When the news broke about the deaths of Rob Reiner and his wife, Michele, the outpouring of grief from the Hollywood community and beyond was instantaneous and overwhelming. But the grief was of a kind not usually associated with the passing of even the biggest movie icons. When a major star or filmmaker dies, we as moviegoers may feel the loss in ways that seem weirdly personal. We didn’t know Robert Redford, for example, or Robin Williams, and yet we felt as though we did because of their larger-than-life presence on the screen. We felt close to them because of what their movies meant to us.

In the case of Reiner, however, the closeness so many felt had an added dimension. It was not only the moments in his best movies – films like “This Is Spinal Tap,” “The Princess Bride,” and “When Harry Met Sally” – that resonated deeply with audiences. It was also the recognition for many of us that the man behind those movies was a crusader for decency in the public sphere. He wasn’t just a movie icon; he was a liberal icon for social justice.

The decency reflected in his films – the way the people in his movies, even at their worst, are not dismissively portrayed – was equally present in his public works. It would have been natural for him, especially when his directing career was on the wane, to run for political office in California. After all, Arnold Schwarzenegger did it. Reiner declined to do that. “I don’t want to be an elected official,” he once said. “I want to get things done.”

Why We Wrote This

Director Rob Reiner’s versatility spanned genres from the comedies “When Harry Met Sally” and “The Princess Bride” to the courtroom drama “A Few Good Men.” Moviegoers may be less familiar with his ongoing support of social justice and liberal political causes.

I met Reiner only once, more than two decades ago. I was hosting a movie series in Los Angeles where famous filmmakers were invited to discuss their favorite film, followed by a screening of the movie. It’s always dicey when critics meet filmmakers. You never know when the memory of some long-ago negative review is going to suddenly pop into the conversation and roil the waters. But Reiner was cordial enough and accommodating, and I felt at ease. I imagine this is how he worked with actors, too, and how he was able to elicit so many memorable performances.

And what was his favorite film? “On the Waterfront,” the 1954 Elia Kazan classic about New Jersey dockyard corruption starring Marlon Brando. To those who only knew Reiner from his long-running role as Archie Bunker’s beleaguered son-in-law, Michael “Meathead” Stivic, in the “All in the Family” TV series, this might have seemed an odd choice. But it fit perfectly with his sense of justice, of doing the right thing.

Reiner sometimes bemoaned the fact that, despite his vast accomplishments, he was still thought of, especially by an older generation, as Meathead. He once said: “I could win the Nobel Prize, and they’d write ‘Meathead wins the Nobel Prize.’” But his sense of humor, his welcoming acceptance of life’s absurdities, was equally a fixture of who he was. How could it not be? Growing up as the son of Carl Reiner, a bona fide comic genius, was, by the son’s own account, not easy.

And yet he staked out a similarly successful career path, first as a TV actor and writer, then as a director of two of the funniest films ever made. I can remember the first time I saw “This Is Spinal Tap,” his big-screen directorial debut, and literally collapsed with laughter. This mockumentary about a dreadful (fictional) British rock band was so irreverently on target that not a few viewers thought the group was real. The musical numbers the band executed, in more ways than one, were satiric gems. My favorite: “(Listen To The) Flower People.” Throughout it all, including the introduction of the famous line “Turn it up to 11,” Reiner and his amazing cast of improvisatory cutups manage to make these jokers seem sympathetic. There’s something touchingly valiant about their quest for stardom.

“The Princess Bride” is just as funny, but more fantastical. It began as a William Goldman novel based on fairy tales he wrote for his children. The book’s mythic gossamer atmosphere survives in the film, which is equal parts fantasia and burlesque, with dewy romance, fair maidens, villainous princes, six-fingered bullies, and swordplay. (Mandy Patinkin’s Inigo Montoya!) It’s all great fun, and if you saw it at a young enough age, it likely remains a cherished memory – and one happily revisited as an adult.

I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that the man who made this movie – or the nostalgic, melancholy, look-back about four journeying boys in “Stand by Me” – is all of a piece with the political activist. In 1998, in California, he successfully championed a proposition calling for a tax on tobacco products to be spent on early childhood programs. According to the Los Angeles Times, Proposition 10 pumped “more than $11 billion into preschools, teacher training and support for families struggling to raise their kids.” In 1999, he became chairman of the First 5 California Children and Families Commission, providing health and education services for children and their families. First 5 refers to the first five years of life.

He walked the walk.

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One of the hallmarks of Reiner’s directorial career, especially in the 1980s and early ’90s, was his versatility. This, too, was, I think, an expression of his openness to experience. The genre-hopping was flabbergasting: “This Is Spinal Tap” was followed not long after by “Stand by Me” and “The Princess Bride.” Then came the Nora Ephron-scripted “When Harry Met Sally” (everybody’s favorite rom-com) and the ghoulishly comic Stephen King-inspired “Misery.” A couple of years later came the Aaron Sorkin courtroom drama “A Few Good Men,” which deserves to be remembered for more than Jack Nicholson shouting, “You can’t handle the truth!”

It was a career, and a life, that was a rarity in Hollywood. Reiner played by no one’s rules but his own. The integrity that shone forth, in those films, and in that life, is a legacy that won’t fade.

Glad tidings from Dad each Christmas Eve

Like many families, we LaFranchis have our unshakable Christmas traditions, the activities and artifacts without which the holiday would not be ours.

There’s the review of the Nativity sets we’ve collected from around the world – to be augmented this year by new entries from Kenya and El Salvador. There’s the baking and decorating of the bûche de Noël – using a Texas recipe we’ve remained faithful to since first trying it out in our diminutive Paris kitchen in 1992.

Why We Wrote This

Forget commercialism and stress. Our correspondents share their traditions to tap into the true meaning of Christmas.

And then there is what is referred to as Dad’s Story. That’s when we all stop whatever we’re doing as Dad (that would be me) reads a seasonal story on Christmas Eve. The repertoire is limited, with works by an exclusive group of writers who have earned their way into our festive hearts: O. Henry, Capote, Singer, and a lesser-known Sylvia Seymour Akin of Memphis, Tennessee.

To understand how Dad’s Story became a family tradition, let’s go back to Christmas Eve 1974, to my childhood home in Northern California. I was a college student questioning our Western culture of mass consumption, and as Christmas approached, I thought of our family’s previous Christmas Eve – which I recalled as a whirlwind of untied ribbons and bows, torn wrapping paper, and collapsed gift boxes.

Then as now, I like opening a gift as much as anyone. But I also thought there had to be a way to remember what the day and the season are about. Something like grace.

So I announced to our family – my parents, my siblings, their spouses and children – that this Christmas, we would begin with something different. I opened our old black-leather-bound LaFranchi family Bible, and read from Matthew the story of the first Christmas.

Now many decades later, I often think back to that Christmas Eve, and the transformation I sensed the reading of a story produced, as I hunt for my copy of “The Gift of the Magi,” “A Christmas Memory,” or “Zlateh the Goat.” I know my family will be expecting a story that is an indelible part of our Christmas.

– Howard LaFranchi / Staff writer

Comfort and joy across the continents

The memory that lingers most from my childhood winters in northern India is the way my mother transformed the chilliest time of year into a season of comfort and warmth.

A country emerging from colonialism did not have a weeklong holiday, but as the year came to an end and temperatures dropped, our evenings centered around my mother’s cooking and the angeethi, a traditional coal brazier.

My mother made foods meant to warm the body from the inside out. She made crunchy bars of sesame seeds and ground peanuts; slow-roasted sweet potatoes nestled in charcoal until the embers faded; and laddoos, a sweet with fried nuts and warming spices, whose fragrance filled the air. We sat in a circle, warming our hands, as rounds of chai simmered with fresh ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and cardamom.

Even with limited resources, we knew it was also the season to spread warmth. We had an unspoken family tradition of sharing with those less fortunate and regularly donated blankets to homeless people. 

Moving to the United States reshaped these rituals but didn’t erase them. Now, I keep my family’s spirit alive in smaller ways. Once a year, I make the traditional North Indian dessert – Gajar ka halwa – letting grated carrots simmer for hours in milk before adding sugar, nuts, and cardamom.

I invite friends over, and we exchange our own seasonal treats. Sometimes that means Indian delicacies, sometimes Middle Eastern, with the flaky sweetness of baklava. And there is regularly a quintessential American dessert – the pie that we have come to love, in all the different flavors. Chai with warming spices remains the anchor, a reminder of childhood memories as we share stories of our lives.

But the moment that feels most heartwarming is outside my home in Cambridge, Massachusetts: my Diwali lights, usually kept up until the new year, mingling with my neighbors’ Christmas displays. Their soft glow reminds me that I now live in a world where cultures can sit side by side – each holding its own warmth, together illuminating the dark of winter.

– Kalpana Jain / Contributor

Alone or together, take time to rest and recover

I remember the first time hearing The Emotions’ cold yet compelling classic, “What Do the Lonely Do at Christmas?” I was a kid riding in my parents’ blue Chevrolet Astro van, and I didn’t understand why the lady singing was so sad during the holidays. 

Originally released in the 1970s as a song about heartbreak, the song has been used over the years as a standard to describe the feelings of people who find themselves isolated during late November and the month of December.

This is unfortunate, because there is a simple answer to what people do by themselves on Christmas: whatever they want.

When it comes to the holidays, aloneness should not always be seen as a cry for help. For some, it can be quite the intentional effort. Don’t get me wrong; as an extrovert, I love holiday gatherings. Spending time with family and friends at the end of the year feels essential, especially with folks having similar off days from work.

But something equally important is having time off to rest and recover, and time to reflect and plan for the upcoming  year. It can be easier to clear your mind in isolation, away from the holiday hustle and bustle. While some people bemoan “holiday depression,” I’m proposing that we also consider holiday decompression.

What does that look like for me? It looks like reading a good book and unplugging from the phone and the constant demands of family life for a few fleeting moments. Sometimes, it looks like doing absolutely nothing. And that’s OK!

