He started, “Once upon a time, three little brown bears.”

“No, no, that’s not right!” she shouted, interrupting him before he could get to the action. “They weren’t little, there weren’t three of them and they weren’t brown.”

“Wait!” he protested, putting up a finger. “Who is telling this story, you or me?”

“No, well, if you’re going to tell it, tell it right,” she argued.

“But it’s a children’s story,” he snapped. “Can’t we just tell the story?”

“You want him to go to school with the wrong details? You want him to come home with a bloody nose because someone punched him when he argued about whether they were little brown bears or medium-sized, endangered polar bears?”

“You think our kid is going to get into a fight because I might have used the wrong details in a story? Weren’t we trying to put the kid to sleep? Look at him now. He’s crawling all over the bed, putting everything he can reach into his mouth,” he said.

“Yeah, well, get the details right next time,” she huffed, storming out of the room.

What is it about storytelling that divides the sexes? Why is it that a man remembers a story one way and a woman seems so much better at remembering the details?

Is it fair to generalize? Well, like every generalization, yes and no.

A friend recently shared his observation that his girlfriend, whom he thinks is absolutely one of the best people he’s ever known, has only one small problem — she tends to take all the momentum out of his stories by correcting him.

Is she wrong, I wondered? And even if she’s not wrong, do the details matter? When I thought about all the couples I’ve known over the years, it seemed to me, in my nonscientific recollections, that the women were more likely than the men to halt a story to fix a detail.

“So, there were we were, in the middle of a fire alarm scare in Boston, and we were standing at the window ledge, eight stories up,” he might be saying.

“No! No! We were in San Francisco, not Boston, and we were on the 11th floor,” she might suggest.

A glare and bad body language often follows, as the man loses the thread of his story while he grinds his teeth, wondering whether he can or should confront the love of his life in front of other people.

Is this one of those differences between the sexes that reflect the fact that men are from Mars and women are from Venus? I suspect it is. The way I see it, the details we share about our lives in stories are like the fish we might collect if we were standing at the edge of a pier in Stony Brook, dropping nets into the water to catch fish — or story details — as they swim by.

The holes in a man’s net are larger, letting the small fish swim through, while the holes in the women’s nets are smaller. The women pull up their nets and notice and count the large and small fish, paying meticulous attention to everything, cataloging the variety of fish in their nets.

The men look at the fish and wonder: (a) “Is this enough for dinner?” (b) “Should I take a picture of it?” and most importantly (c) “Did I catch more fish than my brother or the stranger at the end of the pier who kept bragging about all the fish he caught?”

The next time a man’s story goes off track because of specific details, maybe he can suggest he’s focusing on the “bigger fish.” Then again, a woman might rightfully reply that he’s just telling another “fish” story.

When the Wright brothers invented man-made flight more than a century ago, I can’t imagine they thought it’d be a good idea for airlines to charge for meals when more than 200 people are stuck in the same plane for over four hours. Then again, they may not have imagined just how common and popular planes would be.

Almost anywhere in the country, we can look toward the heaven and see a plane bathed in sunlight at the end of the day.

Then again, someone on that plane might have just closed the blind, keeping that annoying light off the screen to watch a fictional character stuck on Mars, colonizing a planet with potatoes.

Speaking of uncomfortable situations, maybe the guy or girl stuck in the last row near the bathroom is rooted near someone who insists on sharing his life story, his experience with his neighbors, or his laundry list of gripes. If the Long Island Rail Road can make quiet cars, can airlines designate quiet sections? Maybe they can add a quiet button, with a picture of a flight attendant with a finger over her pursed lips on the bulkhead?

The flight attendant might whisper, “As you can see, the captain has turned on the ‘No-sharing terrible stories, petty frustrations, or things you might find funny with the person next to you button.’ Please, zip it! While you’re at it, please stop tapping that person on the shoulder to get him to look at you. He doesn’t want to look at you. He’s trying to close his eyes.”

