The Variety headline read: “Richard Corliss, Venerable Time Film Critic, Dies at 71.” Why was this jarring? Not the news itself: that had already been broken by Corliss’s own magazine, which published a proud and affectionate eulogy for an invaluable colleague and assembled some highlights from his three-and-a-half decades’ work at 50 Rock. The fact that his age was 71? A year or so ago, his longtime friend David Thomson had teased him in print about closing in on 70, so one could do the math for oneself. No, the problem was the adjective: “venerable.” Yes, it means honored, esteemed, admired—all apt, and earned many times over. But part of the word’s etymological backstory has to do with being old, perhaps stodgy. That was never Corliss, never imaginably could be. Read him at age 21, read him at 71, read him anywhere in between, and you’re in the company of a sensibility insatiably curious, nimble as a springbok, focused as a base runner, fresh as a croissant on a sunny Cannes morning.