It is a chore each December for my arts and entertainment colleagues and me to think about death and departure. We are compelled to remember some of those people, places and things that vanished in the previous year from the world we cover. We make a list and on it, of course, are some famous names, but also others with just compelling life stories. These annual lists are subjective and could easily go on and on. They don’t necessarily recount the year’s most newsworthy obituaries. I can speak for my pals when I tell you that we do not handle this chore with tears. In recalling lives gone, we remember the pleasure and thrills that those lives provided, sometimes over decades. Writing and reading these notes from the beyond, so to speak, bring more smiles than tears. So, read what we have to say and know that this coming new year, like any new year, is filled with promise and pleasure. From Tribune writer Christopher Borrelli Tommy DeLorenzo, who died at 38 in October, was a master balloon artist — balloon décor, balloon sculpture, balloon arches. If you could picture it, he could recreate it out of inflated clusters of rubber. He made astronauts out of balloons. He made palm trees out of balloons. He once constructed a hot air balloon out of balloons. He founded his business, Balloons by Tommy, at 14. He grew up in Elk Grove Village. Balloons by Tommy continues in Bensenville with his husband, Scott DeLorenzo. If you have attended any balloon-friendly events in the Chicago area in the past 24 years, there’s a decent chance those balloons were placed there by Tommy and his staff: Weddings and product launches and pride parades, baby showers and bar mitzvahs. His balloons would resemble cascades of oxygen bubbles sailing upward, strands of DNA, billowing sheets of candy buttons, or phosphorus deep-sea beasts made of LEDs. His work was so beloved that if there is one thing to salvage from the 2024 presidential race, one could argue it was made in Tommy’s name. The contract for the balloon-drop finale at the Democratic National Convention in August went to Treb Heining, a balloon artist whose work punctuated Super Bowls, Olympics and 14 party conventions (including Milwaukee’s Republican National Convention in July). He decided to make the drop a tribute to Tommy, who was diagnosed in 2022 with Stage 4 non-Hodgkin lymphoma. At Heining’s urging, 55 balloon artists from 18 states and Canada came to Chicago, to assemble 100,000 balloons. They wore green ribbons reading “Tommy.” Even if you didn’t know any of this, that balloon drop felt different: From the United Center rafters, white balloons floated down very slowly, as if they wanted to stretch out the moment a few extra seconds. Next came the blue balloons, then the red. Tommy watched from a hospital bed. Balloons for miles, inflated with love. Dennis McClendon, who died Aug. 8 at 67 from complications with pancreatic cancer, drew maps for a living. Yet that’s a vast understatement. McClendon was so prolific, that if you live or work in Chicago, he probably defines your day without you even realizing. Some Chicagoans have his work tattooed on their bodies. The Chicago Sun-Times called him the “Michael Jordan of geographical design,” which is exactly right. In 1993, when the CTA adopted a color-coded system for train lines, McClendon drew that map, which is the same map we see today. He drew the maps for the American Institute of Architects’ indispensable guide to Chicago buildings. He drew the maps we use for PACE buses. He drew all 442 maps in “The Encyclopedia of Chicago.” He created the Chicago Bike Map for the Chicago Department of Transportation. That’s just Chicago. McClendon’s company, Chicago CartoGraphics, was frequently commissioned by real estate businesses and tourism boards around the world. According to the RTA, he was updating its local transit maps just before he died. He knew a scary amount about Chicago, and like many Chicago experts, he was an autodidact born elsewhere. He came from Texarkana, Arkansas, where he worked as a radio DJ. By the time he arrived in Chicago in 1983, he had a law degree and worked for Arthur Andersen. But he left to make maps for the American Planning Association. He found his life’s work. He became a (self-taught) cartographer, a (self-taught) historian and a (self-taught) expert on urban planning. Though relatable and modest (he told this newspaper Chicago was really just a city “as a sheet of graph paper”), he became known as “Mr. Downtown.” He was not above drawing a detailed map on a restaurant napkin to explain himself (as this reporter can vouch). He was a heartbeat in a profession increasingly without a human touch. He once told the Tribune: “Mapmaking is full of judgment calls. Now that so much of this judgment is being done by machine intelligence, we’re in a funny situation where we don’t know where things are coming from.” The next time