Nurturing both sides of holiday time – the quiet and the crowd – can create the sort of balance that’s helpful all year long.

After all, there are times when some people need a hug, or a warm meal. And there are times when others just want the room to grow. Or grieve. 

We can be there for others – and ourselves – regardless of the season.

– Ken Makin / Cultural commentator

Savoring a night of no cooking

The comforts of home and tradition don’t always involve a ladle and a pot. In our family, Christmas Eve is when we create space for gratitude and togetherness – and it begins with a simple decision: We don’t cook. 

Instead, we order out, giving the kitchen the night off until Christmas morning.

What began decades ago, when my parents were newlyweds who couldn’t afford plane tickets home, has become one of our most cherished holiday traditions. That first Christmas Eve, alone and far from family, they called in an order for a simple comfort meal: Chinese takeout. 

At a time when to-do lists can unfurl like long satin ribbons and the sequence of holiday events often weaves together like a tightly spun cable-knit sweater, there’s quiet relief in doing nothing more ambitious than deciding whether to get an extra order of sweet-and-sour chicken. (The answer is yes.) It’s like swapping that wool cardigan for your favorite cotton hoodie.

Now, each year, we gather with chopsticks around cartons of crispy spring rolls, crab rangoon, little bowls of egg-drop soup, and dishes piled high with fried rice and chow mein to savor not just the food, but a brief pause.

After dinner, we sit in a circle – on the floor or curled up on couches – and take turns sharing a meaningful Christmas tidbit: a poem, song, short story, or a belly laugh that’s been waiting for the right moment. There’s no pressure or performance – just a casual night that belongs to everyone, friends and neighbors welcome.

What started with a call for comfort food to a family-run restaurant down the road has sparked a ritual that celebrates the simple joy of being together. The best part: No one has to wash the dishes. 

– Stephanie Cook Broadhurst / Contributor

We are the original wrap stars

As a kid, I spent every Christmas with my family at my grandparents’ expansive farm outside Wheeling, West Virginia. Because their small town was unincorporated, without garbage pickup, all trash was either composted or burned. My grandmother, a thrifty New Englander, and my grandfather, a prudent politician, believed that wrapping gifts, only to burn the wrapping paper, was an extravagant waste of time and money.

So our family would “wrap” our gifts in the most deceptive bag possible. Think of receiving a new sweater in a grocery store bag. A teddy bear in a restaurant takeout bag. As my siblings and I entered our teens, finding gift-wrapping bags from upscale stores became a year-round game. At a friend’s house, my sister saw a bag from a high-end clothing retailer heading for the trash. “Wait! Can I have that bag?” she asked, much to the surprise of her host. That bag found new life on Christmas morning, concealing a skillet for Mom.

The farm has long since been sold, and my siblings and I have started our own families in towns with reliable garbage service. But we have carried on the Christmas no-wrap wrapping tradition. At least a few times during the year, I’ll find myself admiring a bag that housed a recent purchase, thinking, “This will be perfect for Christmas.”

– Lauren Crandall / Contributor

The gift of no gift

It’s this year’s hottest holiday item, but I’m afraid you won’t be able to find it in stores or online, and even if you could somehow manage to track it down, you wouldn’t be able to wrap your arms around it. That’s because it’s nothing. I mean that literally. It’s the gift of no gift. 

A few Christmases ago, my wife’s side of the family realized that we all wanted the same thing: to slow things down and find some time to actually enjoy the holidays again. We decided to remove one of the season’s biggest time sucks and stressors: finding the “right gift” for adults who either don’t want anything; know exactly what they want and there’s no chance it’s what you have in mind; or tell you exactly what to give them so they might as well be looking over your shoulder while you hit “place your order” on Amazon. So meaningful. 

Hence, the gift of no gift.

There are two caveats.

Caveat No. 1: Gifts for kids are still in play. 

Caveat No. 2: Although gifts for adults are generally frowned upon, if you stumble across – stumble across, not hunt for – something really special and reasonably priced, you can go ahead and get it. Thanks to the conditions established by the gift of no gift (e.g., no gifts), your find becomes a true gift because there’s no expectation of reciprocity. 

This approach isn’t about throwing a wet blanket on the festivities of the season. It’s about getting the right kind of holiday cheer to the right people. And in my experience, this mutual pact to inaction has cut down significantly on holiday stress – if you want a number, I’d say about 30%-40%. 

So this holiday season, give your loved ones something really special: Give them nothing. And in doing so, give them time, peace, and presence. 

– Zach Przystup / Contributor

Two cultures, twice the delight

If you were to ask my children about holiday traditions here in Mexico, they’d probably mention the colorful, starlike piñatas tied atop cars making their way to posadas, or Christmas parties, around the city. They might point out that a lot of their friends receive their extra-special gifts on Three Kings’ Day, in January. And, without fail, they would tell you about Samichlaus.

Samichlaus is not actually a Mexican tradition, but a Swiss one that my children have taken part in since they were babies, thanks to Swiss-Mexican neighbors who host an annual party.

But to my Mexican-born children, the story of Samichlaus is all theirs.

My eldest spends the morning of the party helping make fluffy white bread shaped like a man and decorated with nuts and raisins. The rest of us arrive in the late afternoon to devour a magnificent barley stew and munch on sausages sourced from a German butcher especially for the event. We socialize in Spanish, but our host calls out to her kids in the Swiss-German dialect, and I ask my children in English if they’ve eaten enough.

Just as the sun sets, we hear the silvery-sweet ringing of a handbell: “Samichlaus” has arrived. 

According to folklore, the figure of Samichlaus travels across a vast forest, talking with the birds, squirrels, deer, and other animals that have been keeping an eye on the children over the course of the year. Each child is called to the front of the room to give the person representing Samichlaus a gift – perhaps a drawing, a written poem, or a singing performance. Then, Samichlaus gives each child a spirited compliment sandwich: Here’s what you did well this year, and here is what you should work on next year. 

The precision of his feedback is so spot on, one of my daughters correctly predicted last year he’d be encouraging her to work on her table manners. 

I leave this party each year so warmed by the community my family has built here in Mexico. But it also makes me think about bigger questions around identity and belonging: When my babies are adults, looking back at their childhood, how will it make them feel? Will they feel Mexican because they were born and raised here? Will they feel American, because that’s the culture those raising them know best? Or will it be some kind of mix? Perhaps my kids will even grow up feeling something akin to the folkloric figure of Samichlaus, with acceptance and kindness for this vast, ever-changing world.

– Whitney Eulich / Latin America editor

Instead of another necktie, try Dad Dates

After my daughter and son grew up and moved away, I asked them to stop buying me presents for Christmas. My wife and I are empty nesters who want our home to be even emptier, with more space and less clutter. For us, limiting new stuff makes lots of sense. We also want our children to invest in their futures rather than splurging on yet another necktie for Dad or sweater for Mom.

Still, gift-giving is one of the world’s great pleasures, so I let my children lavish me with generosity. But instead of presenting me with a bright new thing, they give me the gift of time. 

Dad Dates are our holiday tradition. The concept is simple. During their trips home for the holidays, each of my children plans an hour or two of focused, one-on-one time with me. 

One evening, at my request, my daughter sat with me near the tree, opened her laptop, and slowly walked me through the ideas she’d brainstormed as part of her interior design job. We’d had many phone conversations about her work, but while wandering around in her blueprints, I could both see her professional world and dwell within it. It was a marvel to discover the person she’d become.

I had a similar experience when my son, a roboticist, let me look over his shoulder one Yuletide afternoon as he wrote computer code. His universe is markedly different from the one I inhabit as a journalist, and our time together helped me see that as a cause for celebration. It reminded me that for all our family ties, he’s become his own distinct person, and a wonderful one at that.

Not all of our holiday Dad Dates are about career catch-ups. I sometimes ask my daughter to show me her funniest online humor, and we laugh ourselves silly watching cat videos and TV bloopers. My son and I have had some of our best Dad Dates screening vintage James Bond movies.

Anticipating my Christmas Dad Dates makes me smile. I know I’ll be getting time with two people I love, the best gift of all.    

– Danny Heitman / Contributor

How we upped our holiday game

A few years ago, my husband and I started hosting Christmas at our home for extended family and friends. After the annual feast and exchange of gifts, I watched as everyone drifted apart by generation – the younger kids ran upstairs, the grandmas began to tidy up, and everyone else settled around the TV to watch “Elf.” 

I felt like our time together was becoming a blur of wrapping paper and abandoned Solo cups. So, one year, I asked each group to bring their favorite board game. 

Games have always played a big role in our lives. When my kids were in school, they would meet up

with friends online, in Fortnite or Minecraft. Their holiday wish lists reflected that: gaming chairs, headsets, light-up keyboards. 

As a child, I loved to play dominoes with my grandparents. It was the only time I had their undivided attention, and my Papa – always my teammate – would wink and kick me under the table if he had a good hand. 

There’s something about playing a game that makes it easy for people to be together. It doesn’t require eye contact or conversation. Just a willingness to sit together and connect. 

The first year that everyone brought a board game, not everyone wanted to play. There was plenty of room as we pushed two tables together and dragged a couple of chairs in from the kitchen. 

We had a stack of games to choose from – Catch Phrase, Taboo, Guesstures, Family Feud – and we split up into teams, with blue or yellow Post-it notes stuck to our shirts so we could tell who was on which side. 

After years of listening to our offspring yell into headsets, we were now the rowdy ones, cheering our teammates on. The kids, curious about the commotion, drifted in and out, smiling at the adult revelry. 

Over the years, the table grew. The younger generation joins us now as we all crowd onto benches. Some reserve their seats early with a dessert plate or drink, and my mother-in-law parks her wheelchair on the periphery to watch. 

Game time is now a highlight of our annual gathering. Being part of something, whether it’s two people or 20, is what makes the holidays meaningful. 

