I do not often write about movies. In fact, I have not written an essay about one in more than thirty years.
The last time I did so followed a two-night movie binge in the winter of 1996, the first night of which began with my date and me in what we call in the Carolinas a snowbank—and what those north of the Mason-Dixon Line would more accurately describe as a roadside ditch with some frozen precipitation on it.
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