you’re waiting for a Chicago train or bus, look around, find the map of routes and you’ll know. Second City alumni Harold Ramis, left, and Joe Flaherty perform a skit at “The Second City Celebrates 50 Years of Funny” event at Pipers Alley in Chicago on Dec. 12, 2009. (Chris Sweda/Chicago Tribune) Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, one would never confuse comic actor Joe Flaherty, who died at 82 in April, and comic actor Martin Mull, who died in June at 80. But they were unique among funny people. They hid behind the most understated facades. Mull had his laconic delivery and blonde mustache; Flaherty was tall and gawky, a human Adam’s apple. They also shared Chicago: Mull was born here (to a carpenter dad and actress mom) before moving to the Cleveland suburbs. Flaherty was a Pittsburgh native with plans to translate his stature into dramatic roles but instead moved to Chicago, settled in and became a comedian, then left for Canada. They were also rare among the famously funny in that neither had a defining role. Mull, in the late ‘60s, began as a hipster renaissance figure, a singer-songwriter of absurdities who opened for Bruce Springsteen and Frank Zappa — his one semi-hit was “Dueling Tubas,” a parody of “Dueling Banjos” from “Deliverance.” That segued into acting on two cult parodies, Norman Lear’s soap opera “Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman,” and the small-town talk show “Fernwood 2 Night.” And finally, parallel careers as a respected painter and TV and film roles full of misplaced importance: Colonel Mustard in “Clue,” P.I. Gene Parmesan in “Arrested Development.” Mull was beyond droll: He once told David Letterman he didn’t want a mansion “though of course I have that kind of money.” Martin Mull participates in “The Cool Kids” panel during the Fox Television Critics Association Summer Press Tour on Aug. 2, 2018, in Beverly Hills, California. (Willy Sanjuan/AP) Flaherty spent seven years in Chicago at Second City, then on “The National Lampoon Radio Hour,” in both instances slipping into exasperated characters alongside era-defining lunatics, including a fledgling John Belushi, Bill Murray and Harold Ramis. He didn’t quite stand out until leaving Chicago to launch the Toronto branch of Second City, only to become arguably the most normal member of the influential cult series “SCTV.” He played Count Floyd, a Svengoolie-esque horror host who apologized for the movies he showed; he played Guy Caballero, the Panama hat-wearing SCTV station manager. Once again, he was never going to stand out in a cast that included Catherine O’Hara, John Candy and Martin Short, though as Short recalled recently, Flaherty became “the anchor.” He projected a decency he would later use well in another short-lived classic, “Freaks and Geeks.” He played a suburban dad, a typically outsized, blundering role. But Flaherty found dignity in boredom. He shared that with Mull: Both stared into the everyday conformity of just existing, and instead of protesting, they embraced the void. Music producer Steve Albini in his studio on July 24, 2014. (Brian Cassella/Chicago Tribune) You’ve heard of the rule of three, the myth that famous people die in threes. So what do we call a more localized, profession-defining rash of losses? Chicago’s Steve Albini, whose work as a music producer personified alt-rock in the ’90s, died in May; Chicago’s Quincy Jones, whose work as a producer/arranger for performers (Michael Jackson, Sarah Vaughan) and TV and film (“Roots”) marked pop culture for decades, died in November. Much less discussed was Shel Talmy, who died at 87, one week after Jones. Like Albini and Jones, he had a sound, and he came from Chicago. Also like Albini and Jones, it’s hard to imagine the last half-century of pop music without his still-ubiquitous records. Indeed, our history of youthful rebellion would sound different without Talmy. Call him the godfather of noise, the architect of loud, the destroyer of future eardrums. He produced “You Really Got Me” and “All Day and All of the Night” by the Kinks. He produced The Who’s first single, “I Can’t Explain,” then the garage-rock manifesto “My Generation.” Talmy told interviewers the band’s record label initially complained that they were given a bad copy of the tune — the copy they had was loaded with feedback. Music producer Quincy Jones answers questions about his autobiography and music anthology in a hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton in Chicago on Oct. 11, 2001. (Alex Garcia/Chicago Tribune)The musician, composer, arranger and producer Quincy Jones in New York on May 20, 2013. Jones, one of the most powerful forces in American popular music for more than half a century, died on Nov. 3, 2024, in California. He was 91. (Damon Winter/The New York Times)J Caesar Vazquez takes pictures of his car in front of a mural of record producer Quincy Jones in the 