– Courtenay Rudzinski / Contributor

Showing love through thoughtful gestures

My childhood Christmases were idyllic. We sat on Santa’s lap at the mall, sang Christmas carols at church on Advent Sundays, gathered with extended family on Christmas Eve, and raced down the stairs on Christmas morning to discover what treasures had appeared by the fireplace. My older brother and I stayed in our pajamas half the day playing with our new toys. For years, I lived inside the blissful naivete of a happy holiday movie. 

Almost a decade ago, my brother passed away. In the years since, I have lost friends, and my best friend lost her son. 

Grief has a way of reshaping the holidays. Christmas cards with smiling families flood mailboxes and the repetitive rotation of holiday songs preaches jolly, happy times. What once felt effortlessly joyful now carries both memory and longing. The absence of loved ones during the holidays is especially sharp. 

With a more grounded understanding of life’s complexities, I have altered how I approach the season – and how I reach out to others. I no longer assume the holidays feel merry for everyone. For those coping with grief and loss, I write cards offering support, remembrance, and understanding. Last year, after I sent one to a friend who had lost her sister, she contacted me, grateful for the reminder that she wasn’t alone. I’ve realized that small gestures of empathy can ripple outward, creating connections that matter far more than the perfect gift or festive decoration.

As I continue through middle age, I find steadiness in a more nuanced celebration. I lean into my faith as I reflect on the true meaning of Christmas. I offer hope by reminding others they are not alone in what they’re facing. I show love through thoughtful gestures – a handwritten note or an invitation to spend time together. And, I still embrace joy as I watch my own children race to their stockings on Christmas morning.

– Caroline Lubbers / Contributor

Four words for a more purposeful season

As our children grew older, I came to dread the holiday season’s bombardment of advertising. Black Friday and the rise of Cyber Monday. The incessant and tiring thought: Do we have enough? 

When we became empty nesters, Christmas was quieter. It was a relief to put away all the old last-minute rushing around. Still, the need for something remained. 

Then, my wife, Jeanne, came across a suggestion on social media: Limit gifting to four straightforward categories.

Something they want, something they need, something to wear, something to read. 

It has become, for us, something akin to the four elements: earth, water, air, fire. Four gifts. Fundamental. Plain and simple. 

It has been a revelation, in some ways even a revolution, in our thinking.

“Simplify, simplify, simplify,” Thoreau shouted across Walden Pond.

The simplification of “what” to give has opened a broader universe of “why,” a redirection of focus into the more satisfying realms of quality and usefulness, joy and love, memory and hope. In other words, it’s a way that delivers the rest of Thoreau’s call: “Simplicity of life and elevation of purpose.”

Four words – want, need, wear, read – to simplify, simplify, simplify, and to allow this time of celebration and reflection to have meaning again.

– Jim Meddleton / Contributor

Impossible to cook without love

I had been looking forward to hosting a holiday meal for my extended family ever since moving back to California, after spending my adulthood in other parts of the United States. I decided to make our version of the traditional turkey dinner, the same one my mother and grandmother cooked, the same one I’ve prepared since I started my own family. 

My uncle came into the kitchen, stopping to dip a spoon into one of the pots. “It’s my mother’s mashed potatoes,” he said. It had been years since he’d tasted them. We both teared up a little and then laughed at our sentimentality.

Somewhere along the way, I had become the keeper of my family’s recipes. The dishes that taste like anticipation, joy, and comfort – I am their protector and purveyor. 

But this year, that bedrock has teetered on burdensome. 

Our small family has undergone big changes in the last year, with divorce, relocation, and a child off to college. Although I have continued to cook as relationships changed – a way to weather transitions with love and care – I wasn’t sure I had tradition in me this year.

I wanted to spend my precious little downtime enjoying my daughters, in quiet gratitude for the unstoppable good that carried us through 2025. 

I tried to cancel the big meal. “But you’re still cooking, right?” asked my younger one. Canceling was inconceivable, I realized, and I was surprised by my relief. The assurance of a holiday touchstone, the traditions that give meaning to time – they carry extra weight this year.

Dinner will be small; just my ex, our two girls, and my niece. With our changing dynamics, I am grateful for the stability of shared expectations, the flavors that snap us back to our best moments together.

When I was very young, I asked my grandma how she learned to cook so well. “It’s how I show my family I love them,” she told me. She could say a lot without answering the question. 

I think of that nearly every time I turn on the stove. It is impossible to cook without love. I feel it when I pass boiled Yukon Gold potatoes through a ricer so they’re fluffy, not smashed; as I stir in the butter, in cold chunks so that it mixes evenly as it melts; when I alternate that with the milk, steaming hot so the potatoes stay warm and get creamy. Perfect mashed potatoes are just so, and anything else isn’t a celebration.

My scaled-back holiday meal may not offer many leftovers. But I will see my uncle soon after. And I will save a bowl of mashed potatoes to connect us all. 

– Ali Martin / Staff writer

Here we come a-caroling

This might be a controversial position, but I have mixed emotions about Christmas. I have nothing against the spiritual message of the holiday. I just find the commercialism and the inevitable drop of mediocre Christmas albums annoying. 

But after spending a few years in Saudi Arabia, we found ourselves craving a little Christmas spirit in our home. It’s natural to pine for what you don’t have. Saudi shopping malls, until recently, were quiet, austere places, filled with happy families and squealing children, but nary a Bing Crosby tune or Christmas tree to be found. In our case, we craved items that seemed unavoidable back home in the United States. The scent of pine trees and mulled apple cider. The familiar sound of Christmas songs we had been humming since childhood. We also felt the urge to share these things with the friends we had been making in Saudi Arabia: workmates and neighbors, devout and nonreligious, Christians, Hindus, Muslims, and folks who simply loved a good song. 

Over the years, our carol sings were occasionally boisterous (with bodhrán drummers drumming and children shaking tambourines and kazoo-ing). In times of war or economic instability, we had quieter, more intimate gatherings, grateful for each other’s company. One year, a teacher from New Hampshire taught us her childhood favorite, “Dominick the Donkey,” who reportedly helped Santa deliver presents when the reindeer couldn’t handle the steep hills of Italy. Another year, we heard a rousing version of Elvis’ hit song, “Blue Christmas,” followed by “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.” And one year, we just completed singing the exhausting “Twelve Days of Christmas,” and when a late-arriving family requested the same song, we sang it again. 

Every year, we found ourselves ending with “Silent Night.” There is something about that simple tune that captures the mood of the season, as one year nears its end and another one offers the hope and promise of renewal. 

– Scott Baldauf / Staff writer

Holly-jolly days can happen anywhere, any way

Growing up in Minnesota, my Christmases were just as good as any Hallmark movie classic. 

There were snowballs to throw, hills to sled down, and plenty of hot cocoa to warm you up afterward. But after spending my first Christmas with my Spanish now-husband at his mother’s home in Tenerife, I reluctantly threw my long-held notions of the holidays out the window. 

The window, as the stories go, was how Santa got inside on the Canary Islands, I soon learned, given that there was nary a chimney in sight. And forget about woolly sweaters. Instead of curling up in front of a fireplace on Christmas Eve, my husband and his friends spent the 24th swimming at the beach. 

On Christmas Day, the whole family gathered as his mother sliced thin shavings of the watermelon-sized Ibérico jamón shoulder that sat proudly – hoof and all – in her kitchen, while cooking up creamy croquetas, quail’s eggs, and flan. Meals lasted days, not hours, and where food was mere background music in Minnesota, it took center stage here.

But something was missing, and it wasn’t just the snow. 

The stockings lay unceremoniously empty, the floor under the (fake) Christmas tree was bare. As it turns out, Spaniards do not exchange gifts at Christmas at all. Rather, the real celebration is two weeks later, when the Three Kings – not Santa – are said to put gifts in shoes, not stockings, that children leave out for them. 

All of this was fun and funny until our own children came along. Then, the existential questions burst forth. Whose holiday tradition would we celebrate, how, and, more importantly, where? 

At first, it seemed important to choose: below-zero windchill or palm trees? Green bean casserole or turrón? Gifts on Christmas or Three Kings’ Day? Whose version of Christmas would win out?

The answer, to my children’s delight, is this: everyone’s. 

Now, presents go under the tree a week before Christmas, to my mother-in-law’s utter dismay. Two weeks later, we put out milk and cookies for Los Reyes Magos, and a bowl of water for their camels. 

Some years, you’ll find us chowing down on cured pork loin and manchego cheese in front of a glorious sunset. Others, it’s cranberry sauce and candied yams on a snowy night.

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Whether we’re building a snowman in Minnesota or lounging at a Tenerife beach, our family knows that the holidays can happen anywhere, any way – our way – as long as we’re in it together.

– Colette Davidson / Special correspondent

“Daddy and I won’t be able to give you a big present this year,” my mother said quietly.

“But why?” I asked, wondering what I’d managed to do in the last couple of weeks that had landed me in such hot water.

“We just can’t afford to buy your corrective shoes and an expensive gift this year. I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, pulling me to her. “You’ll still have lots of things under the tree,” she reassured me, ruffling my hair.

Why We Wrote This

Disappointment is a sour fact of life. But sometimes, as our essayist learned during one memorable childhood Christmas, not getting what you want is a gift.

The shoes in question were big-budget, brown, high-top horrors. They were meant to keep my arches supported and my toes pointed in the right direction. I’d had to wear them as long as I could remember.

Stung by this loss, I felt as if I’d swallowed a large rock that was quickly plunging to the pit of my stomach.

While both my parents were incredibly hard workers, we were never flush, and economies were necessary. Fortunately, my parents’ way with a penny and their ability to build, paint, glue, tack, spackle, caulk, and sew anything meant that we kids were rarely aware of this.

As the oldest of four, I was taught that it was my job to hang tough in the face of disappointment. Nonetheless, I took every opportunity to plaster on a long face whenever I happened to be within 10 feet of Mama during the first couple of days after hearing the terrible news. Then, hoping that guilt might do the trick, I decided to soldier on bravely. But no matter what I tried, nothing worked. Crushed, I was sure my Christmas was ruined.

