Ebert would have loved this: It does not gloss over major events that tarnish his star – his alcoholism, his pettiness, even his face. This is not simply a chronicle of the critic’s final few months, rather it’s an overview of his life, aptly so, I suppose, as it’s adapted, in part, from Ebert’s memoir Life Itself.

Ebert was born in Urbana, Illinois, about an hour and a half south of Chicago, and grew up early on recognizing that he had a considerable talent for writing. In his mid-twenties, he began writing movie reviews for The Chicago Sun-Times, winning a Pulitzer Prize for his work in 1975. Around that time, too, he teamed up with Gene Siskel, forming something of the U.S.’s popular critical consensus for nearly 25 years.

Most of those beats you probably know, and director Steve James (Hoop Dreams) does an excellent job filling them in, yes, with interviews from those who knew Roger best during those times, and passages from the book, but even more so with a deft pace aided by short interspersions of Roger today, or at least Roger in 2012. These diversions are, thankfully, less a study in courage than a testament to stubbornness, wit, or another key personality trait that maintained while the body faded away.

The first time I met Roger was in the Lake Screening Room. I had just moved to Chicago and done a few reviews at the AMC East and on Michigan and the old Kerasote. This was a guy I’d been reading all my life, writing down notes about which “Great Movies” to see, which overlooked gems I should seek out (like The Late Show and Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia), and even, occasionally, the odd book recommendation.

Anyway, I entered the small waiting room at Lake. No one else was there save for the projectionist, whose door was open and you could see him preparing the machine for the 12:15 show. I grabbed a quick sip from the drinking fountain and then took a few steps toward the men’s restroom. Just as I did, the door opened, and there emerged Roger. The guy I’d idolized for as long as I can remember, and he nodded to me, indicating that he was finished in there.

Another time, at the AMC East, we were screening Unstoppable to a packed house. Roger was sitting front row, on the aisle, as always, with his wife Chaz next to him. A handful of frat boys behind me realized whom he was and got excited, murmuring a flurry of questions and reassurances, “Is that Ebert?” “I think that’s Ebert.” “That’s gotta be him!” One of the braver ones got up from his seat, ambled down, and said, graciously to Roger, “Mr. Ebert, I’m a big fan of yours, and I just wanted to say thanks for your great reviews, and you’re really [inaudible].” Roger made a small motion with his hand that I couldn’t see. The frat boy came back to his seat and, giggled, said, “He gave me a thumbs up!”

Of course I didn’t really know Roger, not much outside of his writing anyway. I’d see him often, always sitting on the backmost aisle at the Lake room, glaring at you as you entered, but we didn’t talk much outside of some greetings. The most contact I had was when he rewteeted something from me, about Ernest Hemingway’s six-word story, “For sale: Baby shoes. Never used.” Roger misread what I had sent, saying that Hemingway felt it was the best thing he’d ever read instead of wrote. But no grudge held.

One of the great film critics of our times has passed away. Roger Ebert died today of complications due to cancer. He was 70 years old.

For one of the best articles about the man, his talent and his legacy, read this one by Rick Kogan from The Chicago Tribune. For Ebert’s feelings on his own death, a piece he did for Salon in 2011 shows his attitude and his courage.

Rest in piece Roger. The balcony is, indeed, closed for good.

You will be missed.