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The dearest things I know are what you are
And it came to pass that being unable to attend the Catgirl Goth Rave, to which I had non-hyperbolically been looking forward for months, I resigned myself to doing not much of anything with my Friday night beyond experimenting with molasses cookies and reading the second volume of Michael Powell's autobiography, both of which are fine things in their own right, but rather lacking in glowsticks and cat ears. And then I saw that TCM was showing something called A Letter for Evie (1946) with Marsha Hunt and Hume Cronyn, the former a stranger to me, the latter—I tracked down Lifeboat (1944) and The Seventh Cross (1944) and The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946) in the days long before Netflix just so I could see him in another role besides Professor Elwell, all right? I imprinted on him and Walter Slezak at an early age. And it was a variation on Cyrano de Bergerac, taking place between a shirt-factory secretary, a shy dendrologist, and the platoon lothario during World War II, with recurring motif by Jerome Kern. Jules Dassin did tempt me and I did watch. And considering the mood I was in at midnight, it was kind of exactly what I needed. Thanks, TV. Who knew?
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The current state of my physical stamina would not allow it. If it had been taking place at someone's house, I would have chanced it on the theory that I could always have collapsed in a bedroom for some hours while everyone else danced; but this year an actual venue was involved and I really didn't want to destroy my ability to move for the next week. It is very frustrating. Hence the turnup of A Letter for Evie was so fortuitous, because it was nothing I'd planned and nothing I'd even known about and a delight to watch; I felt a lot better afterward.
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