Dann Gire reminisces about three decades spent at the movies

Wanna know what I miss lately?

I miss those late-night phone calls from upset, often inebriated Daily Herald readers who, after seeing a movie, would call up their favorite local film critic and leave their own colorful comments on his voice mail.

Call me a technological masochist, but I actually enjoyed hearing people rant at 2 a.m., like the fellow who railed for 20 minutes against Hollywood remakes of classic films. Regrettably, none of the man's remarks can be printed in a family newspaper.

Or the tipsy woman who agonized over the state of my mental health, and provided me with the classic quote, "You'd better check yourself in, buddy!"

One caller - this one on a Sunday afternoon - sounded like an elementary school student. He left a kajillion messages on my phone, each time trying to disguise his voice while passing himself off as a different person. Each message suspiciously contained the same wording: "Lily Tomlin's comedy 'The Incredible Shrinking Woman' was downright funny!"

I don't get messages like that any more, presumably because callers can no longer remain anonymous in the digital age. If you call me now, I know who you are.

But I digress.

The point here is that I have served as your humble film critic for three decades as of this month. I have made a career of a newspaper job I fought for and won, mostly because I took two cinema classes at Eastern Illinois University and made two 16 mm films in lieu of a senior and a graduate paper. (Sometimes, you must surrender to those unseen forces that nudge you into taking classes you don't really need for your major.)

So, my friends, let's celebrate my 30th anniversary with this modest compilation of the best, the worst, and the most memorable moments of a life frittered away at the flickers.

Was it worth it?

You be the critic.

Acting lessons:

Scheider house rules

What does it take to be a successful actor? The late "Jaws" star Roy Scheider gave me the formula the morning after his action movie "Blue Thunder" opened the Los Angles International Film Exposition in 1983.

"One is intelligence," he said, "but not too much, just enough to make good choices. The audience wants to see the actor's emotions, not his intellect.

"Second is physical grace, but that has nothing to do with physical appearance. You must move yourself in a way that's interesting and fluid. Charles Laughton was no Steve Reeves, but he did things that were always physically interesting.

"And third, you must have an enormous childlike belief in make-believe. That's what makes it all work."

Ledger's sheet

In 2001, 22-year-old actor Heath Ledger told me that he could easily have sold out and milked the sex symbol thing in the wake of his hit romantic comedy "10 Things I Hate About You."

"I turned down lots of projects where I played another high school student," he said. "In Hollywood, they see you do a certain kind of role, and they take the low risk by asking you to do it again and again. You have to make the decisions about what your career will be. I had to stay strong at that. I had to stay true to my instincts."

Ledger followed his own advice in his personal life. At 17, the aspiring actor left home with no plan or prospects.

"If I wanted to portray people in this craft, I had to know how to portray myself, I had to know who I was," he said. "I had to have understanding of pain, love and pain from love. So, I had this idea to just jump in a car and hit the road. So I did that at 17. I'm still on that journey. It's a tribal thing. It's a walkabout."

This past January, Ledger, 28, was found dead in his New York apartment. He never experienced the ground swell of support by fans and critics for his phenomenal portrayal of the Joker in the smash hit "The Dark Knight."

The biggest scoop I didn't write

In 1983, I received a call at the Daily Herald office from an avid reader, Gary Colobuono. He ran Moondog Comics in Elk Grove Village.

"You'll never believe what I've got," he said.

I almost didn't.

A shipping error had accidentally sent several hundred copies of the official "Return of the Jedi" comic book to Moondog three months before the movie opened. The comic book detailed every plot twist in the movie, including the BIG surprise.

"Do you really want to know what it is?" Colobuono asked.

Hit me, I said.

"Luke and Leia are brother and sister!"

I felt like Roy Scheider during that racked-focus beach shot from "Jaws" when he sees the Great White chow down on a little boy.

I have the movie scoop of a lifetime! I mentally screamed.

I profusely thanked Colobuono and sat down to write the story that would make international headlines.

Then, I heard the voice:

Wait just one minute.

Did I want to be the guy with the scoop of a lifetime?

Yes! Absolutely, yes!

Did I want to be the guy who ruined the biggest movie surprise of the year?

Of the decade?

Of the century?

Sure. Maybe ...

... not.

... No, I would not be the guy who revealed Luke and Leia's sibling relationship to the world.

That job would fall to national syndicated columnist and film killjoy James Brady, who would ruin the single greatest movie surprise since finding out what "Rosebud" meant in "Citizen Kane."

Do I regret sitting on the scoop of my movie career?

Not at all.

Because when I meet St. Peter at the gate, I'm convinced he'll be a "Star Wars" fan. And I don't need that sort of hassle.

Liar, liar

During an interview to promote his science-fiction action-drama "Blade Runner," Harrison Ford told me how he received that scar on his chin. It happened during a fencing duel over a woman in Germany, he said.

