CWRU 50th Annual Science Fiction Marathon

Pizzazz was a short-lived pop culture magazine produced by Marvel Comics from October 1977 to January 1979. Any given issue might include articles about Mattel’s Slime, Spider-Man, Shaun Cassidy, or the film Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. It was also notable for including short comics of the first new Star Wars stories to follow the original film.

I had my tenth birthday during the all-too-brief print run of Pizzazz and I was absolutely the demographic. The June 1978 issue (“First National Edition!”) featured the article “Do-It-Yourself Guide to Day-And-Night Marathon Summer Vacation TV Watching.” A tongue in cheek piece (but I didn’t know that) it was intended for that kid who saw the summer as one long, boring stretch of nothing to do.

The story included tips on what to wear (ratty bathrobe), what to eat (and where to store it within arms reach), how to orient yourself in front of the TV, even what to use to change the channels without getting up (a grocery store stick) in the era before remote controls. Fans of Ferris Bueller might be interested to know it provides instruction on how to trick your parents into believing you are ill which includes making a tape recording of yourself coughing.

It Came From Outer Space

They even suggested using an egg timer to take naps during late-night commercials before the stations went off the air (they used to do that) and you could catch a couple hours sleep before sign-on.

After completing a week's worth of non-stop television viewing, the article concluded, “You’ve done it! You’re 10 times more bored than you were when you started. You swear you’ll never watch another minute of TV for the rest of your life. But just think how good the rest of the summer looks now!” Which is pretty much how I felt by the conclusion of the CWRU Film Society 50th Annual Science Fiction Marathon last weekend.

Since 1976, at this time of year, Strosacker Auditorium on the Case campus would be packed with nerds to watch non-stop flicks from Friday evening to some time after midnight on Sunday morning. I’ve been several times, usually to catch a few movies in a row depending on what was being offered. This year the rundown was so epic, I decided for the first time to do the entire thing.

Mars Attacks!

While I did not pack a ratty bathrobe, I did bring a change of pajama pants, slip-on shoes (not slippers) a pillow, and also a blanket that I never chose to use. I have been watching what I eat recently, due to an elevation in my bad cholesterol. For the marathon I brought no food of my own, only cash with a resolve only to consume what was made available. Before the show even began, that included a slice of Dewey’s pizza, a bag of popcorn and a Pepsi. It was luxurious.

We watched Ready Player One (2018) and It Came From Outer Space (1953) and for a midnight snack enjoyed a vanilla muffin with chocolate chunks. Every year there are two or three “surprise” attractions, and at 1:15 AM that was Mars Attacks (1996). I changed into my soft pants, settled in and promptly fell asleep.

One Million B.C.

I was a bit self-conscious about wearing pajama bottoms, I know the kids do but I’m not a kid. But then I saw grown men walking into the bathroom in their socks, so I stopped worrying about it.

In 1998, to promote the Dobams’s Night Kitchen long-form, sci-fi improv One Step Beyond, members of the company appeared at Strosacker during the marathon to play trivia and give away tickets. Thing is, we appeared twice: late Friday night, and again on Saturday morning. The thing we didn’t think of is that there’s really only one audience for the marathon. The second time I took the stage I was heckled; “Hey! I know why I’m in the same clothes I was wearing last night, why are you?”

I also slept through most of Disney’s The Black Hole (1979) and no one could blame me. By that time I had figured out how to curl into my lecture hall seat in the right way so that I could be comfortable. It was cute.

This Island Earth

One Million B.C. (the 1940 one, not the other one) started a little before five a.m. and that kept my attention, if only because of all of the animals that were harmed or mutilated for its creation.

The first time I brought my son to the marathon was in 2017, when we saw Arrival (2016) and Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy (2005). The boy was eleven, he said Arrival was the best movie of that year. He’s never said anything about Hitchhiker’s Guide.

Thankfully, I had brought a toothbrush to the marathon, freshened up and got a cup of coffee. And they had apples! We saw This Island Earth (1955) and breakfast was a whole everything bagel from the Cleveland Bagel Co. with cream cheese and they also had Malley’s stuff here so I had two milk chocolate covered pretzels. It was heaven.

Wall-E

January 2020, four of us came to the marathon specifically to see Twelve Monkeys (1995) and before that, the short French film it was based on, La Jetée (1962). By then, we already knew about COVID-19, it just wasn’t here yet. It was a disturbing evening.

