Rex Reed didn’t care if you liked him. In fact, he probably preferred it if you didn't. The legendary film critic and journalist, a man whose prose felt like a velvet glove hiding a jagged piece of glass, has died at the age of 87. He wasn't just a reviewer; he was a relic of an era where movie critics were as famous—and often as feared—as the stars they covered. For decades, Reed’s name was synonymous with a specific brand of acerbic, unapologetic, and deeply personal cultural commentary that simply doesn't exist in the sanitized, PR-friendly world of modern media.
If you grew up reading his columns in the New York Observer or watching his frequent, often combative appearances on talk shows, you knew exactly what to expect. He was the guy who would call a beloved Oscar winner "incompetent" or describe a blockbuster as "trash" while everyone else was busy falling over themselves to be polite. He saw the transition of Hollywood from a glamorous dream factory into a corporate machine and he hated almost every minute of it. Recently making news recently: Why Sigourney Weaver Cannot Save the Star Wars Cinematic Slump.
Why Rex Reed was the critic we didn't deserve
Reed wasn't interested in being part of the "access journalism" crowd. He didn't want to be friends with the directors. He wanted to tell you why the lighting was bad, why the script was a mess, and why the lead actress should have stayed in dinner theater. He was a master of the profile, a genre he basically helped reinvent in the 1960s. His piece on Ava Gardner, written for Esquire, remains a masterclass in celebrity portraiture. He didn't just ask questions; he observed the drinking, the smoking, the fading beauty, and the loneliness. He caught the truth that publicists spent millions trying to hide.
Today’s film criticism is often a race to the bottom of the Rotten Tomatoes barrel. It's safe. It's calculated. Rex Reed was the opposite. He was a flamethrower. Whether he was praising a small independent film or tearing down a $200 million franchise, he did it with a vocabulary that made most other writers look like they were still using crayons. He understood the "Golden Age" of cinema because he lived through its tail end, and he held every modern film to that impossible standard. More information into this topic are detailed by Rolling Stone.
The man behind the most controversial reviews in history
You can’t talk about Reed without talking about the scandals. He famously reviewed the 2013 film Identity Thief and focused almost entirely on Melissa McCarthy’s weight, calling her "tractor-sized" and a "gimmick comedian." The backlash was swift and massive. It was a moment that showed the disconnect between Reed’s old-school, often cruel wit and a changing society. Was he out of touch? Probably. Did he care? Not a bit.
He lived by a code of brutal honesty that felt increasingly alien. He once admitted he walked out of The Cabin in the Woods after 20 minutes because he was bored. Most critics would hide that to protect their "intellectual" reputation. Reed wore it like a badge of honor. He believed his job was to protect the audience from wasting their time and money. If he wasn't having fun, he told you. If he thought a movie was an insult to the intelligence of the American public, he used every adjective in his arsenal to bury it.
A style that defied the digital shift
Reed belonged to the New Journalism movement, alongside giants like Gay Talese and Tom Wolfe. He brought a literary sensibility to the tabloid world. His sentences had a rhythm. They had a bite. He’d spend three paragraphs describing the smell of a hotel room before even mentioning the star he was there to interview. This wasn't "content." It was writing.
The tragedy of losing Reed isn't just about losing a critic. It’s about losing a perspective that refused to be managed. He was the last of the Mohicans in a world of influencers and fan-boys. He understood that movies are supposed to be art, and art is supposed to provoke a reaction. If a movie didn't make him feel something—even if that something was pure, unadulterated rage—then it had failed.
The Rex Reed influence on modern media
Look at the way we consume opinions now. It's all snippets and soundbites. Reed wrote long-form pieces that required an attention span. He challenged readers. Even if you hated his take—and plenty of people did—you couldn't stop reading. He had a way of framing an argument that forced you to re-examine your own tastes. He was the guy you loved to hate-read before "hate-reading" was even a term.
He had a background in acting, appearing in films like Myra Breckinridge. This gave him a unique vantage point. He knew what it looked like from the other side of the lens. He understood the vanity of the industry because he had participated in it. That insider knowledge fueled his skepticism. He knew the tricks of the trade and he refused to be fooled by them.
What critics can learn from his legacy
If you're a writer today, Reed’s career offers a stark lesson: have a voice. Don't worry about being "objective." Objectivity is a myth in art. Be subjective. Be loud. Be wrong if you have to be, but never be boring. Reed was never boring. He was a reminder that criticism is an art form in itself.
His death marks the end of a specific Manhattan lifestyle, too. He was a fixture at Elaine’s and the posh screening rooms where the old guard gathered. He represented a New York that felt like a movie set, populated by characters who were larger than life. Without him, the balcony feels a little emptier and the reviews feel a lot blander.
How to honor the Reed approach to cinema
Don't just watch movies—critique them. Stop accepting mediocrity because a franchise told you to like it. Reed’s greatest gift to his readers was the permission to be picky. He taught us that our time is valuable and that we shouldn't settle for subpar storytelling.
If you want to understand why he mattered, go back and read his 1960s profiles. Look for the collection Big Screen, Little Screen. You’ll find a writer who was deeply in love with the magic of movies but deeply cynical about the people who made them. That tension created some of the best cultural reporting of the 20th century.
Go watch a classic film tonight. Watch something from the era Rex Reed loved—something with style, wit, and a soul. And if you don't like it, say so. Be loud about it. Use a few words that might make someone uncomfortable. That’s exactly what Rex would have wanted.