"I don't like to talk about it," he mumbled. I printed the story as the lead to my interview, never imagining it to be a lie.

Later, I read how a car accident put that scar on Ford's chin. I had to take it on mine.

In their natural habitat

Jerry-rigged

On tour to promote his 1982 autobiography "Jerry Lewis in Person," the comedian gave me a lesson in the fine art of being zany.

"See?" he said. "You just loosely drape the napkin between your legs, put the butter patty right in the center, then yank the ends tight!"

Snap! went the napkin slingshot.

Splat! went the butter patty onto the ceiling of the Ritz Carlton hotel room.

Lewis later demonstrated how he used a permanent black marker to draw birds on the various paintings in his hotel rooms. It's no big deal, he told me, because the paintings are just reproductions.

He admitted to one teensy-weensy miscalculation.

While staying at the Waldorf-Astoria in New York. Lewis was merrily drawing birds on several paintings until he broke off a piece of oil paint. These were not reproductions. He paid more than $5,000 for the reconstruction work.

At the end of the interview, Lewis showed me his prized possession: a Smith & Wesson .38 caliber "lemon-squeezer," a hammerless revolver he carried for protection. Probably from irate hotel managers and art dealers, I imagined.

This past July, Lewis was arrested at the Las Vegas airport. He had a gun in his bag.

Such a dry fuss

Richard Dreyfuss didn't want to talk to me. He looked bored. The Oscar-winning actor of "The Goodbye Girl" and "Jaws" started to read a newspaper when I tried to interview him in Chicago for his 1981 movie "Whose Life Is It Anyway?"

I chatted with a studio publicist, making a crack about film critics on studio junkets. Dreyfuss suddenly came alive.

"I thought you were just another one of those brain-dead journalists," he said. Soon, he had turned the sofa in his posh room at the Ritz Carlton Hotel into a trampoline. Up and down he went. Up and down!

A helicopter flew by outside the window. The actor pounced on me and threw me to the floor.

"It's OK, men! It's one of ours!" he shrieked. I laughed so hard that I began to stammer. Dreyfuss leapt across the room, grabbed my head in his hands and shouted to the heavens, "Heal! I command you to heal!"

We were suddenly interrupted by a scraping noise coming from the door.

"That sounds like a dog scratching at the door!" Dreyfuss screeched.

In walked Gene Siskel.

Testin' Heston

The worst interview I ever conducted involved the late Charlton Heston. It occurred along the Grand Tetons mountain range outside of Jackson Hole, Wyo. I had flown there to file a report on the making of Heston's adventure film "Wind River," later retitled "The Mountain Men."

I learned something right away. If you take a photograph of Heston without his makeup, the PR pit bulls sink their teeth into you and shake you like a rag doll until you agree to never, ever do it again.

"Mr. Heston doesn't allow photos to be taken of him out of makeup," publicist Stuart Fink said. Sure, now he tells me.

Heston agreed to a one-on-one interview after finishing his shoot at 12:15 a.m. He invited me into his trailer. There I made the biggest blunder of my interviewing career. I said, "Mr. Heston, you've been asked every question by now. Is there anything that hasn't been asked that you would like to talk about?"

Moses' eyes narrowed into narrow slits.

"It is not your job to entertain me, Mr. Gire," the voice of God thundered. (I swear the trailer shook.) "I have put in a full day on the set. I'm tired and I have invited you here to conduct a professional interview. Now, if you have a question, I'll answer it. If not ..."

Heston let the sentence die, much like I wanted to right then. I frantically ripped through my mental Rolodex of emergency questions, hoping I could grab a good one before being parted in the middle by Mose.

I had just finished reading Heston's autobiography, "An Actor's Life." I asked how many copies it sold. He answered. I asked another question. He answered.

Whew! I wouldn't be turned into Soylent Green after all.

Later, I described my experience to Stuart Fink, who wasn't surprised that Heston had slapped me around.

"Chuck is not a freewheeler," Fink said.

Sure, now he tells me.

Schwarz warts

An up-and-coming bodybuilder/actor named Arnold Schwarzenegger had just blown into the Windy City with Sandal Bergman, the co-star of his new 1982 movie "Conan the Barbarian." Daily Herald photographer Rosemary Caul and I met them in a hotel room. Schwarzenegger introduced himself and instantly informed me he had to cut our 45-minute interview down to 10 minutes. That was just the beginning of the insults. Rosemary asked the actor to step toward the window for a portrait.

"No," Schwarzenegger said. He picked up a folder and, ignoring Rosemary, brought it to me. "I half some pictures that are bettah than anything a newspaper photographer can take." They showed Schwarzenegger wearing a tuxedo and a well-practiced smile. I suppressed a laugh.