2200 block of North Milwaukee Avenue on Nov. 18, 2021, in Chicago. (John J. Kim/Chicago Tribune)Jazz musician Quincy Delight Jones Jr. with his Big Band. Konzerthaus. Vienna, circa 1960. (Franz Hubmann/Imagno/Getty Images)Michael Jackson and Quincy Jones with Grammy Awards Jackson won at the 26th Annual Grammy Awards, Feb. 28, 1984, at the Shrine Auditorium in Los Angeles, California. (Bob Riha Jr./Getty Images)President Barack Obama presents a 2010 National Medal of Arts to musician and record producer Quincy Jones, March 2, 2011, during a ceremony in the East Room of the White House in Washington. (Pablo Martinez Monsivais/AP)Musician Quincy Jones and his wife, actress Peggy Lipton, hold Jones' star which was placed in the Hollywood Walk of Fame in Los Angeles on March 14, 1980. (AP)Quincy Jones attends the Steiger Awards 2014 on Oct. 3, 2014, in Hattingen, Germany. (Sascha Steinbach/Getty)Composer Quincy Jones at his home studio in Oct. 1974 writing music, listening to a recording on his headphones. (George Brich/AP)Quincy Jones backstage with his six Grammy awards for "Back on the Block" including album of the year, at the awards ceremony in New York on Feb. 20, 1991. (G. Paul Burnett/The New York Times)Musician Ray Charles, left, who was inducted into the NAACP Hall of Fame, and producer Quincy Jones on stage together at the 35th Annual NAACP Image Awards at the Universal Amphitheatre, March 6, 2004 in Hollywood, California. (Kevin Winter/Getty)U.S. music producer Quincy Jones reacts during the Quincy Jones soundtrack of the 80's celebration evening at the Auditorium Stravinski during the 53rd Montreux Jazz Festival (MJF), in Montreux, Switzerland, July 13, 2019. (Jean-Christophe Bott/Keystone)Show Caption1 of 12Music producer Quincy Jones answers questions about his autobiography and music anthology in a hotel room at the Ritz-Carlton in Chicago on Oct. 11, 2001. (Alex Garcia/Chicago Tribune)Expand Talmy’s signature sound was grimy and chugging, just distorted enough for historians to place his records firmly among the first steps on the path to punk rock and heavy metal. What’s funny about that is Talmy’s background: In Chicago, as a child, his father was a dentist. Talmy himself caught the showbiz bug when he became a regular contestant on “Quiz Kids,” a long-running NBC game show that was broadcast from Chicago. As a young Los Angeles-based record engineer in the early 1960s, he took a trip to London just as the British Invasion was percolating and got his first producer jobs by passing off Beach Boys records as his own; his first hit was with a twangy pop trio, the Bachelors. Other than a few Kinks hits (“Tired of Waiting For You”) and Chad & Jeremy’s “Summer Song,” things grew increasingly muscular from there. Talmy recorded the Easybeats’ “Friday on My Mind,” the garage sounds of The Creation, early tunes by The Damned, and the very first singles by a young artist named Davy Jones (who soon changed his name to David Bowie). Think about that the next time you laugh at the name Sheldon. Record producer Shel Talmy in London on Sept. 7, 1973. (TPLP/Getty) From contributing critic Hannah Edgar For decades, Sir Andrew Davis was Lyric Opera. During his tenure as the company’s music director and principal conductor from 2000 to 2021, he led some 700 performances of 62 operas. In all, “there was never a hint of the slapdash,” former Tribune critic John von Rhein reflected in a profile for Lyric’s program books. “Looking back at my reviews of his performances over the years, I am struck by the consistently high quality he maintained, regardless of repertoire, cast, or production.” Davis, 80, was a towering figure in Anglophone classical music around the world, helming the BBC Symphony, Glyndebourne Festival, Melbourne Symphony and Toronto Symphony over the course of his career. Those who worked with him always circled back to his genuine joy on the podium. In a zesty, fevered “Hansel and Gretel” last January, Davis’ last stand at the company he called home, his grin was visible from halfway across the hall. Conductor Andrew Davis leads the Chicago Symphony Orchestra at Symphony Center on Jan. 30, 2020. (Chris Sweda/Chicago Tribune) Davis appeared frail at his 2022 farewell concert, of Beethoven’s Ninth, hosted by the company. But his leukemia diagnosis did not become public until April 20th of this year, when he succumbed to the disease. Lyric will host a concert to celebrate his life and achievements on Feb. 15, 2025; the concert features a new piece by his son Ed Frazier Davis, whose choir Vox Venti holds its own memorial concert on March 8 at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Evanston. I attended what, unbeknownst to us all, were Davis’s final Chicago appearances last December, with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and Chorus. Davis knew his way around an orchestra as both a conductor and composer — Ed takes after him in that respect — and he’d brought his kooky, kaleidoscopic reorchestration of Handel’s “Messiah.” Taking deeply familiar music and turning it new: Is there anything more Sir Andrew than that? On Feb. 6, we also lost a one-time Chicago baton in Seiji Ozawa, 88, whose rapid ascent in the 1960s broke a racial barrier in classical music. The Ravinia Festival, which Ozawa led as music director from 1964 to 1968, was his first big break; posts at the Toronto, San Francisco, and Boston symphonies followed. He led the last of those for nearly 30 years. “I was pouring myself into it in those days,” he told the author Haruki Murakami in “Absolutely on Music” (2016), a book of their transcribed conversations about music. “I was determined to make (Boston) one of the ten greatest orchestras in the world.” Seiji Ozawa conducts the Saito Kinen Orchestra of Japan on Jan. 10, 2001, at the Chicago Symphony Center. (John Bartley/Chicago Tribune) And he did. But then again, just about every orchestra was better off for having worked with Ozawa, whose performances melded gloss and ruddy viscerality. His work took on a more tempered, reflective quality as he aged, as he himself recognized in recent years. “Even at my age, you change,” he told Murakami. “The work itself changes you.” From Tribune critic Chris Jones In the 1990s, the retail area around North and Clybourn Avenues sprung into being: emporia such as Crate & Barrel, Pottery Barn, Restoration Hardware and the exotically spelled Z Gallerie all arrived to cater to Lincoln Park and Bucktown’s emergent class of urban homeowners, mostly recently arrived Gen Xers who wanted an urban life without giving up either cars or chain stores. The area filled up with huge surface parking lots, each belonging only to one or two outlets. A shopper making so many tough left turns often needed a break for a strawberry margarita with a salt rim. Enter Uncle Julio’s, about as fake a Mexican (or was it Tex-Mex?) restaurant as ever served overloaded nachos. It was, of course, a suburban interloper as its comforting bilingual name, free adjacent parking lot and fake-hacienda vibe made clear. In March, after 34 years of sizzling fajitas and hiding spouses escaping shopping, it called it quits. No more margarita-sangria swirls to save a stressed-out Saturday. Few cities in America maintain a professional network of suburban theaters that specialize in splashy productions of Broadway musicals; Chicago has just such a still-thriving circuit in Aurora, Oakbrook Terrace and Lincolnshire. Kary M. Walker, who died at 79 in September in Spain, is a big part of the reason why. As the executive producer of the in-the-round Marriott Theatre in Lincolnshire, Walker built the largest theater subscription base in the country, hired countless Chicago actors and took many a busload of seniors back to the songs of their youth. A Texan by birth and temperament, Walker was a colorful showbiz promoter and raconteur, famous for blowing up at critics on the phone and then calming back down to a purr within moments. Here was an old-school Chicago showman, a lover of musicals and the American songbook, and an arts leader who understood that when you have so many butts in seats, you have both an opportunity and an obligation to put on a damn show. From columnist Rick Kogan Jay Robert Nash was a man for whom a few words were never enough. During his life, which ended on April 22 of lung cancer after 86 active years, he once estimated that he had written something in the neighborhood of 50 million words. Most of those came in nonfiction books, firmly focused on crimes and killers (movies too), but he also wrote poetry and plays. Most of his books were created in the pre-internet age, when research was done the dusty, old-fashioned way, plowing through archives and fading newspapers. Some of his books were big bestsellers and some were not. He won awards. As prolific as he was in print, he was equally loquacious in person, his personality and imagination cutting a story-packed path across the places where writers and journalists once gathered. Some of his stories were real, some were not, but all were unforgettable. Author Jay Robert Nash in 1981. (Charles Osgood/Chicago Tribune) As writer Clarence Petersen put it in a Tribune story in 1981, “(Nash’s) most intriguing creation is himself. Pugnacious, diminutive, and dapper in the attire of a 1920s gangster, his heroic fantasies have made him a Chicago legend — especially among the patrons of his favorite saloons.” For four decades he was married to Judy Anetsberger, who told me “A lot of his so-called reputation was unfair. I have never known a smarter, kinder man nor one who worked harder.” Marriage and fatherhood curtailed some of Nash’s nocturnal adventures as did the fact that some of his favorite haunts, Riccardo’s and O’Rourke’s, shuttered and some of his old pals retired, moved