We are a culture that marinates in our frustrations, anger and judgments.

“Can you believe the food cart only had chicken or fish and didn’t have a vegan/vegetarian/dairy-free option?” someone might ask.

“Would you have bought something from the cart?” we might reply.

“Heavens, no. Did you see the prices? I’m just saying they ought to offer it.”

Each flight starts with informative details. “We’ll be flying at 34,000 feet,” the captain might share in his best “The Right Stuff” voice.

“Excuse me, miss? Can we fly at 33,000 feet? My doctor suggested I stay below 33,000 feet because anything higher triggers the side effects from the drug I’m taking because of that ad on TV.”

Then there’s all the beeps. Bing! “You can move about the cabin now but keep your seat belt fastened when you’re in your seat.” Bing! “The restroom in the front is just for the first-class passengers, regardless of how badly you have to go to the bathroom because you ate nine hours of food so you wouldn’t be hungry and have to buy a meal on the plane.”

How about putting the people who want to invent new, safe and potentially delicious food options together with the airlines, giving people a chance to sample new foods? We’re a captive audience, watching movies, playing cards, reading and wondering whether we should be eating breakfast or dinner, depending on whether we’re trying to keep our stomachs on the local time in the place we left or the local time in the place we’re going to. While we’re sitting there, let’s watch independent films we can’t see in the suburbs and eat food that comes from the land we’re flying over.

I love those images of our plane that indicate where we are located. Too bad for Rhode Island and Delaware that the image is often bigger than the entire state. That could exacerbate a small state’s inferiority complex. The Wright brothers may have gotten us started, but we seem to have flown off course on our commercial flight conveniences. Bing!

There we are at the Baseball Hall of Fame. And, look, remember that time mom ran into Mets pitcher Noah Syndergaard on the street and got a selfie with him. Speaking of selfies, how about that one of our nephew who ran into Celtics’ basketball player David Lee in Boston?

Yes, every year, we produce countless photographic memories, capturing the moment. Those pictures may be worth a thousand words — and more.

I’m talking about our other senses. We have this incredible evolutionary gift that enables us to experience our lives, to appreciate and understand what’s happening now beyond just seeing a video, or flipping or clicking through a photo album.

At some point we’ve all lost someone we love. We can look at pictures, visit their graves and listen to their favorite songs. But the experience, at least for me, of remembering how they spoke or what they said breathes life into that memory.

Despite growing up in Manhattan, my Aunt Maxine developed a Jimmy Durante way of speaking. “Hey, you!” she’d shout at me from across the room. “Did yah remembuh? It’s my boithday soon and ya gotta get me a cake and a watch.”

Shorter than most adults, Aunt Maxine, who died several years ago, was so much more than her small frame. Yes, she flooded the airwaves at times with a deep voice that could seem like a jackhammer. And yet she could charm a Mona Lisa-type smile out of the most hesitant of audiences. My first thought is not of her stature, but the gift of her humor and of the back scratches she shared with her small, soft hands.

As we prepare to close the book on 2015, it’s worth going beyond the pictures of experiences, victories, defeats and challenging moments to celebrate our senses.

I recently attended a holiday party where a couple described in savory details the taste of a seven-fish stew they eat every year at Christmas. A relative who died long ago used to make it for their family. Not only do they appreciate the flavor, but they also use the taste to reconnect with their ancestors who left Italy long ago.

When we look at that picture of ourselves at a baseball game, we can and should remember the sun that peaked through the clouds, warming the backs of our necks. Even if we don’t eat the hot dogs, we can bask in the connection between that smell and those times we sat high in the seats at a baseball stadium, waiting for the hot dog vendor to place those warm meals wrapped in napkins in our mitts, which we refused to remove in case a foul ball came our way.

When we see that picture of our daughter in the dress she bought for a party, let’s allow the squeal she let out when she found the perfect outfit to echo in our minds. If you’re lucky and your daughter shares an excited sound, does a triumphant dance or expresses a joy that resonates throughout her body, you know how those movements or sounds make you feel. It’s probably something akin to how mother penguins, who have left their young for days on end to hunt for fish, react when they return to the familiar call of their young.