Next up was Terminator 2: Judgement Day, which I hadn’t seen in over thirty years. Forgot how young Ed Furlong is in T2. After, we enjoyed a program of the opening credits to a dozen or so Saturday morning cartoons from the 60s through the aughts.

One year — I think it was 1999 – they showed Until the End of the World (1991) and that was a doozy. A somewhat futuristic noir from Wim Wenders, the obtuse, three-hour plotline was complicated by the fact that the film canisters had gotten out of order, the audience was in revolt. Lone voices in the dark would occasionally cry, “WHERE’S THE SCIENCE FICTION???” and “AUUGGHH!!!”

The Lost World

The Wall-E (2008) screening at 11:30 AM included a trailer for Hello, Dolly! (1969) and shawarma from Aladdin’s. Then we watched The Day the Earth Stood Still (1955) which is possibly the greatest science fiction film of all time. I know this because I have seen it several times, usually at the marathon because they play it so often.

During a tense but quiet moment near the end I loudly observed, “... he came back to life – and his name is CARPENTER!” My riff was met by a cascade of groans and catcalls.

Did you know ..? The Lost World (adapted into a silent film in 1925) is the only short story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle not to feature Sherlock Holmes? The midafternoon screening included a live accompaniment by Jeff Rapsis.

Godzilla

For dinner they brought in burgers, and I was surprised to see a large crowd of new audience members file in and fill empty seats for the 6:00 PM screening of 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Rumor has it it was assigned for someone’s class, but who wouldn’t take the opportunity to see Kubrick’s epic? I hadn’t even seen it until last year when it was streaming, and I was excited to see it on a big screen.

There was a bit of acrimony as some joining us had little patience for the riffing coming from those who had been there for almost twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, one of the men’s toilets was down. By intermission the burgers were gone.

Our first CWRU Science Fiction Marathon was probably 1996. I can’t recall going before that time. The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension (1984) which was on this year’s bill played that year, too. The riffing when Ellen Barkin appeared got seriously rapey and my partner loudly told them to knock that stuff off, and they did.

2001: A Space Odyssey

Trailers and shorts before the feature are always references – or clues – to the feature about to play. For Secret Film #2 they included trailers for Gorillas in the Mist (1988) and The Whales of August (1987) and the Looney Tunes short Rabbit Fire (1951). The movie? The original Godzilla! (1954) I was asleep by the time he crushed Tokyo. With two flicks left I put my pants back on.

By midnight, I was ready to cash it in and head home, but then I decided what’s the point of having done this if I wasn’t going to see it through? We finish marathons. Besides, I still had that pillow. I dozed through a lot of Deadpool & Wolverine and by 3:30 AM we all staggered out into the frigid morning.

“You’ve done it! You’re 10 times more bored than you were when you started. You swear you’ll never watch another movie for the rest of your life. But just think how good the rest of the winter looks now!”

Monday night my wife and I went to the Cedar Lee.

Visit the blog of silent film composer and accompanist Jeff Rapsis for his own take on this year's marathon.

Here (graphic novel)

"Here" by Richard McGuire
Pantheon Books, 2014

While at school, I was introduced to alternative comics and the then-emerging concept of the “graphic novel.” I’d been into superhero comic books since I was ten, I was even a hanger-on in a specific comic book store (dramatized in The Negative Zone) but in the late 1980s I was beginning to be exposed to works by artists like Harvey Pekar and also Art Spiegelman.

Before the publication of Spiegelman’s award-winning novel Maus, this telling of his father’s experiences during the Holocaust were serialized in Raw, a more-or-less-annual anthology of works from comics artists around the globe, a magazine that was edited by Spiegelman and Françoise Mouly.

Raw vol. 2 issue 1 (1989) included Here, a six-page story by Richard McGuire. Using simple black and white line drawings, McGuire depicts one American living room from one vantage point, the reader witnessing relatively banal events from the present, the past (both recent and distant) and even into the future.

"Here" by Richard McGuire
RAW vol. 2 issue 1, 1989

Perhaps you have played such a game of imagination – what used to be here? Right here? Before there was a house, or Europeans or even people? When this space was occupied by ice, or members of the Iroquois, or those bougie folks I bought this house from over thirty years ago?

McGuire eventually – twenty-five years later, in fact – expanded upon this work into a full-length graphic novel. Also called Here (2014) the images are now in color and the moments more expansive, but only just. There are no grand narratives to follow, no clearly defined characters, no real story, except for the place itself. What it was, what it is, what it will be.

