On my desk sits a framed copy of a check in the amount of $25 made out to “Noah Gittell”. The date: “March 18, 2003.” The payor: “The Rye Record”.
My then-girlfriend copied and framed this check to commemorate the first time I was ever paid to write. It was a gesture of encouragement, as I knew I wanted to be a writer but had no idea how to become one. I didn’t even know what kind of writer I wanted to be, but I loved film and I worshipped Roger Ebert, so when the chance came to write a piece of film criticism for the newspaper from the town where I went to high school, I jumped at it.
The article — which, if memory serves, was titled “Movies that Matter”— was co-written by my best friend Will. His mother Robin was the editor. I’ve never asked why she gave us this assignment, but if I had to guess it was because she needed content and thought there was no harm in giving two aimless young men something constructive to do. As it turned out, it was exactly what I needed.
After that initial piece, I continued writing film reviews for The Rye Record for several years. Robin gave me what every young writer needs: a space to grow. Every two weeks, I went and saw a movie and published a review. I had very little confidence in my abilities, but the fact that she continued publishing me meant I must have been doing something right. One time, she forwarded me an email from her co-publisher that included these words about a recent review of mine: “Damn, this kid can write.” It’s amazing how the brain holds on to a compliment.
After writing for The Record for a few years, I departed to go work in politics. The creative urge, however, never left me, and I soon came crawling back. Robin let me pick up right where I left off, and my life experience seemed to have improved my writing. The reviews got better. I found my style. I started submitting film articles elsewhere, and some of them even got published. First, it was The Atlantic and then The Guardian. Then Esquire, GQ, and The Ringer. Somewhere along the way I began producing and reporting TV segments for BBC World News’ “Talking Movies”. I even reported on the Gilmore Girls Fan Fest for Elle Magazine. My world opened up in ways I can’t even describe.
At some point, I became a sportswriter. I wrote a piece about the cinematic qualities of the New York Mets’ telecast for The New York Times, a perfect distillation of all the things I love. My editor at the Times liked it so much they let me go into the clubhouse to talk to a player for another story. Last month, I was in the booth interviewing the legendary broadcast team of Gary Cohen, Ron Darling, and Keith Hernandez. Through my writing, I’ve met my childhood heroes, and earlier this month, I submitted a manuscript of my first book. It’s on baseball cinema, and it will be published in the spring of next year.
I share these accomplishments not to boast, dear reader, but to praise the person who set me down this path. None of this would have happened without Robin Jovanovich. Every writer needs someone to give them their first byline, a home in which to grow, and the creative freedom to follow their instincts. In the 20 years I have written for the Record, Robin has never told me what to write. Sometimes she suggests a movie she’d like me to review. On occasion, she’ll let me know something she saw and enjoyed, but she has not once pressured me to cover any particular film or show. She put it succinctly in an email once, when I asked her which of two movies she’d like me to review. “The column is yours,” she replied.
Cinema is full of great mentors. Mickey from “Rocky.” Morpheus from “The Matrix.” John Keating, played by Robin Williams, in “Dead Poets Society.” Here’s what they have in common: They never just tell their proteges exactly what to do. Instead, they show their assigned youngster the door, allow them to walk through it, and gently guide them when they need a nudge. I had one such mentor at The Rye Record, and while her absence from this newspaper will be a great loss, I like to think that the lessons I learned from her quiet tutelage and the growth I experienced under her watch comprise a small but meaningful part of her legacy. I know full well that they will comprise part of mine.