away or died. But he will live on, in his books and in stories told by those who knew him, stories about this fine writer, decent man and authentic Chicago character. Peter Ferry was passionately an author and teacher, inspiring decades of students in his English and writing classes at Lake Forest High School, a youthful crowd of many thousands that included such later famous people as actor Vince Vaughn and author Dave Eggers. Ferry died the morning of Sept. 17. At his side were his wife, Carolyn, and children Lizzie and Griffin. He was 77 years old. “He was a very erudite guy with a wry wit, and he understood the strange sense of humor my friends and I had,” Eggers said. “We became fanboys of Mr. Ferry, and he was our hero and mentor. And he and I stayed in touch for the next 35 years.” Author Peter Ferry in Lake Forest in 2015. (Yvette Marie Dostatni/for the Chicago Tribune) He and his family settled in Evanston but he loved to travel. Tribune readers first encountered him in the mid-1980s when his name began to appear in this paper’s Travel section. His short stories appeared with welcome frequency in such journals and magazines as McSweeney’s, StoryQuarterly, HyperText and Catamaran. His first novel, “Travel Writing,” was published in 2008 to great acclaim. The next was “Old Heart,” which attracted the attention of playwright, producer and author Roger Rapoport, who produced a stage version of the book and is currently in production on a film version. In person, Ferry was a delight, soft-spoken, with a sharp and smart sense of humor and a palpable sensitivity. I didn’t see him as much after he and his wife moved from Evanston to Indianapolis a few years ago. But he’d often talk about the increasing amount of time they spent at Palisades Park, a community just south of South Haven on the shores of Lake Michigan. It was for generations an escape for Ferry’s family. He enjoyed playing tennis there. He enjoyed the sunsets, the quiet, the time to write. Never, in the lively history of show business, has there been anybody like Bob Newhart, and it was in Chicago that he burst onto the entertainment landscape. For more than half a century he remained a vital, admired and impossible-to-imitate presence in nightclubs, on albums, in films and, most profoundly, on TV. After a lifetime of making people laugh, Newhart died on July 18 at his home in Los Angeles. He was 94. He worked nearly to the end of his life, contributing to 2023’s “Bob and Don: A Love Story,” a documentary about his longtime friendship with the late comic Don Rickles. He was born George Robert Newhart in Oak Park grew up in Chicago, attended St. Ignatius College Prep and graduated from Loyola University with a bachelor’s degree in business management in 1952. Drafted into the U.S. Army, he then worked as an accountant but, he later said, was not good at that job, often adjusting petty cash imbalances with his own money. Working as an advertising copywriter he and a colleague entertained each other with long telephone calls about absurd scenarios. They scripted a radio show which they later recorded and sent to radio stations. That partner left and Dan Sorkin, a disc jockey at a local radio station and Newhart’s friend, introduced him to the head of talent at Warner Bros. Records. Bob Newhart in a publicity photo for WGN, circa 1960. (Chicago Tribune archive) The label signed him in 1959, only a year after it was formed, based solely on those recordings. His debut album was “The Button-Down Mind of Bob Newhart.” It became a sensation, selling 1.5 million copies and earned two Grammy Awards and was the first comedy album ever to hit No. 1. Naturally, the success of Newhart’s albums and his packed nightclub shows attracted television and he became a frequent and popular guest. In 1972, he started “The Bob Newhart Show,” playing psychologist Bob Hartley. The show was an immediate hit and still was when Newhart decided to end its run in 1978. He came back to the television world in 1982 with “Newhart,” playing a Vermont innkeeper. That show ended in 1990 after eight seasons and 182 episodes, the last one — remember? — chosen by TV Guide as the best finale in television history. In 1963 he married Virginia “Ginnie” Quinn and they lived in Beverly Hills, California, where they raised four children. He would reach new TV millions when he appeared in CBS’ top-rated sitcom, “The Big Bang Theory.” Astonishingly, he won his first Emmy for the role. He continued to perform 20-some stand-up gigs a year and still found it enjoyable to work on new routines. Throughout his career, his ties to Chicago remained strong and he kept tabs on old Chicago friends and our beleaguered sports teams. And he remains part of the local landscape, in the form of that life-size bronze sculpture that finds him sitting in a chair next to an empty sofa, now plunked near the east edge of Navy Pier. He has been there