Or, maybe, we’ll take a moment to relive the way we bent over double, laughing with our wives and kids, about something ridiculous we said just before we got out of the car. Wonderful as the pictures of each year are, they’re the tip of the sensory iceberg of the experiences we shared in 2015.

My children are excellent musicians. OK, so I’m a little biased because I love music, I’m kind of fond of them, too, and I have worked with them on their developing skills.

What they’re even better at than playing music, however, is finding ways not to play it. Well, I mean, ways not to play their instruments. They’re perfectly content to play all kinds of music including, to my surprise, country music. Many of my daughter’s adolescent friends are also fond of this genre which, on the Eastern Seaboard, seems about as typical as a 65-degree, mid-December day. Is global warming moving country music north?

Anyway, my children have developed ways to put off practicing. There’s the hunger excuse: “No, no, seriously, Dad, if you could feel inside my stomach, you’d know I’m starving.”

When the food arrives, they are far too busy laughing out loud to notice.

“I am hungry, it’s just that I had to send this text message now. It’s urgent.”

When I take the phones away, they insist someone will be stranded in the metaphorical frozen bus station in Alaska, with polar bears closing in and their friend’s only defense is a text message that will send a tone that terrifies bears.

Back to music, or not. So, now that we’re five years into their music education, their procrastination playbook includes headaches, cold sores and tired eyes that can’t possibly read such small notes. Crying “wolf” too many times, when I’ve seen them bouncing around the house after their headaches rendered them unable to practice, has made me less inclined to believe them.

But, then, last week, my son picked up his instrument and, within seconds, had developed a serious case of the hiccups. One of the many genetic gifts from my father are these hiccups that cause fish to change directions in nearby tanks, birds to fly from their trees and heads to swivel in the direction of that sudden violent, two-toned sound. Even when they were in my wife’s uterus, our children caused her stomach to jump, as if they were miniature maracas.

Before he could play a note, my son increased the tempo of his hiccups, generating a violent and explosive noise. While I was annoyed that he wasn’t playing when he promised to practice, I admit that I was impressed that I was outmaneuvered by an adolescent, hiccuping diaphragm.

A friend has this technique where she drinks from the opposite side of a glass while holding her nose. I’ve seen it work before, but I’m not sure I’d want to try it with my son without an EMT present. I had him try my method, which involves holding his breath for as long as he can, taking a small breath and then repeating the process. I figure it’s a way of starving the diaphragm of air until it goes back to its usual job. He gamely tried, but it didn’t work. I even scared him by telling him about all the standardized tests coming in the next several years. That was similarly ineffective.

When I gave up, I saw a small Mona Lisa-type grin on the corners of his mouth which formed as he pulled his unused instrument apart and put it back in its case. I wondered how, if he had so much control over his diaphragm, he might use that power constructively? Then I remembered the American military blasts unpalatable music to force drug dealers and foreign leaders out of their homes. Maybe instead of pop music making these dictators wilt, the military could blast the sound of violent hiccups. “OK, guys nothing’s working, let’s bring in the diaphragm.”

Is there divine  in all of us, or only in the people who share our religion? If your God, my God, anyone’s God, created the Earth and all the people, animals and planets on it, then does She want those who are true believers to annihilate and destroy the other people She created because they don’t believe in Her?

What? You don’t think God could be female? That’s a topic for another column. Recently, I read about a charitable act. At the end of the article, I saw that people were commenting about how that charity could only come from someone of their religion — I’m not going to indicate what religion it was.

The commentors were convinced that it couldn’t have come from someone who followed a different religious discipline. Why? If there are elements to ourselves that are a combination of destroyers and builders, lovers and haters, sinners and saints, why should something extraordinary or even inspirational be limited to one religion?

