.

These days, it may be hard to imagine how popular their dog-and-pony show was. But they were seemingly ubiquitous, especially on late-night talk shows (where they argued, pre-appearance, on who got to sit closest to the host and who got to speak first).

But then, they argued about everything, apparently. From what to have for lunch (tuna sandwiches for both were the solution) to giving Ebert a pillow so he’d seem as tall as Siskel. The rivalry was, especially at the beginning, as real as it was rancorous. Still, over the years, like partners in a bumpy marriage, they came to have genuine affection for each other. Siskel’s daughters were flower girls at Ebert’s wedding in 1992.

Both men came to undeservedly sad ends. Siskel died from a brain tumor in 1999; Ebert gamely continued, with different partners, until his own death, in 2013, also from cancer. 

They were undeniably good TV. But were they good critics? They championed great small films like “My Dinner with Andre” and “Hoop Dreams.” However, Siskel also adored “Saturday Night Fever” – to the point that he bought Travolta’s legendary white suit when it went up for auction. And Ebert listed “Star Wars” in his book, “The Great Movies” (as opposed to the far superior “The Empire Strikes Back”).

But then, that’s criticism. It’s personal. 

What Siskel and Ebert managed to do was make their personal opinions somehow pertinent to millions of people. Movies mattered to them, and their gift was making them matter to us. I’m not sure they “changed movies forever,” as Singer’s subtitle suggests. Still, they achieved considerably more than their allotted 15 minutes of fame.