since 2004, in winter, summer, spring and fall. From film critic Michael Phillips Norman Jewison, 97, died Jan. 10. The Canadian-born director gave us “The Russians Are Coming, the Russians Are Coming,” “Fiddler on the Roof,” “Moonstruck” — and one of the finest films ever shot in Illinois, downstate or otherwise, “In the Heat of the Night.” Chita Rivera arrives at the 72nd annual Tony Awards at Radio City Music Hall on June 10, 2018, in New York. (Evan Agostini/AP) Chita Rivera, 91, died Jan. 30. Well. There are great dancers, and then there are great dancers. Once seen, never forgotten. Never enough film work, but you can YouTube the hell out of her TV appearances; she was Broadway Richard Lewis, 76, died Feb. 27. The king of kvetch and a droll master of everyday existential lament, the comedian and actor brought an actor’s intensity to his comedy, and a comic’s timing and pacing to every acting gig. Comedian Richard Lewis in 1985. (Sally Good/Chicago Tribune) David Bordwell, 76, died Feb. 29. The Madison, Wisconsin-based film scholar and historian opened countless eyes to the techniques, visual strategies and hypnotic wonderment of cinema. Louis Gossett Jr., 87, died March 29. A warm and reassuring screen presence to the last, he won his Oscar for “An Officer and a Gentleman.” Louis Gossett Jr. in New York to promote the release of “Roots: The Complete Original Series” on Blu-ray on May 11, 2016. (Amy Sussman/Invision/AP) Roger Corman, 98, died May 9. The drive-in and cheapo exploitation producer who made American International Pictures a true-blue calling card for earthy delights gave many future giants of the movies their start. The title of his book says it all: “How I Made a Hundred Movies in Hollywood and Never Lost a Dime.” Donald Sutherland, 88, died June 20. No one else like him. That voice could sell you anything, and his presence in everything from “Don’t Look Now” to Chicago-born director Philip Kaufman’s delicious remake of “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” added so much. Actor Donald Sutherland at the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences in Beverly Hills, California on Oct. 13, 2017. (Chris Pizzello/AP) Judy Belushi-Pisano, 73, died July 5. The producer and Oak Park native was married to John Belushi, which couldn’t have been easy. She oversaw her late first husband’s legacy with care and devotion. John Amos, 84, died Aug. 21. On the Chicago-set sitcom “Good Times,” Amos provided the lifeline of realism tied to the show’s Cabrini-Green projects. He never got his due, or the full breadth of roles his talent deserved. John Amos on May 11, 2016, in New York. Amos starred as the family patriarch on the hit 1970s sitcom “Good Times” and earned an Emmy nomination for his role in the seminal 1977 miniseries “Roots.” (Amy Sussman/AP) James Earl Jones, 93, died Sept. 9. A force of dramatic nature and sly comic wiles, the Darth Vader thing was great, yes, but roughly 97th on his list of reasons for greatness — and for an audience’s gratitude across the decades. No Oscar. But he’s hardly the only top-shelf American actor who never won, and whose breadth of roles is a continual source of satisfaction. James Earl Jones finishes reading a selection from “The Lion King” at the Dallas Zoo on March 19, 2001. (LM Otero/AP) John Ashton, 76, died Sept. 26. A character actor’s character actor, Ashton shot to prominence with the first (and only good) “Beverly Hills Cop” outing, and thanks to writer-director and Chicago native Haroula Rose, delivered particularly affecting performances in his last years with “Once Upon a River” and the Chicago-filmed “All Happy Families.” Maggie Smith, 89, died Sept. 27. Few stage-trained performers brought as much brio, snap and wrist action (literally; what she does with her wrists for comic punctuation is worthy of orthopedic study) to whatever she took on, beginning with “Bridgerton,” the Harry Potter movies, earlier dramatic triumphs such as “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie” and hundreds more. British actress Maggie Smith portrays a narcissistic teacher in “The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie.” (Evening Standard/Getty) Mitzi Gaynor, 93, died Oct. 17. Born in Chicago, she brought triple-threat showbiz acumen to good material, lesser material, movies, nightclubs — and every last sequin designer Bob Mackie threw at her, lovingly. Teri Garr, 79, died Oct. 29. An exemplar of ‘70s popular filmmaking, and a blithe genius of comic fizz. And a great dancer. Teri Garr in 1984 in Los Angeles. (Bob Riha Jr./Getty) Quincy Jones, 91, died Nov. 3. The Chicago native gave Sinatra some of his coolest charts, Austin Powers his infernally catchy theme song “Soul Bossa Nova” (a 1962 Jones composition) and enough evergreen music to fill worlds to come. From TV critic Nina Metz “Brewster McCloud” was Shelley Duval’s screen debut and I wrote about