They staged a marathon once in December—12 hours, 12 directors, a slice of the world in cinematic cuts. People came in pajamas and left in first light, exhausted and jubiliant. A family of three dozed in the front row during a quiet, black-and-white epistolary drama. Beside them, a graduate student took furious notes between scenes, and a retired musician whispered chord progressions aloud. For the staff, it was holy work: the cueing of reels felt like conducting a choir of light.