Last year, TriStar Pictures released a film adaptation of Here, directed by Robert Zemeckis, with Tom Hanks and Robin Wright, his stars from Forrest Gump. A box office and critical failure, audiences were in part put off by the grand narrative that had been created for it; namely, that aging white Baby Boomers feel disappointed and that if we live long enough, we get old and die. These are not the themes of McGuire’s short story, nor his book.

"Here" directed by
Robert Zemeckis (2024)

Part of McGuire’s conceit (which Zemeckis, always the technically crafty storyteller, faithfully emulates on screen) is the use of panels that either divide the viewed space – again, always the same corner of the same living room, viewed from the same angle – or more often frames that are like windows peering from the established time (labeled in the upper left corner as 1953 say, or 1989, 2014, 2111) and into other eras.

The original short story (1989) included a small panel of a cat in 1999 (the future) walking placidly through the room. This same cat makes an appearance in the novel (2014) and she is still in 1999 (the past). She was always going to cross that room, she always has crossed that room. That’s time.

One performance which has more successfully drafted a grand narrative onto a single, static space is the Olivier Award-winning musical Standing a the Sky’s Edge in which three generations of Sheffielders occupy the same flat in the same housing estate at three different points in history. In one scene, all three timeframes play out simultaneously, dialogue overlapping, the characters from the different years unaware of each other (though the audience certainly is) as they share the space, even unwittingly sharing a single bottle of Henderson’s Relish.

Recently my aunt found a cache of home movies in her basement, from the 1950s and early 1960s, and my cousins had them transferred to video files. These films capture those moments one might expect; vacations, Christmas mornings, they even include my mother’s college commencement. And birthdays. So many birthdays. I could (and who knows, I still may) make a supercut of my Aunt Dede coming through the door to the dining room, bearing a large frosted cake festooned with burning little candles, to be placed before a delighted child.

 

Through the door, with a cake, placed before a child. Through the door, with a cake, placed before a child. In 1955, 1956, 1957, 1958, 1959, 1960, 1961 ... The only thing that changes are the hairstyles.

Several of my plays have taken place over the course of many generations, On the Dark Side of Twilight or The Great Globe Itself. Recently, I have been creating a new piece inspired by recent revelations in my family tree, and I have been inspired to create something which also attempts to present windows through time to tell the story. More on that, hopefully, soon.

UPDATE: BorderLight Theater Festival presents The Right Room, a new play by David Hansen and directed by Jasmine Renee, July 16 - 19, 2025. Help support our production by dropping a donation on our GoFundMe campaign! 

I've Got the Shakes (play)

Jan Leslie Harding, Michael Osano, Mary McBride
"I've Got the Shakes" (1995)
Ontological-Hysteric Theater
Photo: Paula Court

Thirty years ago, I was twenty-six years old and all my ends were loose. My first adventure in self-production was buried in earth, my (first) wife was gone along with half the furniture, and I had a hernia.

That also meant I had a unique amount of freedom, and I also had a hot girlfriend living in Washington Heights. It was winter 1995. I took time off from waiting tables at a pizza restaurant in Lyndhurst, packed a bag, my Macintosh PowerBook, and boarded the Amtrak for a week-long stay in the big city.

There is a special kind of bitter frigidity that is standing on a subway platform during an NYC cold snap. On the street, cold can be an assault, a sudden movement of frozen air can seem so personally insulting, and dangerous. Waiting for a train the air does not move, so just stand and feel yourself in the midst of this unforgiving atmosphere as it affects your exposed extremities, and makes its way in. For me, this was a new New York experience, and entirely alien. But I took comfort in the fact that I was not alone.

We both had colds that week, and took it fairly easy due to my condition (I had an operation scheduled for March, she would join me in Cleveland to take care of me – and move here shortly thereafter) but we saw art and took meals and watched movies and listened to records and attended theater.

For over a quarter century (at that time) a hallmark of the New York new year was a new work written, directed and designed by Richard Foreman and produced by his Ontological-Hysteric Theater Company, located in St. Mark’s Church on the LES. Opening in January 1995, I’ve Got the Shakes was a great revelation to me in a year packed with revelations.

