In the annals of Hollywood feuds, few have been as public, persistent, and—ultimately—heartwarming as the legendary dust-up between film critic Roger Ebert and comedian Rob Schneider. What began as a war of words over the merits (or, as Ebert saw it, the lack thereof) of Schneider’s films would, over the course of several years, morph from pointed barbs and scathing reviews into an unlikely reconciliation. Now, two decades on, the saga stands as a testament to the power of criticism, the resilience of celebrity egos, and the surprising humanity that can emerge from even the fiercest professional rivalries.
The roots of the Ebert-Schneider feud trace back to 1999, when Schneider, a Saturday Night Live alum best known for his broad, juvenile humor, landed his first major leading role in Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo. The film, an unapologetically raunchy sex comedy, was met with skepticism by critics. Yet Ebert, never one to mince words, took a surprisingly measured approach. Awarding the film 1.5 out of 4 stars, he admitted, “I laughed, yes, I did, several times during 'Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo.' That’s proof, if any is required, that I still possess streaks of immaturity and vulgarity. May I never lose them.” According to Filmogaz, this backhanded compliment set the tone for a relationship defined by both candor and, occasionally, humor.
The truce, however, was short-lived. In 2002, Schneider starred in The Hot Chick, a body-swapping comedy that Ebert found almost unwatchable. “The movie resolutely avoids all the comic possibilities of its situation, and becomes one more dumb high school comedy about sex gags and prom dates,” Ebert wrote in his damning 0.5-star review, as cited by SF Gate. “Through superhuman effort of the will, I did not walk out of 'The Hot Chick,' but reader, I confess I could not sit through the credits.” This review, which many consider the true beginning of the feud, stung Schneider, though he remained silent—at least for the moment.
Everything changed in 2005 with the arrival of Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo, a sequel that seemed to exist solely to test the patience of critics. The film was savaged almost universally, earning a paltry 9% on Rotten Tomatoes and a 23 Metascore. Among its harshest detractors was Los Angeles Times critic Patrick Goldstein, who not only panned the movie but used it as an example of Hollywood’s declining standards. Schneider, feeling besieged, lashed out at Goldstein, calling him a “third-rate, unfunny, pompous reporter” and dismissing his critique on the grounds that Goldstein had never won a Pulitzer Prize.
Enter Roger Ebert, who, upon hearing of Schneider’s attack, came to Goldstein’s defense with a now-legendary response. In his zero-star review of Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo, Ebert wrote, “But Schneider is correct, and Patrick Goldstein has not yet won a Pulitzer Prize. Therefore, Goldstein is not qualified to complain that Columbia financed 'Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo' while passing on the opportunity to participate in 'Million Dollar Baby,' 'Ray,' 'The Aviator,' 'Sideways,' and 'Finding Neverland.' As chance would have it, I have won the Pulitzer Prize, and so I am qualified. Speaking in my official capacity as a Pulitzer Prize winner, Mr. Schneider, your movie sucks.” As El-Balad and Filmogaz both recount, this moment became an instant classic in the annals of film criticism—an unflinching, almost gleeful takedown that reverberated far beyond the usual circles of movie buffs.
Ebert didn’t stop there. He went on to compare Goldstein’s lifetime achievements with Schneider’s, noting with biting wit, “Schneider was nominated for a 2000 Razzie Award for Worst Supporting Actor, but lost to Jar-Jar Binks.” The feud, now fully in the public eye, became a talking point not just for film fans but for anyone interested in the sometimes fraught relationship between critics and creators. According to Filmogaz, this clash highlighted a deeper ideological divide: Ebert, a champion of substantive storytelling, saw Schneider’s brand of comedy as emblematic of Hollywood’s slide into superficial, lowest-common-denominator entertainment. Schneider, meanwhile, represented the defiant artist unwilling to bow to the gatekeepers of taste.
For two years, the back-and-forth continued, with Ebert’s reviews growing ever more pointed and Schneider occasionally firing back. Yet, in a plot twist worthy of a Hollywood screenplay, the feud took a dramatic turn in 2007. That year, Ebert’s battle with cancer worsened; he lost his ability to speak after his jaw was removed. In a gesture that caught many by surprise, Schneider sent flowers and a get-well note to Ebert, signing off as “your least favorite movie star.” The act of kindness did not go unnoticed.
Moved by the gesture, Ebert revisited his earlier review of Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo and added an addendum: “[The flowers sent] were a reminder, if I needed one, that although Rob Schneider might (in my opinion) have made a bad movie, he is not a bad man, and no doubt tried to make a wonderful movie, and hopes to again. I hope so, too.” As SF Gate and El-Balad note, this olive branch brought the feud to a peaceful close, turning years of public acrimony into a story of empathy and mutual respect.
The saga didn’t end there. In 2007, Ebert published a collection of his harshest reviews under the title Your Movie Sucks—an overt nod to his infamous critique of Schneider’s film. Yet, the tone had softened. Ebert’s willingness to publicly acknowledge Schneider’s good intentions, and Schneider’s gesture of goodwill, served as a reminder that even in the cutthroat world of Hollywood, personal growth and reconciliation are possible.
Roger Ebert passed away in 2013, but his legacy as a critic—and as a participant in one of film’s most memorable feuds—remains undimmed. In today’s landscape, where streaming threatens to drown out quality with quantity and where criticism is often drowned out by social media noise, the Ebert-Schneider saga feels more relevant than ever. It’s a story about the importance of holding artists to high standards, the necessity of honest (sometimes brutal) feedback, and the unexpected ways in which kindness can bridge even the widest divides.
Looking back, the Ebert-Schneider feud stands not just as a cautionary tale for creators and critics alike, but as a celebration of the messy, complicated, and ultimately human business of making—and judging—art.