We had to get a photo. In 1982, getting a staff photographer into the Loop took a lot of pulling strings, and I had promised we'd bring back a terrific portrait. With honor on the line, I argued with the star, but he wouldn't budge from his "no photos" stand. Finally, I gave up.

"You deal with him," I told the photographer. I turned my attention to Bergman and began firing questions at her. Schwarzenegger and Rosemary jousted in the background. By the time we finished our brief interview, Rosemary had finally convinced Conan to sit for one photo next to the window.

I packed up to leave. Schwarzenegger walked to the door and whispered something to the publicist.

"It's OK," Schwarzenegger said to me. "I've fixed it so you can have another 10 minutes."

Then he strutted to the center of the room and sat down in a chair. He took a puff on his brier pipe.

"I am ready for my interview," he announced, as if graciously granting a loyal subject an audience.

"No," I said, "the interview's over."

I castigated him for his arrogance. I railed against his insensitivity to Rosemary. I might have called him a jerk.

Through this controlled tirade, Schwarzenegger sat quietly, holding his pipe in his mouth, and looking bemused at this ranting critic. The actor smiled broadly and said, "I don't understand. I half traveled all over the vorld and met hundreds of journalists. But you're the first person I've met who didn't like me."

Right.

Critical mass:

Thumb of approval

A December 2002 snow storm tied up the Kennedy Expressway, making me late for the press showing of Martin Scorsese's "Gangs of New York." I called ahead anyway to report my predicament.

I arrived 19 minutes late. I sat down and glanced over at Roger Ebert sitting in his usual chair at the end of the row. He had a curious Cheshire cat smile as he flashed me his trademarked thumbs-up. I nodded in acknowledgment, but thought nothing about it.

The movie started. Then it hit me. Screenings never start this late. Only someone with clout could delay a screening for this long - maybe a studio executive. Or a certain critic.

So, Mr. Ebert, if you're reading this, consider this a belated thanks.

Medveddlesome

Conservative critic Michael Medved had scapegoated Hollywood movies as the cause of social problems long enough. The time had come for me to take him out.

So, I challenged Medved ­­- Rush Limbaugh's substitute host and the author of "Hollywood vs. America" - to a duel to the virtual death. I invited him to meet me at Chicago's Baja Club near Navy Pier to test out a prototype for a 3-D interactive video game that pitted two players against each other in a cyberspace battle. Our weapons would be virtual guns and cross bows. We put our heads inside elaborate, display-equipped helmets and strapped on the hardware. The games began.

Three deadly encounters later, we had the scores:

One to zero!

Two to zero!

Three to zero!

Game over!

Medved was toast!

The critic thanked me for inviting him to play.

He didn't offer a rematch.

Sex, lies and videotape:

Zador-able

Golden Globe-winning actress Pia Zadora arrived for our 1983 interview at the Westin Hotel's Chelsea Restaurant with a new Penthouse magazine, featuring herself on the cover and herself uncovered everywhere else inside the magazine.

"Isn't that a terrific shot?" she asked me, showing me the photos. "Look at this picture! That doesn't even look like me. Some of these shots make me look 9 years old!"

I squirmed. I have no problem with pictures of naked women, but when the subject of the photos is looking at them with you? Can you say awkward?

"I'm just a sexy type," she said. "I'm just a blonde, sexy type. I've always been sexy since I was 15, 16 years old. Back then, I tried harder than I do now."

Maybe not.

Tongue-tied

When Anthony Michael Hall, the actor from "National Lampoon's Vacation" and "Sixteen Candles," came to Chicago to promote his 1988 movie "Johnny Be Good," I had my deflector shields up.

I had listened to his rambling interview with Roy Leonard on WGN radio as I drove into the Loop. Hall had paid no attention to Roy on the air. He wore Walkman headphones during the interview and kept shouting, "Let me sing, Roy, let me sing!"

Later in his hotel room, the strange behavior continued when Hall demonstrated the neck exercises that gave him the body of a football player for his movie. Then, he gave away his $200 Walkman to a cleaning lady because he liked her name, Wai Ping.

Nothing prepared me for his avalanche of disconnected quotes.

"I want to be rich and famous," he shouted. "That may sound arrogant, but I'm not afraid to sound arrogant. That's a fact. I'm black, white, gay, straight, smart, stupid, fat, skinny, everything ... I'm really going to make it big because there's nothing stopping me! I have three talents: I play music. I'm a comedian and I'm myself. It's true!"

After more rambling, the actor broke into tears.

"I'm crying, I'm crying," he said. "I'll tell you the truth. I just want to give something to people. Look, I gotta wash my face. I'll see you later. Thanks, man." He leaned over, grabbed my hand, pulled me close and planted one on my cheek. Then he darted into a Park Hyatt bathroom.

The next day, Orion Pictures canceled Hall's scheduled press stop in Minneapolis. No explanation provided.

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