When critics dismiss a film before seeing it, they risk missing the very essence of what makes cinema compelling. Take Mary Reilly (1996), a horror film starring Julia Roberts that was panned by most reviewers but hailed by Roger Ebert for its haunting atmosphere and fidelity to the Jekyll and Hyde tale. This paradox—where a film’s reception is shaped more by preconceptions than its actual merits—offers a sharp critique of how we judge art. Ebert’s defense of Mary Reilly isn’t just a defense of a movie; it’s a call to reconsider how we approach films that defy easy categorization. Personally, I think this story reveals a deeper truth about the role of critics: they’re not just observers, but active participants in defining what’s ‘worthy’ of attention. When a film is dismissed before it’s even seen, it’s not just the film that suffers—it’s the audience’s ability to engage with something that might challenge their expectations.
Ebert’s review of Mary Reilly was a rare act of empathy. While most critics focused on Julia Roberts’ accent or the film’s ‘unfilmable’ premise, he zeroed in on the emotional core: a powerless woman caught between two sides of a man’s nature. This is what makes the film so unnerving—not the special effects, but the quiet dread of a world where morality is fluid. What many people don’t realize is that Ebert’s praise wasn’t just about the film’s technical execution, but its ability to evoke a sense of unease that lingers long after the credits roll. His words remind us that horror isn’t about shocks, but about the discomfort of confronting our own uncertainties.
The film’s delayed release and shaky production history only added to its misfortune. A project that had been greenlit with A-list talent—Tim Burton, Daniel Day-Lewis, Uma Thurman—ended up in the hands of Stephen Frears and Julia Roberts, who brought a vulnerability that resonated with Ebert. But the critics, swayed by pre-release buzz and the film’s ‘flop’ status, missed the subtlety of a story that was, in many ways, more faithful to the original novel than its predecessors. This raises a deeper question: How often do we judge a film based on its reputation rather than its ability to surprise us? Ebert’s approach was a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful films are the ones that don’t fit into the boxes we’ve built for them.
What this really suggests is that film criticism is as much about perspective as it is about analysis. Ebert’s review wasn’t just a defense of Mary Reilly—it was a challenge to the critic’s role. In an age where reviews are often shaped by algorithms and public sentiment, his willingness to engage with the film on its own terms is a model for how we might approach art more thoughtfully. If you take a step back and think about it, the film’s enduring value lies in its ability to make us uncomfortable, not in its grandeur. It’s a reminder that the best art often thrives in the spaces between expectation and reality. And perhaps that’s the lesson Ebert left us with: don’t let the noise of criticism drown out the quiet, unsettling beauty of a film that doesn’t want to be understood.