But as the holidays drew closer, I started to realize the season was still magical. Mama wrapped presents and stacked them in the corner of the living room so my brother, sisters, and I could try to guess what was inside – a tradition I begged her to follow every year.

Boxes and bags of unknown origin were hidden under coats and rushed to the bedroom for wrapping long before a Douglas fir spread its branches in the corner of the living room. Twinkly lights framed windows, and festive tunes floated through the house. The sweet, spicy scent of gingerbread cream-cheese cookies studded with maraschino cherries and my mother’s famous stollen bread hung tantalizingly in the air.

When Christmas Day arrived, a part of me still wished that Mama had been wrong and a costly gift with my name on it was hidden somewhere under the tree. There was none. The truth is, I was hopelessly sorry for myself at first.

But as the day wore on, a part of me felt fortunate – fortunate to be the recipient of a sea of small presents now buried in abandoned wrapping paper. Fortunate to be safe and warm in our creaky old house. Fortunate to be embraced by the love of my noisy, imperfect family.

I forgot my disappointment in the rush of returning to school, but I’ll never forget coming home about a week later to find a cardboard box the size of a small house filling our living room.

“Open it, Chuckie,” Mama said, gesturing toward the huge thing. “It’s your big present.”

“It’s from your Grandpa, Grandma, Daddy, and me. We ordered it weeks ago, but when we found out it wouldn’t make it here by Christmas, I came up with that crazy story about only having enough money to buy your corrective shoes,” she explained. “I’m sorry you were disappointed, but I couldn’t figure out another way to explain things without spoiling the surprise.”

My brother, sisters, and the pack of kids my mother always babysat clustered around the mammoth cardboard structure, jumping up and down, beside themselves with excitement.

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Overwhelmed by my family’s generosity in the face of my sulkiness, I burst into tears. Unsteadily, I opened the box. Inside was a gleaming, brand-new bicycle just for me. Tracing a finger over the shiny new handlebars, I ran to my mother and gave her a giant hug. “Merry Christmas, Chuckie,” she said.

Looking back on that long-ago holiday, I realize the disappointment of thinking I wasn’t getting a big gift was, in fact, a gift. I got my first glimpse of the true meaning of Christmas that year. It helped me realize that the holiday wasn’t just about what was under the tree, but about sharing the joy of the season with the people I loved.

“Daddy and I won’t be able to give you a big present this year,” my mother said quietly.

“But why?” I asked, wondering what I’d managed to do in the last couple of weeks that had landed me in such hot water.

“We just can’t afford to buy your corrective shoes and an expensive gift this year. I’m so sorry, honey,” she said, pulling me to her. “You’ll still have lots of things under the tree,” she reassured me, ruffling my hair.

Why We Wrote This

Disappointment is a sour fact of life. But sometimes, as our essayist learned during one memorable childhood Christmas, not getting what you want is a gift.

The shoes in question were big-budget, brown, high-top horrors. They were meant to keep my arches supported and my toes pointed in the right direction. I’d had to wear them as long as I could remember.

Stung by this loss, I felt as if I’d swallowed a large rock that was quickly plunging to the pit of my stomach.

While both my parents were incredibly hard workers, we were never flush, and economies were necessary. Fortunately, my parents’ way with a penny and their ability to build, paint, glue, tack, spackle, caulk, and sew anything meant that we kids were rarely aware of this.

As the oldest of four, I was taught that it was my job to hang tough in the face of disappointment. Nonetheless, I took every opportunity to plaster on a long face whenever I happened to be within 10 feet of Mama during the first couple of days after hearing the terrible news. Then, hoping that guilt might do the trick, I decided to soldier on bravely. But no matter what I tried, nothing worked. Crushed, I was sure my Christmas was ruined.

But as the holidays drew closer, I started to realize the season was still magical. Mama wrapped presents and stacked them in the corner of the living room so my brother, sisters, and I could try to guess what was inside – a tradition I begged her to follow every year.

Boxes and bags of unknown origin were hidden under coats and rushed to the bedroom for wrapping long before a Douglas fir spread its branches in the corner of the living room. Twinkly lights framed windows, and festive tunes floated through the house. The sweet, spicy scent of gingerbread cream-cheese cookies studded with maraschino cherries and my mother’s famous stollen bread hung tantalizingly in the air.

When Christmas Day arrived, a part of me still wished that Mama had been wrong and a costly gift with my name on it was hidden somewhere under the tree. There was none. The truth is, I was hopelessly sorry for myself at first.

But as the day wore on, a part of me felt fortunate – fortunate to be the recipient of a sea of small presents now buried in abandoned wrapping paper. Fortunate to be safe and warm in our creaky old house. Fortunate to be embraced by the love of my noisy, imperfect family.

I forgot my disappointment in the rush of returning to school, but I’ll never forget coming home about a week later to find a cardboard box the size of a small house filling our living room.

“Open it, Chuckie,” Mama said, gesturing toward the huge thing. “It’s your big present.”

“It’s from your Grandpa, Grandma, Daddy, and me. We ordered it weeks ago, but when we found out it wouldn’t make it here by Christmas, I came up with that crazy story about only having enough money to buy your corrective shoes,” she explained. “I’m sorry you were disappointed, but I couldn’t figure out another way to explain things without spoiling the surprise.”

My brother, sisters, and the pack of kids my mother always babysat clustered around the mammoth cardboard structure, jumping up and down, beside themselves with excitement.

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Overwhelmed by my family’s generosity in the face of my sulkiness, I burst into tears. Unsteadily, I opened the box. Inside was a gleaming, brand-new bicycle just for me. Tracing a finger over the shiny new handlebars, I ran to my mother and gave her a giant hug. “Merry Christmas, Chuckie,” she said.

Looking back on that long-ago holiday, I realize the disappointment of thinking I wasn’t getting a big gift was, in fact, a gift. I got my first glimpse of the true meaning of Christmas that year. It helped me realize that the holiday wasn’t just about what was under the tree, but about sharing the joy of the season with the people I loved.

The biggest news coming out of Hollywood in 2025 was less about the movies themselves than about the future of the business. Just this month, the pending purchase of the legacy studio Warner Bros. by the streamer Netflix set the town abuzz. (Paramount Studios later launched a competing $108 billion bid to buy Warner Bros. directly from shareholders, without approval from its management.) 

Artificial intelligence continues to cast its long shadow on the filmmaking process – from acting to screenwriting to everything in between. Boon or blight? Too soon to say.

But the movie business is not monolithic. Hollywood may be relying more than ever on sequels and formulas, but the indie realm is looking particularly good these days. An impressive number of films by young, often first-time, directors came out this past year. The range of performances, even in iffy movies, was equally impressive. If you know where to look, the art of movies, and the deep pleasures they can provide, is alive and well.

Why We Wrote This

Peter Rainer, the Monitor’s longtime film critic, turns the spotlight on the 10 movies that moved him over the past year. They include Richard Linklater’s “Blue Moon,” “The Ballad of Wallis Island,” and “Train Dreams.”

Before I roll out my Top 10 – OK, I cheated, it’s really 11! – here are a few celebrated films you won’t see on that list. 

The abundantly gifted Paul Thomas Anderson’s knockabout “One Battle After Another,” about a frazzled ex-revolutionary played by Leonardo DiCaprio, is being touted as the movie for our politically polarized times. Despite some brilliant stretches, it seemed more like a mildewed blast from the past – a mostly contemporary-set movie with a 1960s-era Boomerized mindset. I found Ryan Coogler’s “Sinners,” set mostly in a juke joint in 1932 Mississippi, flagrantly impressive until the gory vampirism took over. “Hamnet,” the high-art tearjerker of the year about the death of Shakespeare’s son, left me, if not cold, then lukewarm. I recognize that this movie affects some people on a very deep level. But its most sorrowful moments felt unduly coercive to me, despite wrenching work from Jessie Buckley as Shakespeare’s wife. In any case, I don’t buy the assumption that any film that moves us to tears is by definition great. If this was true, “Old Yeller” would be the greatest film ever made.

Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, here, in alphabetical order, are my best picks of the year.

A Little Prayer – In Angus MacLachlan’s immensely touching drama, David Strathairn plays a church-going Vietnam vet and Jane Levy plays his daughter-in-law, with whom he shares a deep emotional bond. Both performers are extraordinary. The final scene between them, about the love one human being can have for another, is the finest moment of any movie I saw this year. (Rated R) Read the full review here.

Blue Moon – Richard Linklater is having quite a run. “Nouvelle Vague,” about the making of Jean-Luc Godard’s “Breathless,” was an exhilarating ode to moviemaking. “Blue Moon” – set mostly in 1943 in the famous Broadway hangout Sardi’s and starring a terrific Ethan Hawke as the legendary, dissolute Broadway lyricist Lorenz Hart – is even better. I don’t mind a movie with this much talking if the dialogue (by Robert Kaplow) is this good. In supporting roles, Margaret Qualley, and Andrew Scott, as Richard Rodgers, are standouts. (R) Read the full review here. 

It Was Just an Accident – Jafar Panahi’s mordant black comedy is about a group of former Iranian political prisoners holding hostage a man they believe was their torturer. Based in part on Panahi’s own experiences as a former prisoner, the film deservedly won the Palme d’Or at Cannes, that festival’s highest honor. A parallel drama is currently being played out in Panahi’s own life, as the Islamic Republic of Iran has sentenced him in absentia to a year in prison for “propaganda activities.” (PG-13; with subtitles) Read the full review here. 

