The Humility and Versatility of Rob Reiner
Though scarcely given proper recognition, Reiner was quietly one of the most defining and multifaceted directors of a generation
There are many directors that can never be separated from their film catalogues. Whether it’s because they infuse so much of themselves into their movies that their stamps on them are impossible to ignore, because of the tonal and visual consistencies between their projects, or simply because of the directors’ camera-facing personas, many films are unable to be disassociated from the minds behind them.
From Alfred Hitchcock, Christopher Nolan, and Steven Spielberg to Stanley Kubrick, Wes Anderson, Woody Allan, and Jordan Peele, when people file into theaters to see their movies, or sit on sofas with their families and significant others, the names of the visionaries behind them may as well be flashing in neon letters above the screens.
Then, on the other side of that coin, are those directors who, whether through the fates, through the transcendence of their work, or through sheer humility, never seem to get the credit they deserve. The Shawshank Redemption is widely considered one of the greatest movies of all time, but most often, it’s Stephen King who’s given the credit for authoring the novella behind it rather than Frank Darabont for turning the story into something more than it was on the page. He also directed both The Mist and The Green Mile, yet still rarely seems to enter into discussions about the most defining cinematic visionaries of the 90s’ and 2000s.
Robert Zemeckis is responsible for the Back to the Future Trilogy, Forrest Gump, and Cast Away, but each of those stories are often spoken about as though they’re independent entities. I’m not sure if there’s any director, though, who’s been left out of the limelight as routinely as Rob Reiner. As with Darabont and Zemeckis, it’s a testament to the quality of his work that the conversation about Reiner’s greatest movies tends to be so insular and focused on the films themselves.
When the “Have you seen Stand By Me?” question surfaces, a customary “Of course!” is often where that talk dead ends or gives way to childhood reminiscences. Stand by Me stands on its own.
But for the director who delivered to the world The Princess Bride, When Harry Met Sally, and Misery all within the span of five years, Stand By Me was hardly a one-off among his filmography.
Perhaps some of the reason that Reiner hasn’t been as prominently recognized for his movies is that his signature has been so hard to detect. There’s no real uniting theme, vision, or throughline between his body of work in the same way as some of the more commonly referenced directorial giants. Reiner’s versatility ensures that no one can walk into a theater and know from his style alone that they’ve started one of his movies. The only real features that his biggest films share in common is that they’re each broadly considered greats of their respective and wildly varied genres.
Without prior knowledge or carefully watching the credits, it would be hard to guess that the director of When Harry Met Sally was the same one who did The Princess Bride, or that the same man behind that dizzyingly brilliant platypus of a movie was the one who mined such emotional honesty and depth from the child actors who would define Stand By Me. It would take a fine-tooth-comb to find any shared traits between that coming-of-age adventure and the unnervingly claustrophobic, Misery. And figuring out how to creatively square those three films with Spinal Tap and its sequel may be a more circuitous task still.
I think likely the biggest reason that Reiner has rarely been put on a pedestal or lionized for his contributions was that he never really cared to be. He was too humble to outwardly seek accolades or acclaim. He was content letting his work speak entirely for itself, disappearing behind it rather than demanding on being seen through it.
In an industry that reliably rewards the directors who follow formula and establish carefully codified themes and aesthetics in their productions, Reiner’s greatest trick may have been his ability to couple diversity with restraint. He trusted stories, performances, and tone more than personal mythology. He adapted himself to the material instead of bending the material around himself. And in doing so, he quietly delivered some of the most enduring, emotionally resonant films of his era.
If Rob Reiner is difficult to pin down as a creator, it’s certainly not due to any lack of identity. While there’s not much thematic consistency between his separate works, the movies he’ll be remembered for each brim with so much soul and personality on their own that his signature is practically secondary.
There are some pieces of art whose value lies in what it makes people feel. You can describe what’s taking place in a Van Gogh portrait, but can never truly impart its oozing vividity with words alone. It’s reduced when defined. It becomes smaller, more concrete, and less ethereal when intellectualized.
One of my least favorite aspects of film reviews is just how impersonal they often are. Works of art are picked apart and put into categories. Greater wholes are reduced down into statements about which actors delivered what kind of performances, which topics and motifs are explored, and how effective the visual and sound direction are. On one hand, it’s a shame just how many of the names on a given credits list are scanned over or skipped completely. But on the other, as reviewers, it can feel like a mistake to miss the forest for the trees. To harp on the minutiae rather than the completed picture. To put to a rubric something that, at its best, defies quantification.
Not every movie is so grand that it resists analysis, but when browsing a gallery, some works of art are so mysterious, so evocative, and so beyond words that the very last thing I’ll want is some professional to explain them to me. Rob Reiner’s films are valued more for the feelings they elicit and the vicarious adventures they offer than any deeper interpretation people have found for them. There’s a humanity in that surface-level directness, a warmth and accessibility that doesn’t need to be excavated to be meaningful.
It’s refreshing to find a director whose greatest legacy is how completely his movies speak without him standing beside them. They’re remembered more for what they are than the earthbound mechanics of how they came to be.
In some ways, it’s a travesty that Reiner hasn’t been better recognized for all of the movies he brought into the world. But I can’t help but feeling that, for Reiner, telling those stories to the world was always enough of a reward.
ThankYou for this.