it a few years ago: “Robert Altman hit mainstream success with ‘M*A*S*H’ in 1970, the same year that one of his lesser-known pictures, ‘Brewster McCloud,’ also arrived in theaters. Both films are subversive comedies — countercultural middle fingers, in cinematic form — but ‘M*A*S*H’ was timely and had the advantage of scoring with a Vietnam War-weary public. ‘Brewster’s’ storytelling eccentricities? Moviegoers didn’t know what to do with those.” But audiences had no such confusion about Duvall or her talent. In her first movie, she wore false eyelashes on both her top and bottom eyelids, giving her the look of one of Margaret Keen’s iconic paintings of saucer-eyed waifs. She was the proto-manic pixie dream girl, but Duvall would prove herself to be much more than that. Actress Shelley Duvall May 23, 1977, in Cannes, France. (Jean Jacques Levy/AP) She would work with Altman several times again, in “Nashville,” “McCabe & Mrs. Miller” and other titles, including her perfect resemblance to Olive Oyl in “Popeye.” For some generations, she might be best known for her iconic role in “The Shining” as a woman at the mercy of a husband (memorably Jack Nicholson) who has lost his mind. For later generations, she was the face (and creative force behind) “Faerie Tale Theatre.” But by the 1990s, opportunities were drying up and she moved back to Texas, where Atlman had first discovered and hired her for “Brewster McCloud.”  She was 75 when she died in July, leaving behind a legacy of work that is strikingly unique in every way. A word about TV show cancellations. What have we lost in 2024? Well, a whole lot of TV shows, including one-and-dones such as “The Acolyte” (a “Star Wars” spinoff on Disney+), “The Brothers Sun” (an action-comedy on Netflix) and “My Lady Jane” (a historical fantasy romance on Amazon). All these shows had small but devoted followings and when the cancellations were announced, audience frustration radiated out from social media. We’ve always been told that TV was a business that aimed to create long-running hits! Streaming has upended that and the disappointment is real. But maybe we’ve also forgotten how common it was in the pre-streaming era for network shows to be canceled only a few episodes in, becoming yet another piece of pop cultural detritus consigned to the Hollywood junk heap. But it’s never been this bad, I hear you saying. I don’t know if that’s true. Around 600 shows premiered in 2022. Two decades earlier, in 2002, that number was 182. More shows are getting made, therefore more shows are getting canceled. Is Hollywood still in the business of building audience loyalty? For now, the answer remains unclear. From A+E editor Doug George The news last month that Pitchfork Music Festival was no more came as a shock to Chicago-area music fans. The festival announced on Nov. 11 on its website and social media that it would not return to Union Park in 2025, its final festival having taken place last July with headliners Black Pumas, Jamie XX and Alanis Morissette. The three-day gathering of music and live bands has drawn some 20,000 music fans to the Near West Side park more or less annually since 2006, save a pandemic year off. Before that, it was the 2005 Intonation Music Festival. In hindsight, maybe its ending wasn’t such a shock. Pitchfork’s namesake music publication had been folded into GQ last January by owners Condé Nast, with many Pitchfork Media employees losing their jobs. Although there had been little diminishment in last July’s event — same three stages jam-packed with alternative and indie rock, hip hop and EDM, same fun vendors including the CHIRP Record Fair and Flatstock Poster Fair — some grumbled that Morissette was an odd pick as a so-called legacy act. Set against its summer festival cousins Riot Fest and the massive Lollapalooza, those who attended Pitchfork had prided themselves on attending because they were serious about the music. Less of a scene, more for music nerds, said one local attendee in 2024. At this point, organizers have only said definitely that there would be no fest in 2025. But. “We look forward to continuing to create spaces where music, culture, and community intersect in uplifting ways,” its message to fans on social media concluded, “and we hope to see you there.” Singer Ella Jenkins, then 86, in her Chicago home on Feb. 5, 2011. (David Pierini/Chicago Tribune) Chicago musician Ella Jenkins greets Christopher, 10, left, and William Ibarra, 7, while filming a documentary on Aug. 27, 2014, in Bauler Playlot Park. (Brian Cassella/Chicago Tribune)Ella Jenkins on Aug. 27, 2014, in the Bauler Playlot Park. (Brian Cassella/Chicago Tribune)Ella Jenkins greets well-wishers during her 99th birthday celebration at Ella Jenkins Park in Old Town on Aug. 6, 2023. (Talia Sprague/Chicago Tribune)Chicago folk singer Ella Jenkins performs during "Adventures in Rhythm" for children attending a book