Left-Handed Girl – With her two daughters, a single mother relocates to Taipei to open a food stand in the Taiwanese capital’s night market. Their interlocking lives, a portrait of disarray, are beautifully balanced by first-time solo director Shih-Ching Tsou – a longtime associate of Sean Baker (“Anora”), with whom she co-wrote the script. As the older daughter, Shih-Yuan Ma gives one of the year’s most vibrant performances. (R; with subtitles)

Little Amélie or the Character of Rain – This first feature from the animators Maïlys Vallade and Liane-Cho Han, adapted from an autobiographical novel by Amélie Nothomb, nestles us inside the mindscape of a very young Belgian girl living with her parents in postwar Japan. The bond she shares with her Japanese housekeeper and surrogate mother is a rich testament to the restorative power of loving-kindness. Little Amélie is both astonished by the beauty of the natural world and increasingly aware of its transience. The animation is digital but looks handcrafted. (PG; with subtitles)

Preparation for the Next Life – In his first dramatic feature, the documentarian Bing Liu, and his screenwriter Martyna Majok, have done a smashing job of adapting Atticus Lish’s novel about two New York itinerants living on the margins of society. Fred Hechinger movingly plays a troubled, recently discharged vet and the extraordinary Sebiye Behtiyar, who has never acted in a feature film before, is an unauthorized Uyghur immigrant. Their vicissitudes are both timely and for all time. (R) Read the full review here. 

Sorry, Baby – This first feature from director-writer-star Eva Victor is one of the most honest and authentic portrayals of recovery from trauma I’ve ever seen. Victor’s Agnes is sexually assaulted – we never see the assault – but the film is about restoration, not victimization. As I wrote in my review at the time, the movie is “a diary of personal reclamation.” (R) Read the full review here. 

The Ballad of Wallis Island – The most sheerly enjoyable movie of the year. Tom Basden, who co-wrote the script with Tim Key, plays an over-the-hill rock star who unknowingly is paired with his bitter ex-partner, played by Carey Mulligan, for a private concert on a remote Welsh island. The eccentric millionaire who arranges the pairing is played, most eccentrically, by Key. Directed by James Griffiths, it’s a charmer. (PG-13) Read the full review here. 

The Choral – Directed by Nicholas Hytner and written by Alan Bennett – the same dream team that gave us “The Madness of King George” – it’s old-fashioned in the best sense. Beautifully structured and acted, it’s about a beleaguered choirmaster in a Yorkshire town that’s losing all its men to the Great War. Ralph Fiennes plays the choirmaster. That’s all ye need to know. (R; in theaters Dec. 25)

The President’s Cake – This remarkable debut feature from writer-director Hasan Hadi is set in a remote Iraqi village in the 1990s during Saddam Hussein’s brutal reign. Young Lamia, played by the amazing child actor Baneen Ahmed Nayyef, is required to bake a cake for the dictator’s mandatory nationwide birthday celebration. Seen through a child’s eyes, the film is an allegory that never loses its grounding in stark reality. (PG-13; with subtitles; in theaters February 2026) Read festival review here.

Train Dreams – Clint Bentley’s adaptation of the Denis Johnson novella looks at a vanishing way of life with such immediacy that we never think of it as a “period” film. Joel Edgerton, in his best performance to date, plays a logger in the Pacific Northwest at the turn of the 20th century. Replete with joy and heartbreak, it’s a film about what ultimately makes life worth living. (PG-13) Read the full review here. 

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Some other worthies: “Eephus,” “The Life of Chuck,” “Merrily We Roll Along,” “Stiller & Meara: Nothing Is Lost,” “The Alabama Solution,” “Jane Austen Wrecked My Life,” “Kiss of the Spider Woman,” “The Musicians,” “Tatami,” and “Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery.” 

Peter Rainer is the Monitor's film critic. 

My father was a world-class dickerer. As a young boy, I remember looking on as he bargained with the owner of a sporting goods store over a fishing rod he wanted to buy for my birthday. The clerk engaged patiently with my father as the two went at it. In the end, my dad prevailed and garnered a 25% discount. (His argument was that the metal fishing-line guides were poorly angled.) He also got the clerk to throw in an extra spool of fishing line.

For my part, I was embarrassed. Bargaining for something that has a plainly marked price seemed somehow wrong. As we walked along the street, I asked my dad if the man was mad at us. He looked down at me and smiled. “Of course not. If he didn’t want to sell this rod at the price I had bargained for, he would have said no.” Then he chuckled. “That man enjoyed the back-and-forth as much as I did.”

With the benefit of hindsight, I realize that my dad was right. There are those who love the art of bargaining. There are even countries where it is built into the culture. Over the years, I tried my best to emulate my father, and I concluded that dickering ability is not hereditary. I stink at it. 

Why We Wrote This

From friendly negotiation to fierce haggling, there are those who love the art of bargaining. And then, there are those, like our essayist – who has overpaid for everything from wallets to cheap sunglasses – who just plain stink at it.

I was 17 years old when I made my first independent attempt to haggle, on a class trip to Spain. “The street vendors expect you to bargain with them,” our teacher, Mr. Gurske, told us. And so, on a brilliant Madrid day, I decided to make my father proud. I spotted a street vendor with a brimming display of sunglasses. In my halting high school Spanish, I approached him and picked out an attractive pair. In an offhand manner, he quoted me the American equivalent of the local currency – $5. 

Mr. Gurske had told us to commence the dickering by offering half the stated price. Being an attentive student, I offered the man $2.50. I was taken completely by surprise when he flew off the handle and began to wave at me and berate me. I upped my offer to $3, then $3.50, then $4.50. The man told me I was insulting him. “The price is now $6,” he said, holding up six fingers for emphasis. I don’t know what possessed me, but I forked over the $6.

When I got back to the hotel, Mr. Gurske listened to my story. “You’re supposed to bargain down,” he said, agreeing not to tell my classmates about my embarrassing dickering gambit.

Over the years, I made further attempts to bargain, almost always with negative results. Regardless of where I travel, my efforts rarely bear fruit. On a recent trip to El Salvador, I was looking for a leather wallet for my son. I found the perfect item, embossed with a Salvadoran theme. The man quoted me a price of $10. I offered him $6. Looking pained, he placed his hand on his heart and then called his little boy out of the back room. The child emerged, sucking on his fist as he sniffed back tears from some scrape. The upshot: I gave the man $10. And I threw in an extra buck for some candy for the little boy.

I recall my dad once confiding the secret of successful bargaining: “You’ve got to convince the vendor that you don’t need whatever it is they’re selling. Get the stars out of your eyes. Learn to walk away.”

Again, my dad was right. It was my mother who once told me, “You have soulful, trusting eyes.”

As it turns out, my eyes have worked wonders for building relationships, but as for commerce, I’ve wound up paying top dollar for everything.

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A couple of years back, I had a delightful student from Turkey in my university class where I teach. “You must go to Istanbul,” she gushed. “You can bargain your heart out in the Grand Bazaar. What great deals!”

Yes, for anyone else. But once the Turks see my soulful eyes, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

My father was a world-class dickerer. As a young boy, I remember looking on as he bargained with the owner of a sporting goods store over a fishing rod he wanted to buy for my birthday. The clerk engaged patiently with my father as the two went at it. In the end, my dad prevailed and garnered a 25% discount. (His argument was that the metal fishing-line guides were poorly angled.) He also got the clerk to throw in an extra spool of fishing line.

For my part, I was embarrassed. Bargaining for something that has a plainly marked price seemed somehow wrong. As we walked along the street, I asked my dad if the man was mad at us. He looked down at me and smiled. “Of course not. If he didn’t want to sell this rod at the price I had bargained for, he would have said no.” Then he chuckled. “That man enjoyed the back-and-forth as much as I did.”

With the benefit of hindsight, I realize that my dad was right. There are those who love the art of bargaining. There are even countries where it is built into the culture. Over the years, I tried my best to emulate my father, and I concluded that dickering ability is not hereditary. I stink at it. 

Why We Wrote This

From friendly negotiation to fierce haggling, there are those who love the art of bargaining. And then, there are those, like our essayist – who has overpaid for everything from wallets to cheap sunglasses – who just plain stink at it.

I was 17 years old when I made my first independent attempt to haggle, on a class trip to Spain. “The street vendors expect you to bargain with them,” our teacher, Mr. Gurske, told us. And so, on a brilliant Madrid day, I decided to make my father proud. I spotted a street vendor with a brimming display of sunglasses. In my halting high school Spanish, I approached him and picked out an attractive pair. In an offhand manner, he quoted me the American equivalent of the local currency – $5. 

Mr. Gurske had told us to commence the dickering by offering half the stated price. Being an attentive student, I offered the man $2.50. I was taken completely by surprise when he flew off the handle and began to wave at me and berate me. I upped my offer to $3, then $3.50, then $4.50. The man told me I was insulting him. “The price is now $6,” he said, holding up six fingers for emphasis. I don’t know what possessed me, but I forked over the $6.

When I got back to the hotel, Mr. Gurske listened to my story. “You’re supposed to bargain down,” he said, agreeing not to tell my classmates about my embarrassing dickering gambit.

Over the years, I made further attempts to bargain, almost always with negative results. Regardless of where I travel, my efforts rarely bear fruit. On a recent trip to El Salvador, I was looking for a leather wallet for my son. I found the perfect item, embossed with a Salvadoran theme. The man quoted me a price of $10. I offered him $6. Looking pained, he placed his hand on his heart and then called his little boy out of the back room. The child emerged, sucking on his fist as he sniffed back tears from some scrape. The upshot: I gave the man $10. And I threw in an extra buck for some candy for the little boy.

I recall my dad once confiding the secret of successful bargaining: “You’ve got to convince the vendor that you don’t need whatever it is they’re selling. Get the stars out of your eyes. Learn to walk away.”

Again, my dad was right. It was my mother who once told me, “You have soulful, trusting eyes.”

As it turns out, my eyes have worked wonders for building relationships, but as for commerce, I’ve wound up paying top dollar for everything.

Deepen your worldview

with Monitor Highlights.

Already a subscriber? Log in to hide ads.

A couple of years back, I had a delightful student from Turkey in my university class where I teach. “You must go to Istanbul,” she gushed. “You can bargain your heart out in the Grand Bazaar. What great deals!”