Couldn’t everyone’s God speak through or act through one person, regardless of his background or religion, to inspire others to greater heights, to do something incredibly beneficial to his or her fellow human beings without selecting only those people who go to the right building, speak the right language and follow the right religious practices? Maybe we need to close our eyes to see the divine  in everyone.

Religion has this way of bringing out the best in us and, at times, the worst. We sometimes feel that we’ve received some message from a divine being who tells us that we must right the wrongs of people who are outside our religous group. Centuries after the Crusades, humans still resort to weapons to make our point with those who have other religious beliefs.

I understand the fear, especially in an era when every politician with national aspirations describes a boogeyman (or woman). I also understand the reality that there are people bent on destroying us and that we can’t go naively into that good night, imagining we live in a utopian world where we can ignore threats. It’s real and it dominates the headlines every day.

This isn’t about the extreme cases, where we have to be vigilant against killers who, for whatever reason, feel they are doing something important in their lives by killing others before dying. That doesn’t seem like much of a way to honor anyone’s God.

This is about the way we relate to each other and the way we think of religious groups outside our own. Why should something spectacular or incredible have to originate from the mind or heart of someone from our religion?

Turning this around, do you like everyone in your church, temple or mosque? Do you routinely sit during services and feel a universal kindred spirit with everyone in that room that you don’t feel with the people in your child’s classroom at school, at your daughter’s ballet recital or at a concert where the music seems to echo around the room long after our kids have stopped strumming?

Would you randomly pick a name out of the hat at your house of worship and be equally thrilled to host any of those people in your home for a week, a night or even a long dinner?

Religion can offer us a chance to see and imagine that the best is yet to come in anyone around us. We don’t have to give up our own religion and it doesn’t lessen our religion to believe that something spectacular lies just beneath the surface of another person passing by us, even if that person doesn’t share our religion.

If we are all God’s children, wouldn’t She (or He) want us to put more effort into getting along with our siblings?

During the holidays we donate coats to the homeless, buy presents for strangers and send cards to the brave soldiers representing our country far from home. In addition to those charitable efforts during this time of year, how about if we come up with ways to give to our planet?

Huh? In light, if you’ll pardon the pun, of the current United Nations climate-change meeting of world leaders in Paris, perhaps we can add a few small items to our lists. And, no, most of them don’t require spending any money. In fact, they will help save money.

For starters, and this is something my Depression-era grandparents ingrained in me from an early age, turn off the lights in rooms we don’t use. I know that’s tough, especially during this darker time of year, but it cuts our electric bill. That’s an extra few bucks in your pocket at a time when our kids absolutely, positively, have to get the latest, greatest, fastest, most-fashionable present to pass the holiday parent test.

When we drive somewhere and wait for someone, turn off those engines. Seriously, idling is something we should never do. It wastes gas and pollutes the environment. I appreciate all the effort parents make to sit outside schools, piano lessons, practices and games, waiting to pick up their children. But leaving the engine on is not only unnecessary, it fills the air with pollutants just before our children step in the car. Having sat in cars in temperatures below freezing for close to a half-hour, I assure you that the car stays warm if you don’t open your window or door. Seriously, try it. It also gives us those cherished moments of silence.

Then, there’s the thermostat. Yeah, I know we like it warm, but for the month of December, how about turning it down just 2 degrees? If that becomes unbearable, lower it just 1 degree. It might not seem like much individually, but that can and will make a huge difference collectively.

During the night we can turn off our computers and printers. These machines are much faster at booting up than the same electronics were just a decade ago. While we’re waiting for our computers to come back online, we can check our emails, send important messages about what we just realized we need to get from the store, and send instant messages to people around the world.

OK, so, we’ve got that shopping list and we know you’ll forget something because the overstimulating holiday environment of most stores has an ability to soften our brains. The bright and clever displays and constant caroling music on the radio encourage us to buy something that wasn’t on the list, turning us into consumer marionettes.

