This week, we have walking octopi from outer space, a pontificating lion, a duped Johnny Depp and a soccer documentary. The last two give rise to the terms “duped Depp” and “soc-doc,” which you’ll be glad to know I’ve now gotten out of my system. Actually, from my perspective, it’s another kind of slack week. I’ve seen and reviewed Monsters, and my partner in perfidy, Mr. Souther, has seen and reviewed Pelada, both of which open Friday at The Carolina, and both of which you can read about in this week’s Xpress. That leaves the new Narnia picture and The Tourist, which are opening all over the place.

Running across The Gilded Lily (1935) in the TCM listings (Sun., Dec. 5 at 2 p.m. ET) this week made me think about all the movies that just seem to fall through the cracks for one reason or another. The Gilded Lily is one such film. Its director, Wesley Ruggles (brother of Paramount comedian Charlie Ruggles), was once considered a fairly major director, but he lacked a notable signature and so lacked staying power. Claudette Colbert was a big star for years, but she’s not someone who got snatched up by the nostalgia craze of the 1960s and 70s. I have no idea why. The same is true of co-star Fred MacMurray, though he became so identified with the My Three Sons TV series and his Disney movies that his earlier work was eclipsed. What little treasures are we missing out on because of this?

A week of some interest from my perspective heads our way. Yes, it’s big news that Danny Boyle’s 127 Hours opens (at The Carolina and the Fine Arts), but I’ve seen it (twice). Both it and another opener, Cool It, are reviewed in this week’s Xpress. All that leaves is The Warrior’s Way. It occurs to me that if I work this right—meaning I palm off The Warrior’s Way on a certain particular co-reviewer—I can get something like the weekend off. The prospect of this causes me no pain.

I know I’ve batted around the question of when you fell in love with the movies, but in one of those moments of passing pensiveness I found myself pondering the related question of who—or alternatively what, I suppose—got you started watching movies in the first place. I think it’s probably safe to assume that most of us had some kind of moviegoing mentor—even if it’s just as probable that the mentor in question had no earthly idea that’s what he or she was. Myself, I’m having a little difficulty actually pinpointing such a person.

Since it’s Thanksgiving, everything opens on Wednesday this week. The idea is not merely to cash in on the fact that school will be out, but also it serves the public function of providing something that families can do together without the need for actual interaction. In this regard, Hollywood probably prevents thousands of murders a year. That’s admirable. I cannot, however, pretend any great personal excitement over the bill of fare this year.

The Marx Brothers—for those who don’t know—were a team of Jewish comics who made their way from vaudeville to the Broadway stage and from there to the movies. For our purposes, they were Groucho, Harpo, Chico and—for five movies anyway—Zeppo. According to rumor and most historians and critics, they are supposed to be funny. They counted George Bernard Shaw, T.S. Elliot and Salvador Dali among their fans (Dali even sent Harpo a harp strung with barbed wire). Many books—ranging from the fannish to the exceedlingly academic—have been written about them, starting with Alan Eyles’ The Marx Brothers: Their World of Comedy in 1966, which coincided with their disovery by a generation of moviegoers who were mostly born after the boys made their best films. But where are the Marx Brothers on today’s radar?