Yes, for anyone else. But once the Turks see my soulful eyes, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

In a new “Sesame Street” skit, Cookie Monster’s pie has gone missing. Enter super sleuth Beignet Blanc. The muppet hilariously mimics Benoit Blanc, the Southern gentleman detective played by Daniel Craig in the “Knives Out” movie series. But uncovering the culprit in “Forks Out” is a piece of cake, or pie, compared with Blanc’s case in the new “Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery.”

The third “Knives Out” movie, streaming Friday on Netflix, features a murder committed inside a room that had no one except the victim in it. Not just a whodunit, but a howdunit. For series writer and director Rian Johnson, the story is an opportunity to examine religious faith. The plot centers around the murder of a controversial preacher Monsignor Wicks (Josh Brolin). Suspicion falls on his apprentice. Young priest Jud Duplenticy (Josh O’Connor) disagreed with Wicks’ vindictive and judgmental sermons. The hateful rhetoric alienated all but a faithful remnant. Only right-wing politician Cy Draven (Daryl McCormack) seems to find Wicks inspiring. Blanc, the detective – sporting a new shaggy hairdo – not only tries to solve the case but also spars with Father Jud over theology.

The Monitor interviewed Mr. Johnson, who also created the TV series “Poker Face” and directed movies such as “Star Wars: The Last Jedi,” via Zoom. The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

Why We Wrote This

For “Knives Out” series writer and director Rian Johnson, the third outing is not just a locked-room mystery, but an opportunity to examine religious faith.

Rian, you have shot down the idea of doing a “Knives Out” movie consisting of Muppet characters. So, what was your reaction to watching “Forks Out,” the “Sesame Street” spoof of your detective series?

I can’t remember a more joyous three minutes of my life than watching that. I mean, Grover said my name!

How does “Wake Up Dead Man” hold up a mirror to what you’re seeing in today’s religious landscape, including how that intersects with our political landscape?

The basic fundamental question at the heart of the movie is, [as] Father Jud says, it is “arms wide” versus “fists up.” A welcoming stance versus an us-against-them mentality. ... The idea that we’re under siege and have to fight the world, that’s definitely one of the very real aspects that I felt when I was part of the church – in addition to all the things that Father Jud represents, of the arms open, of loving your enemies and of helping the world. Those two things were always in conflict for me when I was in the church.

It’s absolutely, obviously, not just in the world of the church. ... That theme, I can point right back at myself just in my scrollings on social media and getting angry at the big “Them” out there, with a capital T. So, it’s both timely and something that I’ve been wrestling with since I was a kid.

So, through the process of writing the script and looking at all those tensions that you examined in a movie, did you come to any resolutions yourself through that process?

For me, writing this script was a way of forcing myself to delve back into my life as a believer. I found I couldn’t write this central character of Father Jud, Josh O’Connor’s character ... from my current perspective. I really, like a method actor, had to put myself back through the eyes of framing the world around me through a relationship with Christ.

The big thing, I suppose, [was] reconnecting with, and just appreciating, “Love your enemy.” That being the hardest assignment in the world, especially right now, and that being the thing that I find in myself today, even as a nonbeliever, that I need to do more of.

In the movie, there is that question of whether rational logic and revelation can be reconciled. So, when you were writing the script about a seemingly unsolvable mystery, did you have a moment as a writer when you got stuck and you couldn’t figure out a story problem, but then arrived at a solution through a seeming revelation?

Every writer will tell you this. We like to think that we’re constructing a Lego set, or constructing a crossword puzzle, or pick your analogy. The reality is, when we write, we’re always deep-sea fishing and we’re always casting into deep waters. The reality is, it is like in the movie, the moment of revelation sometimes when you’ve been working on something in the script and, suddenly, the solution presents itself. I think any writer will tell you, you only get a few of them per script. So, when those God rays shine through the window and you think, “Oh, this is what it needs to be,” it feels like a revelation as opposed to the solution to a math problem.

In “Star Wars: The Last Jedi,” you introduced the idea that the Force is accessible to anyone. It’s not just something for a select few. Is that a metaphor, perhaps, about faith being accessible to all? Something that transcends human institutions or an investiture order?

Well, it’s definitely what I was brought up in, regarding faith. I like that notion. I like that idea. It feels to me like if there’s hope in the world, that’s where it’s gonna come from. It’s not just the privileged few of a certain bloodline that get access to the basic thing that powers the universe.

Tell me a bit about the visual language of “Wake Up Dead Man” and how you and cinematographer Steve Yedlin made use of darkness and light.

The first conversation I had with Steve is, I really wanted to get theatrical with the outside natural world affecting the interior spaces of the church and our sets. I grew up in Colorado where the clouds move very fast. If you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes. And so the feeling of being in a room and having it be sunny and brightly lit, and then two seconds later it’s like God turns the lights off. And what that does emotionally to the tone of the room is something I felt a lot in life, and don’t see in movies very often. So, Steve did a lot of work so that we could have all of the lights surrounding this church set on a light control system on his computer so that we could play it almost like music, the light changes.

What are some of your favorite movies that examine faith and religion?

To do research when I was writing this script, my aunt and uncle in Denver – who are very Catholic – connected me with their priest, Father Scott. I went out to Denver and went to dinner with him and he invited five of his priest friends. I got to have an “ask me anything” session with like six young American Catholic priests. ... Anyway, I asked them what their favorite movie about a priest was and they told me this movie “Calvary” with Brendan Gleeson.

I watched this movie, and it is extraordinary. It’s because it is not soft on the edges at all about faith. It’s very much about the abuse scandal and it’s the psychological trauma of that in Ireland. It’s also a dark comedy; it’s very funny, but it is hard edged. [What] the priests loved about it is that the central character is very human, but also genuinely trying to to be a good priest, and the movie is a true look at a very hard topic.

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How did you cast Josh O’Connor as the priest, Father Jud?

I saw him in “Challengers” and thought he was great. But then I saw him in an Italian film called “La Chimera,” where he gives a beautiful performance that is very different than the one in “Challengers.” I got a sense of his range. And then I sat down and met him and, just as a human being, I just felt this instant warmth and connection from him. And I just instantly felt like I think he would really bring a sincerity to this that the part relies on. So, man, I’m so grateful that we got him for this. He really is the heart and soul of the movie.

“Boo-yah!”

It’s at once a eureka moment and distinctive expression – a familiar exultation of the late ESPN host Stuart Scott, perhaps one of most important broadcasters of our time. On the network’s flagship “SportsCenter” program, he combined professionalism with hip-hop sensibilities for a populist appeal that millions of viewers embraced. His influence and inspiration are the topics of “Boo-Yah: A Portrait of Stuart Scott,” part of the “30 for 30” series, which airs Dec. 10 at 9 p.m ET on ESPN, the ESPN app, and Disney+. It will be available for streaming on the ESPN app.

When it comes to recognizing media luminaries, it takes one to know one. “He changed the game for me,” says Danyel Smith, an author and the former editor of Vibe and Billboard magazines. Ms. Smith is prominently involved in the documentary, both as an on-screen commentator and behind-the-scenes storyteller.

Why We Wrote This

For fans of ESPN’s “SportsCenter,” Stuart Scott was someone you had to listen to, even if you already knew the score. He infused every on-air moment with his own brand of dedication, enthusiasm, and personality.

The Monitor spoke with Ms. Smith by phone ahead of the documentary’s airdate. The interview has been edited for length and clarity.

How did you become involved with the documentary?

There are people on the producing side of the documentary and on the directing side who know very well how I feel about Stuart Scott’s impact on broadcasting. I have made a career of making sure that people receive the credit that they are due. You see that in “Shine Bright,” you see it in “Black Girl Songbook.” You see it as far back as when I was working at Vibe as editor-in-chief and when I was at Billboard. I like people to receive their flowers. It’s bittersweet that Stuart isn’t here to hear us and to feel our energy, but people know that I count up the credit.

Stuart is one of the most influential broadcasters of the last 50 and maybe 100 years. Without him, sports broadcasting would not look like what it looks like today. ... It wouldn’t be as diverse, wouldn’t be as eloquent, wouldn’t be as full of energy as it is today if it wasn’t for Stuart Scott. Period.

Conversations about media and communications ultimately break down to language. What did Stuart Scott do for the sports and social mediums in that regard?

I think it’s so easy to take language for granted, to minimize its importance. Stuart Scott redefined language every day on one of the largest platforms in the world, and he talked like he talked.

I was taught as a journalist that there were rules and regulations, that there were terms and conditions. I learned to try to teach people in the most straightforward and, I hate to say it, boring way possible – in a way that was very homogenized and away from who I am as a person. I didn’t like it at all. I considered being a schoolteacher, as both my sister and my niece are, because I felt I could possibly be more myself in the classroom than in what I really wanted to do, which was to be a journalist.

But Stuart lifted me up. He lifted up my cohort, my age group, my Gen X journalism cohort. We didn’t know who we wanted to be or how we wanted to act. We weren’t sure that we were supposed to even be telling the stories that we wanted to tell, but Stuart confirmed us every day. And it wasn’t even just the hip-hop lyrics [he used], it was just the way he held himself.

He made us all feel like the best version of ourselves and that we could share that part of ourselves in our jobs. ... It wasn’t just about who won and who lost. It was about the energy of the moment. It’s not that the field goal broke wide, but what was the expression on the face of the kicker? Because isn’t that what we wanna know? And we wanted to know from Stuart. It goes back to language. You could have your head down over your cornflakes, and you would look up because Stuart was speaking. Maybe you’d already heard who won from your partner or from somebody at work. That wasn’t the point. What did Stuart have to say about it?

Talking about Mr. Scott’s legacy often makes you emotional. Where does that spirit come from?

He’s gone too soon. He gave us 10 lifetimes worth of work and energy and influence. I see so many broadcasters – regardless of race, gender, or generation – and you see Stuart Scott alive in all these professionals. I know people had Howard Cosell, and Chick Hearn, but that’s the league Stuart Scott is in. A distinctive, unforgettable legend.