But if we were more efficient about our holiday shopping, we could buy that extra thing and still cross everything else off the list. What does that buy us? It gives us more time to write that rhyming couplet expressing our enduring love for our spouse and it reduces the amount of time we’re running back and forth to stores.

How about walking? I know it seems hard to imagine carrying everything from store to store but, let’s face it, it’s hard to find parking spots anyway. Instead of using gas to get from one place to another, by walking we could burn off that extra piece of pumpkin pie that called to us from the refrigerator.

Like so many other efforts at this time of year, giving to our planet will bring returns for us, our children and grandchildren down the road.

Is the McDonald’s commercial bothering anyone else? I get it. The Golden Arches is serving breakfast all day long. Something about that radio advertisement is irritating, especially after I’ve heard it for the 20th time in a day.

In honor of that commercial, I thought I’d share a list of the trivial things I’m thankful for. Yes, I know there are many real things to appreciate, but, for now, I choose to focus on the mundane.

I’m thankful I’m not sitting next to someone telling me why he’s so angry at his ex-wife. Divorce is tough and coordinating activities for kids is challenging — even for parents who are happily married — but, dude, I don’t need to hear every twist and turn in your agonizing morning. I know, that sounds terrible and unsympathetic, but we don’t have to share everything with everyone.

I’m thankful that some games get canceled because of rain or snow. I know it’s our fault that we put our kids in all these sports and that some time down the road, I’ll have to get back on the road for a makeup game. But, in the moment, I can’t help enjoying the unexpected freedom to leave the keys and my chauffeur hat where they are.

I’m trivially thankful I’m not much taller. If I were much taller, I might have to duck when I entered a room or struggle to find a place to hide when someone who is about to tell me all the things about his ex-wife that bother him. Who am I kidding, right? It’d be cool to be taller and be able to dunk a basketball or even have a better view of people coming down a crowded hallway.

I’m thankful I’m not waiting behind a car that’s in the left lane and doesn’t have a blinker on. I’m not sitting at a turn when, just as the light turns green, the guy puts on his blinker, forcing me to wait while the cars in the right gleefully pass me without giving an inch to allow me to sneak into the other line. Hooray! Let’s hear it for those last minute blinker people, who give me a chance to appreciate the same traffic light another time through the green-yellow- red cycle. You never know: maybe the light will go from yellow to green this time and I will be the first one to witness it. And, maybe the traffic light will send me a Morse code signal with the winning lottery number.

I’m thankful I’m not in middle school. If you really need me to explain this one, you were probably sickeningly popular during those awful transition years and you need another rite of passage time in your life, just so you can understand the rest of us.

I’m thankful someone isn’t trying to tell me, right now, what should outrage me. I recognize that people get outraged about real and important things, like how politicians focus too much on one thing and not the thing that matters most to them in the moment. But, hey, just because I remain calm while other people are loudly outraged doesn’t mean I deserve that disgustedly frustrated look I get when I shrug in the face of your fury.

I’m thankful some of the dialogue in movies out right now is so bad that it’s added an unintended comic dimension while giving me the chance to appreciate the difference between quality entertainment and words to connect computer animated excitement. The Mockingjay Part 2 film offers several such gems. In one scene, Peeta Mellark, played by Josh Hutchinson, and Gale Hawthorne, played by Liam Hemsworth, discuss their competing interest for Katniss Everdeen, acted with considerable seriousness by Jennifer Lawrence. They conclude that they’re not sure who Katniss will choose, but it probably doesn’t matter much because all three of them are unlikely to survive anyway. Oh yes, the sweet agony of the love triangle in the middle of a life or death struggle.

Pssst! Hey, do you want to know a secret? I’ve got a great one. It’s called … Flodgy Dodgy. Shhh! Don’t say it too loudly yet. I’m not supposed to tell anyone, but you’re a good friend. Well, no, I don’t technically know you yet, but you look like you could be a good friend. All friends start out as strangers, right?