fair on Nov. 11, 1963. (John Austad/Chicago Tribune)Ella Jenkins, a recording artist, entertains a group of children at St. Norbert's Church in Northbrook on May 13, 1972. (Alton Kaste/Chicago Tribune)Ella Jenkins uses different languages to get children to participate in her singing and storytelling session on Jan. 13, 1987, with kindergarteners at St. Vincent De Paul Center in Chicago. (Charles Osgood/Chicago Tribune)Strumming a guitar to lead children in songs is Ella Jenkins, who wrote and arranged the music for a series of children’s films produced by Three Prong Television productions in cooperation with the Erikson Institute for Early Education, circa 1969. (Chicago Tribune historical photo)Ella Jenkins performs to a group of preschool children while teaching them songs about Black history on Feb. 26, 1971. (Roy Hall/Chicago Tribune)Show Caption1 of 9Singer Ella Jenkins, then 86, in her Chicago home on Feb. 5, 2011. (David Pierini/Chicago Tribune) Expand Children’s musician Ella Jenkins may be gone but it’s easy to think her music will live on for a long time to come. Jenkins’ music career spanned more than 60 years and some 40 albums, those recordings a mix of traditional songs and her own compositions, memorable titles such as “You’ll Sing a Song and I’ll Sing a Song.” She was known as the First Lady of Children’s Music. Her style of call-and-response singing with children came from listening to jazzman Cab Calloway’s performances of “Minnie the Moocher” on the South Side in the 1930s, according to the Tribune obituary after her death Nov. 9 at age 100, as well as what she heard in church in her Bronzeville neighborhood growing up. Over the decades, countless children saw her perform or sang along with her songs. If you know “Miss Mary Mack,” chances are you can thank Jenkins. She was a frequent performer at Ravinia and the Old Town School of Folk Music and a favorite guest on “Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.” She traveled the world, giving concerts and absorbing styles of music from across the globe. But Jenkins often gave concerts in far simpler surroundings in a neighborhood park or from a side stage at the Printers Row Lit Festival. A park in Old Town was dedicated in her name a few blocks from the townhouse where she lived, and though the pandemic finally ended her public performances, she attended a celebration of her 99th birthday there last year. Hyde Park Summer Fest has been running, under various guises, since 2014, but the news came in May that it would not return for 2024. Lil Kim was a headliner in 2023, the year the festival celebrated 50 years of hip hop. West Side rapper Lupe Fiasco headlined in 2022. After years at 53rd Street and Harper Court it was held at Midway Plaisance Park near the University of Chicago campus. But despite the boldface names, it remained a community festival, including performers who were still mostly unknown. As Tribune contributor Hannah Edgar noted in a September preview of the still-running Hyde Park Jazz Festival, these kinds of Chicago events should not be taken for granted. “Blue Man Group” at the Briar Street Theatre in Chicago in 2017. (Blue Man Group photo) Blue Men, you will be missed. The Chicago production of Blue Man Group recently announced it would close in early January. The show has been running at Briar Street Theatre since October of 1997. And although it has changed and updated over the decades, a few elements remained constant. A trio of wordless performers, bald and painted blue, turn all manner of tubes, drums and other devices into percussion instruments and pull off eye-popping stunts with marshmallows, paint and Cap’n Crunch cereal. It’s been a rare show that’s enjoyed — and embraced as cool — across a wide range of ages and audiences, with a high-energy pace, electronic music and an engaging kind of crowd interaction. And it’s funny! The fine dining with Twinkies alone! Are the Blue Men aliens? Magical pranksters? One requirement for anyone who has joined the cast, aside from drumming skills, has been expressive eyes and body language that can fill in for the wordlessness. Born out of New York City street and fringe theater, the show expanded into other big-city productions in the U.S. and globally. In 2017, Blue Man Group Productions was acquired by the Montreal-based Cirque du Soleil. The New York production is closing in early 2025 along with Chicago’s, with shows still running in Boston, Las Vegas and elsewhere. Last, if you’ll pardon a self-serving addition, the long-running Tribune feature Save the Seats has called it quits for 2024. The annual feature began in 2005 as a spinoff of then-Tribune dining critic Phil Vettel’s now-defunct Save the Tables, reserving show tickets instead of restaurant tables for New Year’s Eve. Counting a pandemic year off, 17 years has been a good run. Our thanks to every reader, and show, that participated.