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On the ESPN campus in Connecticut, you feel his spirit. There’s this big “Boo-yah!” sign that everybody wants to stand in front of and take a photo. He’s like an angel of the network.

I try to say in the documentary that we have to lift him up, and he must always be remembered because he’s not here to remind us of himself.

On Wednesday, Australia is banning social media for children and young teens. That means no TikTok, Instagram, Reddit, or Snapchat for anyone under 16. It’s the first law of its type in the world. Other countries are looking to follow Australia’s example. 

The landmark legislation stems from a book. Jonathan Haidt’s “The Anxious Generation” blames smartphones for a spike in teen mental health issues. The New York psychologist’s 2024 treatise, which has sold 2 million copies, persuaded an influential Australian politician to take action. Now, the Southern continent will fine social media companies that allow access to under-age users. 

Mr. Haidt calls the legislation “a game-changer.” Malaysia recently announced it will follow suit. Denmark is looking to restrict social platforms until age 15. Last month, the European parliament voted in favor of a nonbinding resolution for a minimum age for social media. Its president, Ursula von der Leyen, said she will monitor Australia’s experiment. 

Why We Wrote This

The country’s landmark legislation is part of a worldwide cultural shift that now sees smartphones as akin to driving and alcohol – for older teens and adults only. While supporters hope other countries follow Australia’s lead, critics say legislative bans will be ineffective, create unintended consequences, and infringe on civil liberties.

Yet, amid the groundswell, there are differing opinions about how best to address social media use for adolescents. Some believe it should be a parental issue, not a governmental one. They worry that legislative bans will be ineffective, create unintended consequences, and infringe on civil liberties. Others question whether Mr. Haidt is fostering a moral panic.

“We are very supportive of this new law that is coming into effect this week – providing parents with the air coverage we need to say ‘no,’” says Amy Friedlander of the Australian group Wait Mate, which advocates delayed smartphone use for teens.

Regardless, there’s little doubt that a global movement of concerned parents is generating conversations not just in parliaments, but also at school meetings, dinner tables, and BBQs. Viewed collectively, some see a cultural shift. One comparable, perhaps, to earlier moves to restrict teen access to tobacco, alcohol, and gambling. 

“There’s definitely now more support of higher age restrictions for social media usage, with research showing that the majority of people in most regions now believe that social media should be more heavily regulated,” says Andrew Hutchinson, an Australian who is head of content at tech industry news site Social Media Today.

The law, known as the Online Safety Amendment, dictates that platforms “take reasonable steps” to enforce the age limit. What, exactly, that entails isn’t defined. But companies could face fines up to A$49 million (U.S. $32 million). Some platforms will rely on AI-backed facial recognition to determine users’ ages. Others may require that users provide identity documents, including passports, birth certificates, or bank accounts. Meta has deactivated hundreds of thousands of accounts on Instagram and Facebook. (Turns out some kids do actually use Facebook. Who knew?) Some social media platforms, such as YouTube, will still be accessible for those under 16 but without the ability to log into an account. 

Social Media Today’s Mr. Hutchinson says that his two teenagers are confident that their cohort will figure out workarounds – perhaps virtual private networks connected to another country – to remain on social media. Some platforms including 4Chan, Discord, Bluesky, and the online gaming medium Roblox, are exempt from the ban. For now, at least. The Australian government’s efforts to stay abreast of the migrations could be like playing a game of whack-a-marsupial. Indeed, many antipodean teens are joining Yope, a new photo-sharing app geared toward Gen Z.

“If they’re hopping on other platforms and they get into trouble because it’s still social media and they’re not telling anyone they’re using it, then what happens? They have no one to go to and these are more unregulated platforms,” says Dr. Joanne Orlando, author of “Generation Connected.”

The legislation is also being challenged in court by two 15-year-olds. The lawsuit is being backed by Digital Freedom Project, an internet rights group. They worry that the legislation could be a back-door form of government censorship.

“Of course there are social harms on social media,” says John Ruddick, president of Digital Freedom Project and also a Libertarian member of the New South Wales Parliament. “But we say that this should not be outsourced to bureaucrats. This should be a paramount parental responsibility.”

 “I wanted a different future”

By contrast, the Australian advocacy group Wait Mate doesn’t see it as either a parenting or government issue. It needs a “whole-society” approach to turn things around quickly, says Ms. Friedlander via email. 

The group promotes an online pledge to delay smartphones as a form of collective action. It’s much harder to withhold smartphones from individual children if all their peers have one. 

“Seeing kids head-down at the bus stop, the minute they walk out the school gates, crossing the road, waiting in line – never looking up, it totally depressed me,” says Ms. Friedlander, who lives in Sydney and has three daughters. “The inability of teens around me to be present or connect was worrying. I wanted a different future for my own kids.”

Wait Mate was inspired by a similar pledge in the U.S. called Wait Until 8th. 

“Parents were waiting for something like this: a simple and collective way to push back against a cultural current that felt too strong to face alone,” says Brooke Shannon, the Austin, Texas-based founder of Wait Until 8th. Writing via email, she calls Australia’s social media restrictions “a bold and encouraging step.” 

Like its American counterpart, Wait Mate has seen a surge of interest since Mr. Haidt’s book went viral. The pledge now has 14,000 signatures. 

In the U.S., 35 states have now either fully prohibited or restricted cellphone use in schools. That’s a monumental shift. Just two years ago, Florida became the first state to issue a ban. Educators in other nations are taking similar steps. 

Cycling rather than scrolling

When Australian teacher Jimmy Kakanis read “The Anxious Generation,” he turned the school’s leadership team on to Mr. Haidt’s ideas. First, the high school in the town of Murwillumbah banned phone use for students. Then Mr. Kakanis started fixing up old bicycles for the playground. Mr. Haidt’s book advocates encouraging kids to spend more time congregating face-to-face rather than screen-to-screen. Preferably outdoors.

It’s also important, Mr. Haidt explains, for overscheduled kids to have times of boredom. And to allow children more freedom to take risks – within limits – so that they become more resilient and responsible. Often, they’ll fill that vacuum by discovering hitherto unexplored talents and interests. Like taking up cycling instead of scrolling. Mr. Kakanis’s students spontaneously built dirt bumps for airborne jumps. He started connecting with boys who’d been recalcitrant in classroom settings. 

“It’s been awesome to see those guys just going with it … fixing bikes, grease on their hands, figuring it out,” says the teacher. “I’m hands off. I’m just letting them do their thing.”

Mr. Kakanis can attest to the deleterious effects of smartphone over-dependency. One 13-year-old admitted to spending as many as 22 hours online on a Saturday. She was constantly getting into fights via her phone. That would then carry over into school. 

In Lexington, Massachusetts, a parent in a social-media delay group called “Lex Kids Be Kids,” asked her school system to share its Youth Risk Behavior Survey. It includes questions about mental health and social media habits.

“I was able to get [the town schools] to conduct cross tabs on the results to show the effect of increased time of social media use on mental health and other factors (i.e., physical activity and sleep) in order to show the negative impacts social media is having on our own Lexington youth,” says Wendi Hoffer, a parent of three, via email.

“The Anxious Generation” offered the structure and backing for how “Lex Kids Be Kids” could move forward, Ms. Hoffer says.

Mr. Haidt’s book isn’t without its critics. Some psychologists say that it’s a mistake to claim a direct causal relationship between the adoption rates of cellphones and mental health issues. Those academics believe there are manifold reasons for anxiety and depression beyond just social media. Plus, they say, the scary anecdotal stories that the book recounts are outliers rather than the norm. The most vulnerable young people online are also the most vulnerable young people offline.

Will Aussie teens head back to the mall?

According to one Australian digital media expert, teen voices were largely missing during government debates about the ban.

“Young people really feel that their experiences have been homogenized by adults in the national conversation,” says Kim Osman, a senior research associate at the Digital Media Research Centre at the Queensland University of Technology. “There hasn’t been an acknowledgement of how different their experiences are.”

Ms. Osman helped lead a team that interviewed 86 teens across Australia about the roles that social media plays in their lives. The nonrepresentational sample yielded a variety of responses. Many of the 12- to 15-year-old interviewees lamented that the benefits of social media – including pursuing interests such as cooking or learning to tie fishing knots – have sometimes been overlooked in the calls for blanket bans.

“They love being able to express themselves creatively,” says Ms. Osman. “For a lot of young people, that’s where their community is.”

Nonetheless, an overwhelming number of the respondents said they welcomed more rules. They recognized the potential risks and harms of the platforms. 

That’s where parents can play a powerful role, says Amanda Third, research fellow in digital social and cultural research at Western Sydney University. She says parents need to be more tech literate. And moms and dads should model good technology practices themselves.

“Children translate their moral frameworks across online and offline spaces,” says Ms. Third, who is also a children and families expert adviser to YouTube. “It’s not that they go into some kind of weird moral vacuum when they go online.”

Ms. Third adds that technology does present challenges that may need to be regulated. But she wishes that Australia had taken an alternative approach. Rather than a blanket ban, she favors pressuring technology companies to design better solutions around child protection online.

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Mr. Hutchinson of Social Media Today is also critical of Australia’s approach. It’s more of a public relations move than substantive policy, he says. He calls it a bid to align with parental concerns.

“I suspect that other nations will be watching on to see what happens,” says Mr. Hutchinson, writing via email from his home in Canberra, Australia. “They’ll eventually see, via this test case, that education, and a collaborative approach to oversight, is more effective than blanket restrictions.”

Last year, Richard Leong got a call from his daughter. She asked whether he would like to go through a spiritual formation program with her.

The Rev. David Kim created Nautilus to “reboot the spiritual operating system,” after watching the United States struggle in the aftermath of the 2016 election and the pandemic. He could see people’s relationship with their faith changing as they distanced from church, feeling like they no longer had “a spiritual home.” He set out to create an online community that focuses on spiritual companionship.