Anyway, what is Flodgy Dodgy? It’s a made-for-TV product. Through viral marketing, we plan to put this product front and center, sharing it with the people who watch football every Sunday and with those addicted to highbrow features.

Flodgy Dodgy makes you feel good. It’s this incredible combination of things from column A, things from column B and things from column C. Each of these columns was based on years of scientific research. Well, it wasn’t actually conducted by scientists. We used these focus groups but, hey, what’s the difference? We don’t need initials. We pulled some of them directly off the Internet, so it has to be true.

We have an app, too. You can put it on your iPhone or your Samsung or whatever you’re supposed to silence before watching a movie.

So, before I get to the product, I want to let you know that the packaging of Flodgy Dodgy is not only recyclable, it’s wearable. You can take the packaging, peel off the simple sticker and, voilà, you have stickers you can put all over your notebooks and your office door. You can even put them over some of the holes in your fashionably torn jeans.

Can’t you see it? Popular kids in middle school sit down at their desks, put down their binders and there, in neon colors so bright people will practically need sunglasses to look at them, will be the name Flodgy Dodgy. When the teacher comes over and asks what it is, the kids can explain that it’s saving the environment because it doesn’t produce any waste. Well, technically, it does produce some waste, because the part you peel comes off in your hands and then you have to throw it out somewhere, but that’s not nearly as bad as the side effects from all those drugs advertised on TV.

But, wait, I haven’t gotten to the best part and, for this, we have Donald Trump to thank. He’s such an inspiration. You see, this guy doesn’t seem willing to get along with anyone in either party and he’s so far from the common man that he might as well be living on Mount Olympus, but, hey, that doesn’t matter. He’s on TV and he plays well on the small screen. He could be the first made-for-TV president who has the ability to say what we’re thinking. If we have no thoughts, he would convince us what we should be thinking because he’s The Man.

I digress. Our idea — and you’ll love this — is that we’re starting a Flodgy Dodgy network. We’re going to go out with cameras and find the people with the most Flodgy Dodgy stickers all over them and we’re going to give them 10 seconds to do a Flodgy Dodgy dance.

That’s right, TV. Ahhh! Can’t you picture it? And we’re going to let people link through the TV to all their social networks, so their friends and their jealous enemies will be able to watch them do their thing in full Flodgy Dodgy outfits.

Oh, sorry, my time’s up. I didn’t get to the product itself, but who cares? It’s not about the stuff inside, it’s about everything else and, when it comes to everything else, Flodgy Dodgy is No. 1. Now, remember, we don’t want you to tell anyone but your 20 or 50 best friends. OK?

Now that the pumpkins are disappearing, I can get ready for the best holiday ever. It’s only about 14 weeks before everyone comes for Thanksgiving. Confused? I’m the dog and you have to multiply any time unit by seven.

Keep that in mind when it looks like I need to relieve myself. That “one more minute and I’ll take you out” line becomes especially painful when your 10 minutes is more than an hour of leaning against the wall, desperately trying not to be a “bad doggie” by relieving on the carpet.

What do I love about Thanksgiving? Let’s start with the food. There’s always someone — a vegetarian, a vegan or a messy kid — who wants to remove turkey from their plate without offending the host.

With the guests coming into an unfamiliar kitchen, I get plenty of scraps that don’t make it into the garbage. When these people turn their heads quickly to look at a touchdown, they miss the garbage can with the food they’re shoveling off their plate. Once in a while, I push the garbage can an inch or two to the left or right when no one is looking.

The weather is perfect for me. I walk around all summer wearing this heavy coat with my tongue hanging down by the floor, and waiting for the leaves to change. I can’t wait to get outside and roll around on the ground, scratching my back and breathing in the cool air.

Besides the food, my favorite times are when there’s a big fight. I know these people don’t come together to argue, but they can’t help it. They’ve got old wounds, they don’t get along all the time and their kids have huge differences. People go from barking at each other, to walking away, to barking and stomping, to whimpering. I can relate to all of that.

