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Christmas evening, 2010.

A simple, peerless, Italian-influenced Christmas dinner. A glorious wine from Oregon, Meditrina(5). A steady rain drizzling outside, good friends, my neighbors Bill and Gasper, inside.

After dinner, Gasper (knowing I am a fellow cinephile) asks, “Wanna watch a movie?” Me: “Yes, how about 32 Short Films About Glenn Gould?” (I knew B & G favor esoteric films and classical music. Not to mention the eccentric).

“Sure.” (Bless the ease of streaming Netflix via Blueray.)

Gould intrigues me. I’d seen the film years ago. When the occasion presents itself to listen to Gould’s recordings (read: I used to play his Goldberg Variations on my iPod while Nordic skiing) or read of his becoming/bedeviling behaviors, I take it. I was delighted to share this indulgence on the indulgent tonight.

My short review: Mesmerizing. Mad. Marvel-ous.

It’s an ode to solitude…

and the opening/closing shots of grand solitude on a vast frozen expanse: I was riveted.

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