That intrigued Mr. Leong and his daughter, who are both Christian. So they signed up. And then they encountered a surprise participant named Shelley.

Why We Wrote This

Some retirees are turning to AI chatbots, including those tailored to their specific faith tradition, for big questions such as the meaning of their life and finding purpose in retirement. There is the potential for bots to serve as a mirror or sounding board, those studying the technology say, but there are also risks.

The surprise? Shelley is a chatbot.

Unlike open models such as ChatGPT, which draw on anything and everything available on the internet, Shelley is trained on a limited selection of writings compiled by Reverend Kim to generate answers that spring from Christian ideals. So, when users ask Shelley a question, they get a response more closely tailored to their value system.

At first, Mr. Leong was reluctant to engage.

“The whole idea of using AI for spiritual purposes sounded just weird to me,” he says. “It sounded impersonal.”

But as the retired energy company CEO began experimenting, he saw an unexpected benefit. Shelley, it turned out, was useful in suggesting new ways he could arrange his priorities in retirement. He found that Shelley became a kind of mirror that reflected his life patterns and experiences back to him in ways he hadn’t considered. “It started feeling less about technology and more about being a tool to help me discern things,” he says.

Chatbots have the potential to serve as a tool for people transitioning into retirement, says George Demiris, a University of Pennsylvania professor whose focus areas include aging, technology, and artificial intelligence. Despite well-documented risks, the use is not just exploratory anymore.

“Beyond companionship, a lot of these chatbots are supposed to be really effective tools in goal setting, problem solving, and guided reflection,” he says. “Having this be a tool as one redesigns the next chapter of their lives could be quite a powerful platform.”

Older adults are the fastest growing demographic in America, not to mention the wealthiest. They are healthier and live longer than past generations. They power churches. By the end of the decade, almost 10% of the workforce will be 65 or older. Some research shows that people often feel a loss of purpose in retirement, reflected in phrases like “sunset cruise.” As Americans of all ages become lonelier, growing numbers are engaging with chatbots. For older adults with limited mobility or who live far from family, that can be an answer to isolation. But there are risks. In some cases, chatbots have urged users to commit crimes or harm themselves, adding to questions about whether AI can simulate human connection, and do so safely.

Broadly, Reverend Kim has seen the most interest in Shelley from people of retirement age. “It helped them probe the possibility of the next 10 years,” he says.

“The status quo of that demographic is you just quietly and comfortably fade,” he says. “We’re trying to change that.”

A purpose-driven retirement

A quiet retirement wouldn’t suit Mr. Leong. He walks briskly and speaks animatedly and always seems to be mulling new ideas. He loves to hike but has fewer opportunities since he and his wife moved from the Pacific Northwest to Northern Virginia. But even exploring the awe-inspiring mountains of Washington, he would have felt something missing: purpose. Or, in Mr. Leong’s words, “my calling.”

Everyone has a calling, he believes, no matter their understanding of a higher power. That doesn’t diminish in later years, even if American society doesn’t value elders and the skills they possess, he says, forfeiting a wealth of knowledge and ability.

“I may have retired from my professional life, but the calling that God has given me is still there,” he says.

Mr. Leong says it takes a lot of forethought and preparation to get a thought-provoking answer from the chatbot. But if he commits the time, he says the results are rewarding. He has used Shelley as a sounding board and idea generator for how to set his priorities and focus, including where his family should direct their philanthropic efforts.

At the same time, experts worry about risks from data privacy to the loss of human reciprocity. “One problem is that AI chatbots are known to mirror and amplify delusional thinking expressed by users,” writes Clara Berridge, a gerontologist and professor at the University of Washington School of Social Work, over email. “AI chatbots are sycophants with the purpose of keeping users engaged. Sustained engagement is priority number one for the companies that own them, not safety or accuracy.”

“Shelley doesn’t replace God for me”

One older man in the group called Shelley his personal think tank. Others saw Shelley as a spiritual companion.

That particular year, the group had “a vision to change the perception of retirement,” says Mr. Kim. He and Mr. Leong are now developing an initiative, Still Called, designed for people who are retired. When people are post-career, society either devalues them or casts a positive light on newfound leisure time. “It’s another way of saying, ‘why don’t you just go away,’” he says.

Instead, Reverend Kim, who leads the nonprofit Goldenwood, views the retirement stage as an emeritus one. “The oldest trees in a forest are the most critical,” he says. “Your work related to our society is not yet done.”

When he started through the Nautilus course, Mr. Leong thought most of his “big callings” were behind him. But he reached a new conclusion: “God’s call never expires. It morphs into other things.”

His path isn’t for everyone in his phase of life, he acknowledges. But there’s something specific for each person. “There are just so many ways of engaging with society and the culture,” he says.

As part of the course, Mr. Leong divided his life into 15 year chunks and examined his experiences and motivations during each, and how they shaped who he is today. His parents immigrated to the United States from China and he grew up in a housing project in New York City. Respect for others, especially elders, is central to Chinese culture. He always assumed that’s why he holds a similar value. But as he analyzed each stage of his life, he could see that thread running through – along with others, like sensitivity and concern for the marginalized in society.

Inputting his pages of reflections and asking Shelley to highlight connections brought out ideas that hadn’t occurred to him on his own. “I don’t want to use Shelley just to give me the answer,” he says. “I want her to give me ideas. I want her to expand my thoughts. I want her to show me things that I’m missing.”

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Mr. Leong is careful not to share personal information with Shelley, and he is aware of the limitations. The more he uses Shelley, and the more information he shares, he says the more pronounced the echo chamber effect could become.

Ultimately, the substance of his views and practice of faith are the same as before he began experimenting with AI, Mr. Leong says. “Shelley doesn’t replace God for me.”

New York City is famous for its holiday delights: the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade, the tree lighting at Rockefeller Center, the Rockettes. But the glitter and gold often stand in stark contrast to the city’s gritty streets. Helping to bridge that divide are five families who, almost overnight, transform the five boroughs into forests of fir trees every December. “The Merchants of Joy,” now streaming on Amazon Prime, is a different kind of holiday movie. It features some street-wise themes and language you don’t often encounter in Christmas movies (it’s recommended for ages 16 and up). But, through its storytelling, it also aims to show the spirit of the season from a new perspective: that of the sidewalk tree merchant.

Director Celia Aniskovich says in a Zoom interview that she hoped to make “a film that people could revisit and watch year after year, and feel a kind of warm Christmas hug with a little grit.”

Rainy Decembers and the increased demand for artificial trees are among the challenges the tree families face – not to mention high-stakes competition. But they return every year, often helping each other and the community. Ms. Aniskovich says the project in many ways restored her faith in humanity. “I saw real generosity and love at every turn.”

Why We Wrote This

Director Celia Aniskovich’s new documentary, “The Merchants of Joy,” explores the tree-selling families that turn New York’s streets into forests of firs at the holidays – and highlights the competition and compassion that accompany them.

The conversation has been edited for length and clarity.

How did you come to tell this story of the Christmas tree merchants?

In December of 2022, there was an article called “Secrets of the Christmas Tree Trade” [by Owen Long] that was published in Epic magazine. ... Right after the article was published, everybody in the world sent it to me, starting with my own mother, and said. ... It’s New York, it’s Christmas. Do you know this story? You’ve got to make this film. ... So, we optioned the article. And that was the foundation of the film. And then [the writer] introduced me to Big Greg [Greg Walsh of Greg’s Trees]. I went to his house in Queens. He grilled me with some questions, decided I was worthy, and then introduced me to all of the other families.

The title of the film includes that word: joy. What does that mean to you?

“Merchants of Joy” is actually the Nashs’ [one of the five families] tagline. They’ve had it since 1974. ... We talk a lot about what divides us. We talk a lot about the dark of the world. There aren’t a lot of happy documentaries out there. To me, joy is not naive; joy is brave. Joy is hard. It’s work. But we can do it. It’s something we can all give to one another.

The merchants are clearly competitive and sometimes salty entrepreneurs. However, you also show them as collaborators and supporters of each other. How did you balance those two sides?

Very quickly, it, for me, became important to recognize that this was a film about a lot more than petty rivalries and a lot more than sales figures. This was about something much bigger, and that was going to be the takeaway. It wasn’t going to be: Who won Christmas?

Watching the film, I was surprised to learn that many of the workers sleep at the Christmas tree stands during the five weeks they are selling trees in the city. What did you learn that was unexpected during this three-year project?

I lived in New York for 15 years. Like so many New Yorkers, you go to bed one day, you wake up, and the whole city is a forest, and you never really think: How did they get here? What does it take? I never imagined that these five families would control almost all of the sales of trees across the five boroughs. I was shocked at the practical level of how it worked, how much it cost. You know, Ciree Nash [the CEO of Uptown Christmas Trees] just told me it costs her $1.3 million to break even every year. That’s wild. ... But then on [the] less logistical side, I was really shocked to learn that this is a calling for these people. Greg says, “We are hustlers. We’re peddlers. But we could have chosen to sell anything, and we chose to sell trees because it’s not just about a product for us. It’s about a memory and a moment and creating that special time for families.”

What universal themes do you think will resonate with people watching this story?

This to me is a story about tradition, a story about family, a story about a legacy, a story about community. These five families are … [from] different backgrounds, and they come together, and they put Christmas first. For some of them ... it is a religious calling. They feel as though they have been put on this earth to bring people magic, but also to ... [help people], as you saw in the film, Heather [Neville of the NYC Tree Lady] hires the “undesirables,” as they describe themselves. There are a lot of universal themes in this movie. I hope the biggest one that people see is that you can change someone’s life. You don’t know what a kind word might do for someone. You don’t know what a hand up might mean.

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What do you hope viewers carry away with them after watching this film?

This is a celebration of working-class joy. We don’t see a lot of working-class joy, and it’s really powerful. I hope that people watch this with their families again and again. I hope they carry with them some of the messages that all of these tree salesmen brought me, which is that life is about a lot more than the little things we worry about.