By Rachel Simon, Editor-in-Chief, Emerson College
When I want to read great writing, I go to the men’s magazines. They’re the ones with the kind of intense, stirring pieces that last in your memory long afterwards, where in between pictures of models and write-ups of cars, there are incredible profiles of actors and writers and artists that reveal something new with every read. It was in GQ where an interview with a grieving Michelle Williams made the years-old death of Heath Ledger feel new and raw; inDetails, a piece on Ben Affleck revived my respect for a man who’d lost it long ago. And it was in Esquire, back in early 2010, where I read a story on Roger Ebert so powerful and brave that I saved the issue for months afterwards, re-reading it often in the hopes of finding a sentence unseen, a word unnoticed, an emotion unfelt.
That piece mattered to me for reasons I couldn’t identify, at first. I loved movies, yes, but I barely knew Roger Ebert, recognizing the name only because of a handful of reviews I’d recently perused. I’d never seen At the Movies or read The Chicago Sun-Times; the only reason I’d even read the Esquire article at all was because it happened to be open on my kitchen table. I began the piece planning to skim the pages, the only expectation being the hopeful addition of a few films to my must-see list. Yet I found myself pouring over every word, mesmerized by writer Chris Jones’ portrayal of a man who’d gone through so much only to come back on the other side more alive than ever. I stared at the pictures of Ebert’s disfigured face, captivated by their poignancy. His musings on film and life were witty and tender and honest all at once, painting a portrait of a person who’d seen it all and yet still had so much more to say.
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When I want to read great writing, I go to the men’s magazines. They’re the ones with the kind of intense, stirring pieces that last in your memory long afterwards, where in between pictures of models and write-ups of cars, there are incredible profiles of actors and writers and artists that reveal something new with every read. It was in GQ where an interview with a grieving Michelle Williams made the years-old death of Heath Ledger feel new and raw; inDetails, a piece on Ben Affleck revived my respect for a man who’d lost it long ago. And it was in Esquire, back in early 2010, where I read a story on Roger Ebert so powerful and brave that I saved the issue for months afterwards, re-reading it often in the hopes of finding a sentence unseen, a word unnoticed, an emotion unfelt.
That piece mattered to me for reasons I couldn’t identify, at first. I loved movies, yes, but I barely knew Roger Ebert, recognizing the name only because of a handful of reviews I’d recently perused. I’d never seen At the Movies or read The Chicago Sun-Times; the only reason I’d even read the Esquire article at all was because it happened to be open on my kitchen table. I began the piece planning to skim the pages, the only expectation being the hopeful addition of a few films to my must-see list. Yet I found myself pouring over every word, mesmerized by writer Chris Jones’ portrayal of a man who’d gone through so much only to come back on the other side more alive than ever. I stared at the pictures of Ebert’s disfigured face, captivated by their poignancy. His musings on film and life were witty and tender and honest all at once, painting a portrait of a person who’d seen it all and yet still had so much more to say.
Read More Here