(click to enlarge)

I was seeking out the “next thing” I would attempt, seeking out unusual offerings wherever I happened to be, including Cleveland, too, yeah, and later Chicago, and Minneapolis. This turned out to be the only experience with Foreman (total coincidence and absolute humble-brag, my then-girlfriend/now-wife’s cousin was a Foreman player during the aughts, appearing in Zomboid! and Deep Trance Behavior in Potatoland, among others) and it left me fascinated but flummoxed, amused and uncomfortable.

Shakes centers on the character of Madeline X, a teacher who does not know how or what to teach, the set a deconstructed schoolroom with characters coming and going, without clear intention, as in a dream, a very lucid dream, though never a nightmare.

In spite of the rather small audience space, the (four) actors ere mic'd, so though each spoke in a whisper they were entirely audible. Madeline X herself spoke in a very constrained, high voice. The effect was to make the room, already crowded with detritus, even more claustrophobic. It was so quiet, I was afraid to move, or make a sound.

The dialogue was absurd, amusing in its subversion of expectation, and witty, but I don’t remember laughing. What did it mean? I wasn’t sure, but I was delighted to be confused by unconventional storytelling.

It also served to subvert sensorial sensation. I found myself leaning in, striving for understanding, to follow a thread, to get it, man, when there would come a loud CLANG and all the characters would spin off in different directions.

My wife remembers the audience rake to have been very severe. “I felt like the audience ay way above the stage,” she said, “looking down. It made me feel like I was watching dolls. Not puppets – dolls.”

We see a popsicle, it is white, you would expect it to be lemon, but then we are told it tastes like fish, and so it does.

This was my new curriculum, my course list was experiencing forms of theater that had not been covered in school. I was no longer satisfied with “going to the theater.” Now I had to learn something I hadn’t known before, Perhaps this is what it means to begin your late 20s.

A warning, included in our programs.
It could have been written today (but for the 900 number).

Source: Artforum

Assessment

Photo: Gabrielle DiDonato

Calendar year 2024 I made sixty-five submissions. There were nineteen live performances of my work in a variety of venues.

Fifteen years ago, I received a fellowship and branded myself a playwright. I had written plays, but I had not yet told myself, given myself permission, to announce to the world that this is what, this is who I am.

Like changing my name at age eighteen, not everyone I knew immediately accepted this change. They would recommend to me plays to perform in, because they knew me as an actor, or plays to direct, because they knew me as a director. They were not interested in my plays.

Even so, I was committed to becoming a successful, professional playwright. All I had to do was to get produced. That is what I believed, I just needed to get produced. What I really needed to do was to write plays.

I made a list, way back then, of plays I wanted to write. Stories I wanted to tell. Scripts that I wanted to bring into existence, where they had not existed before. It was not a short list. I wish I still had that list, but I believe it included subjects like George Michael, Three Globes, Eliot Ness, Grandfather’s Letters. I have written all of these plays.

I had a list of hopes, dreams of plays I might some day write, and I have written those. Since 2010, I have created a catalog of work, no fewer than twenty full-length scripts (and so many more shorter plays) several of which have been produced, even published.

It’s not a career, I cannot survive on the income I receive from the work. But there are those things that are under your control, and there are those things that are not. I have younger colleagues who are unimpressed when I lament about what I describe as my few successes. Because they have always known me as a playwright, that is how they see me and how they think of me.

For that fact alone, I should count myself a success, because that is something I set out to do, to redefine myself and how I am seen in the world, and I have accomplished that.

Pengo's 2024 Summer Book Club

Griffin, Mark, Carrie & Howard

Over the summer I did more reading than I had in a long time, or even since, which is a pity because there is much more time in which to do it in.

A two week vacation afforded me the opportunity to read two books with a third bringing me home; no small coincidence they all had to do with the performing arts.

The Playbook: A Story of Theater, Democracy, and the Making of a Culture War by James Shapiro is a rather company history of the Federal Theatre Project, and how that three year government works project led, in its way, to the establishment of the House Committee on Un-American Activities which stretched from that time in the mid-1930s into the 1970s.

He’s not just documenting history, however, his main agenda is to illustrate how the lust for power and influence, rather than any particular belief or sense of duty, drives certain individuals to frighten the public with manufactured bogeymen, and to destroy those who are earnestly working in the best interests of the society as a whole in pursuit of their own hollow desires. This is as true today as it was in 1938.