It doesn’t happen every year, especially now that everyone holds their electronics and ignores people in the room. Still, there’s the potential for howling. Now, while I wouldn’t suggest arguing, it can and does have its benefits for me. Every time someone gets upset enough, he or she grabs the leash and takes me for an incredibly long walk. That’s when they talk to me while I’m out there doing my usual sniffing for signs of other dogs on my pathway.

This one time I was sure I smelled a mixture of a Great Dane and a greyhound. That must have been one huge dog. I’ve had dreams about meeting that dog and challenging him to a race. I know I’m just a mutt, but I get big ideas and maybe the holidays will bring more than another bone and a pat on the head this year.

Anyway, people sometimes get on their knees and pet me while they look deep into my eyes. I look back at them and see why humans and dogs first became friends. Their eyes look so doglike sometimes, it’s incredible. And the cool thing is, if the light is right, I can see a small dog in the black part of their eyes. I keep wondering when I’ll meet that dog or if, maybe, deep down inside those eyes there’s a dog waiting to come out.

Bottom line? Don’t ask too much of me now. I’m saving my appetite for the big weekend and for all the exercise and heart-to-heart talks.

Woof!

November movies are a reminder of what the medium of film can be. My wife and I recently saw “The Martian” and “Bridge of Spies.”

These two new films offer viewers a chance to think, instead of just reacting to exploding robots or people with sudden super powers.

“The Martian,” starring Matt Damon, is about how astronaut Mark Watney, who is stuck on Mars, tries to communicate with people worlds away and to survive until a rescue mission can return for him. Oh, come on, people if you’ve seen even one preview, you know that much. Anyway, Damon doesn’t spend the entire movie flexing his muscles, shooting guns and running away from would-be assassins — he reserves those actions for the series of Bourne films. He figures out how to use the limited resources on Mars to survive. While it’s difficult to blend the possibilities of real science with an explanation of what he’s doing to an audience that might not follow everything, the film does an excellent job keeping up the suspense while giving us a Martian MacGyver.

Damon’s portrayal, and the reaction of his body to an extended stay alone on Mars, is compelling. At one point, he describes how he has to ration his food, going from eating three meals a day to eating one meal every three days. By flipping back and forth from Earth to an Ares capsule to Mars, the movie keeps the action, suspense and drama going without turning the movie into a one-man show. The scenes with the staff at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory were especially satisfying, offering a look at some of the ways the hardworking analysts, engineers and scientists on Earth make it possible for humans — and satellites — to perform extraordinary tasks.

The scene shifts from the work Watney is doing on Mars to the tireless efforts of the JPL staff make it clear how much science like this is a team effort. As an aside, several scientists on Long Island have worked at a range of NASA facilities, developing technology for use on Mars rovers or working to understand the effects of extended exposure to radiation on the human body.

Meanwhile back in the late 1950s in “Bridge of Spies,” Brooklyn lawyer Jim Donovan, played by Tom Hanks, is assigned the unenviable task of defending Russian spy Rudolf Abel. The film captures the clash of duty to our country that surged through the ranks of attorneys, police officers and judges, with a duty to our Constitution which had — and often still has — a much more challenging set of rules to follow.

Donovan takes risks by defending Abel. The movie doesn’t address what secrets Abel might have been revealing, and it doesn’t need to. What it does offer, however, is a compassionate look at a soldier in a war for information during a period of heightened tension between two countries capable of destroying the world.

Portraying Abel, Mark Rylance, a stage actor who was won three Tony Awards, steals the movie. His subtle and nuanced portrayal of Abel as a prisoner of war is captivating. The audience can see how Donovan might have made the transition from doing his duty and ensuring a legal defense for this spy to feeling a greater responsibility for a man who was a devoted soldier, albeit in a war against his own country.

The characters, performances and situations in “The Martian” and “Bridge of Spies” stay with the viewers well after walking out of the theaters. Too bad Oscar voting season doesn’t come more often in a year.