Victory LLAP
It’s August, 2024 (by the Gregorian calendar; there are several), and thus do I complete 25 years — a quarter-century! — of journalism. Or pseudojournalism. Cinema criticism. Interviews. Features. Reportage. Fakin’-it promotional plugs to release my arm from aggressive twisting. And the occasional parody piece (one of which has accumulated reads far eclipsing every other article combined over the past few years; I’m good; when I’m allowed to be myself).
Some of this stuff has been amusing, and some of it has been arduous. Some fortifying, some debilitating. In terms of a human lifespan, 25 years is a long time: in this field, a vast variety of experiences have I known.
Rest assured, I’m not patting myself on the back. I’m proud of my work and achievements, but it’s all in perspective. I’m fully aware that, a few creepers aside, nobody cares about any of this. My own (former) family never cared. My (mostly-former) friends never cared. I don’t receive enthusiastic responses to my often complicated and difficult work (I hate this phrase, but: you have no idea). I don’t have a support system. I’m pretty sure I don’t have a fan club.
So why did I persevere?
Hm.
Apart from public figures you can easily search, names won’t be named, but I’ll explain this more fully in a bookend piece (already written, thousands of words in one sitting) at month’s end: As I reflect back over — again — a quarter-century, my main memories can be grouped into three general categories: 1) Promoting the Arts/Speaking with Luminaries; 2) Busywork I Didn’t Want to Do at the Behest of Pushy Publicists (Are There Any Other Kind?); and 3) Overcoming the Hostility of Horrible People.
In the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions, that’s: 1) Yay! 2) Ugh! 3) No, fuck you!
Lest I forget to mention this, you might be shocked at what jealous, competitive, pathetic little bitches a lot of apparently grown “men” are. Or you might not be shocked.
You make me sad. So be it!
A few — a scant few — people along the way have been terrific. Alas, these have been the dreadfully small minority — not sycophants, not users, not yes-men; just fair, kind, smart people — and if you fit into this micro-category, I hope you know that I’m grateful to you. I might even like you. Thanks!
That said, not one day of the past 25 years has been easy. Professionally, semi-professionally, and personally, it’s all been a constant, exhausting obstacle course. Not even a little capsule review writes itself (well, these days it might, but not during my long endurance test); and struggling against haughty-idiotic preditors is an inner circle of Hell.
I’ve never known a comfort zone.
Then there’s the burden of transcription, and especially the complicated, delicate balancing act of treating a subject with respect (in some cases, more than they deserve).
Then, when work is done, it’s always: Poof! Gone! Friendships are not cultivated. Cheerful notes are not received. And phone calls: Ha! Nobody gets back with, “Hey, I’ve got tickets for Earth, Wind & Fire at the Hollywood Bowl: Wanna go?” They use you to promote their whatever, and then they immediately and completely disappear. Until they want to use you again.
I feel kind of sorry for that type of person, actually. And they are legion. Or possibly lesion.
Celebrities are a different story. I’ve never entertained any fantasy of a celebrity inviting me to a concert. I’ve never pretended that they’re my friends. True, true: Leonard Nimoy offered me his darkroom equipment; I made festive with William Shatner in a mausoleum; I treated Walter Koenig to lunch; and I attended Nichelle Nichols’ birthday party. Memories (among others) I’ll always cherish. But I didn’t show up again later and ask them to play Atari with me. Maybe I should have, but I like to think I’ve erred on the side of decorum.
You may notice a theme there. That’s why I’ve ostensibly misspelt “Lap” in the headline. LIVE LONG, AND PROSPER!
My Star Trek memories are among my fondest — my first industry job, nearly a decade before I became a professional film critic, was on the Paramount lot while both Star Trek VI, and The Next Generation, were being produced. Later, expanding my scope, I attended the press junket for The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, the world premiere of Star Wars: The Clone Wars (at the Egyptian, where, as a freshman, ages before Netflix or the Cinematheque, I first attended the premiere of the USC-produced Zombie High), and I even interviewed director Philippe Mora for the (belated) American premiere of The Return of Captain Invincible, made long before the superhero craze, at a midnight screening at the Nuart.
Those last three outside parentheses include pretty much the greatest actor ever: Christopher Lee! I spoke with him for about an hour in 2001. He was my first “Lee,” followed by multiple interviews with Stan Lee, and a wonderful chat at Chateau Marmont with Spike Lee. Legends.
I could drop many more names. I could drop enough names to dent the internet.
Along the way, I’ve interviewed authors, musicians, and scientists (oh, my! — although George’s husband curtly dismissed me; their loss).
A few interviews didn’t get published. The stress and strain were crushing me, and sometimes it was a matter of logistics. Pardon. In those cases, I shall try to make amends.
I haven’t worked with anyone who wasn’t extremely demanding. It does take a toll.
Overall, what mattered to me, once I had sidestepped the countless bullies and scumbags who deal only in damage, was to make the work worthwhile: sometimes satisfying a desire to meet my heroes and/or support the arts; sometimes to promote an individual or act or production in need, because I could. It’s fair to say that I’ve helped to support thousands of people. I’m the polar opposite of a nepo baby, so there’s never been one iota of complacency and entitlement, but even when I was feeling my most cynical (which was often), I strove to ping the meter on the Good side. To do something, of some value, rather than being merely another selfish hack.
When I started as a pro critic (winning a fancy award for which a rare fine editor, unbeknownst to me, placed my application), the internet (or: Internet; or: Information Superhighway) was new — significantly newer than it is today — and my reviews started appearing on whatever “Rotten Tomatoes” was (?) without my knowledge. (I was more excited by print.) I don’t like to use the word “literally” because it’s been demolished by an unfortunate generation, but these days, literally everyone’s a critic: if they wish to be. I dig much deeper than most, but in practice there’s nothing to it: Go online, and opine. I still review a movie now and then, mainly to see how I feel about the process, but the process itself isn’t special anymore. Roger Ebert sported some large coattails, and the doofus from another unfortunate generation who rode in on them frankly makes film criticism look hackneyed and shameful. I don’t want to be lumped in with that. I’ve never purchased Twitter followers (back when Twitter was a good thing). And I don’t quash thought, I awaken it.
So what’s next?
In this field, I don’t know yet.
Recently I’ve been publishing on Medium. What a name! Mediocre, Middling, Medium. It’s a useful platform, and it works (no dumbass editors!), and Barack Obama uses it — but after four years, I don’t have enough followers to make a nickel. My instincts didn’t lead me here; I was asked to use it, so I’ve tried, through the pandemic, to put some juice into it. But increasingly, “Why am I doing this?” does cross my mind.
If my words have helped anyone, or summoned a chortle, that’s cool.
Other factors abound, but within this limited field, I continue to apply my personal guidelines and tactics, for the betterment of all humankind and other life forms. Heh. This month, as a wrap party, I’ll post up a bunch of stuff. Then maybe I’ll stop. Or maybe I won’t. But it is time to tie off a quarter-century (I’ve chosen that hyphen, after quarter-hour: which is what it feels like), and to take stock.
Winner over here.
Unless you’re trash, cheers to you!
And go me!
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© 2024 Gregory Weinkauf. All rights reserved.