While I was in Maine, I was not participating in the BorderLight Theatre Festival in Cleveland.* This is a pity, as in 2023 I was able to indulge in the festival and was thrilled by all the local artists working in and around downtown Cleveland that weekend.

This year, one of BorderLight’s international artists was Paterson Joseph, a British actor of TV and film and a veteran of the RSC. I remembered him from the absurd BBC hospital drama parody Green Wing, and, as it happens, I had also seen him play Oswald in King Lear at Stratford-Upon-Avon in 1990, when we were both much younger men.

In Cleveland this summer, he performed his monodrama Sancho & Me: One Night Only, based on the life of Charles Ignatius Sancho, a British composer (among numerous other talents and vocations) who was able, in spite of having been born on a slave ship, to rise and prosper in society. He was even the second person of African descent to vote in England.

While I was unable to see this performance, I did take advantage of an online lecture, The Art and Craft of Historical Fiction Writing, for which Joseph, speaking to us live from London (it was midnight where he was, bless him) described the process of taking a figure like Sancho, who left a scant historical record of his personal life, and building it into a fully formed character.

He referred to his own novel, The Secret Diaries of Charles Ignatius Sancho, and when the time arrived for questions I asked about his process, adapting his novel into his script. He explained that it was, in fact, the other way around – he has performed this play for some time, and during the Covid-19 quarantine he took the opportunity to expand the work into a novel, his first.

By the time the seminar had concluded, I had already texted my wife to order a copy of the book from Loganberry Books, and they already had it in stock – because of course they did!

I was mostly through Playbook when we arrived in Friendship, but dropped it for Secret Diaries because I was in a fictional mood. It is fiction, in that there is so little known about Sancho, but it sings with truth, truth observed in it by the deep historical research conducted by the author.

Finally, I picked up a birthday gift, The Friday Afternoon Club, a memoir by Griffin Dunne. I have long appreciated the dry hipster wit of Dunne, as represented in his performances in films like An American Werewolf in London and After Hours, and have sympathized in him the life of one who strived but always feels out of place wherever he is.

The book is neatly divided in half; the first a collection of tales about privileged slackers, the second in which we take a harrowing turn into the death of his sister, and the ensuing trial of her murderer.

Then I finished The Playbook. Non-fiction, historical fiction, memoir. And since last summer, I’ve been working on my own historical fiction, which is its own kind of memoir of striving, and my own search for acceptance and meaning. 

The book by Joseph and the one by Dunne were inspirational, each in their insistence on honesty and emotional accuracy. The Shapiro book reminds me I have unfinished writing business, on a work which remains relevant and in the new year may become even more so.

*This is not entirely accurate. Talespinner Children’s Theatre remounted my stage adaptation of "The Toothpaste Millionaire" on July 27.

Smoking Bishop (recipe)

Illustration by John Leech

“A merry Christmas, Bob!” said Scrooge, with an earnestness that could not be mistaken, as he clapped him on the back. “A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you, for many a year! I’ll raise your salary, and endeavour to assist your struggling family, and we will discuss your affairs this very afternoon, over a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop, Bob! Make up the fires, and buy another coal-scuttle before you dot another i, Bob Cratchit!”

from “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, 1843

Smoking Bishop is a mulled wine, and ever since I bothered to learn that that is what it is, I have offered to make it for holiday gatherings, especially for those related to my work at Great Lakes Theater. This year I will be making it twice, for the staff party, and again for the actor-teachers in the new year.

• Take five oranges and one grapefruit and roast until  browned.
• Jab each of the fruits with cloves, six to eight each, place in a bowl and add two bottles of red wine, along with a quarter pound of sugar.
• Cover and let sit for about a day, in a warm place (I choose the oven).
• Juice the citrus into the wine and strain into a crockpot. Add the port and heat until it is “smoking” and serve.

You can also add spices including small amounts of cinnamon, mace, allspice, ginger, and/or nutmeg, to taste, though I have found satisfaction without them.

Ten Good Moments in 2024

Way back in 2016, to close out a difficult year, I reflected upon ten good moments, to accentuate the positive. This year I feel no less defeated by current events, the year has provided me with great happiness, and I would again like to share a few of those (in chronological order). 

1. Jon Batiste plays the Cleveland Museum of Art. The most Cleveland thing ever, Batiste was leading his band through the house, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” on his melodica. The crowd was on our feet, and when he got to our row, Batiste reached past me to shake hands with Cleveland Mayor Justin Bibb, who had been seated next to my wife. It must be mentioned, earlier that evening the Mayor had complimented my wife’s boots.

2. Transitive Property. Our children are artists. Who knew? College visits are often scheduled to coincide with a recital, gig, gallery opening or performance event. Our elder child had several this year, including an interdisciplinary semi-improvised dance and music performance, as well as shows in Nelsonville, at Loganberry Books, as well as on campus at Ohio University.

3. The Total Eclipse of the Sun. When my wife got me (us) opening day tickets to see the Guardians last Christmas, I thought — oh, no. Opening Day is usually cold and rainy, often it snows. Well, not only was the weather perfect on April 8, 2024, but the game was bumped a few hours to experience a total eclipse.

4. Queen Mary 2. For the moment, we luxuriate. Last year we took a train to the Southwest, a journey we had ruminated upon for some time. It’s like a pre-retirement age (as though we will ever retire) doing those things we would spend time talking about late into the evening but never had the time to do, until now. And so we took a transatlantic cruise. Friends made references to the Titanic, but I reminded them that that was White Star cruiser, and that the QM2 is a Cunard ship. They rescued the survivors of Titanic.

Seven days and nights, lying in, having coffee in our bathrobes and reading while sitting out on our private balcony overlooking the vast, unbroken sea. In short order we discovered those corners we did (and did not) wish to while away the hours: the library, the Chart Room cocktail bar, The Golden Lion Pub, high tea at three and even karaoke. Yes, I will karaoke when I am leagues from anyone I know.

It was a lovely time to be together alone.

5. Twenty-Fifth Anniversary. Shortly after returning from England, we held an open house to celebrate our anniversary with our nearest and dearest. And we have met a wide variety of wonderful people over the years. Remarkable, too, are those who were not present, those who have died or with whom we have parted or those who have simply vanished from our lives. Twenty-five years is a long time, our wedding was one of the last things we did in the 1900s. Folks my age can get a little freaked out when the kids refer to the 1990s as “the late 1900s” but when you think about it, that really was a different century.

6. Cleveland Guardians. Before the name change, we might have taken in a game each summer, but since they became the Guardians, we’ve gone a little nuts about this team. Yes, we were there on opening day, and maybe a dozen more times besides. Though we couldn’t best the Yankees, the Guards went down proudly … which is more than we can say for, you know, the Yankees. We will miss you, Gimé! Godspeed!

7. Kamala Harris. Put simply, the problem is not that not enough people voted for her. The problem is that far too many people voted for him. That is a sickness which must be remedied, and it will go hard. But Vice President Harris ran a flawless, three month campaign that was full of hope and promise and joy. And the people chose Trump. That’s on the people.

8. Drennon Davis is a comedian and voice actor who became an internet phenom during the Quarantine when he began producing clips of his housebound interactions with his talking cats. We love this guy, and went to see him at the Cat Fancier Association International Cat Show and Exposition at the I-X Center. Don’t know if you’ve ever been, it’s equal parts cat judging competitions, cat swag goes market and cat-themed entertainers, all fairing at the same time. Davis did a presentation that included a “live” video chat with Newt, Toad, Frog and Doug, and we got to say hello and have a lovely picture taken. Business!

9. Cincinnati. The boy is enrolled at the conservatory of music at the University of Cincinnati. He is majoring in jazz, he plays the drums. I so wish my father could see this. A few times a year we attend his end-of-semester gigs at Caffè Vivace. Cincinnati was entirely alien to me before this turn of events. In school we made a couple trips, to see concerts, even to a cattle call for a film. In the past two years we have become familiar with a few neighborhoods and my wife even found a second home at the Gaslight Bed and Breakfast. Hi, Maria!

10. A Christmas Carol. Charles Dickens’ tale describing the reclamation of Ebenezer Scrooge is so universal and elegantly told that it continues to stand up to generations of satire and derision. Dealing as it does with an elderly man reflecting upon his life choices, I cannot help but personally feel it becomes more terrorist as one gets older. One youthful heartbreak led to a lifetime of emotional insecurity and cynicism? Why yes, that actually happens, but we can choose to do better.

As should be obvious, I love the season, and having the opportunity to be immersed in the trappings and tropes of the most iconic of holiday stories, eight times a week (nine as we close the run) have only intensified these feelings.

This winter will be hard, the new year is uncertain. We'll have to muddle through somehow.