New Year’s Evil is a neat catalog of all the things wrong with the holiday at the end of the calendar. Amateurs who never drink throwing back way more than they should. Overpriced booze and food. Bands that confuse “loud” with “good.”
It’s also a handy sampler of everything worth hating about the ‘80s. Big hair. Too much rouge. Serial killers fucking up our holidays.
Seriously, what’s up with mad slashers go to town when everyone else is partying down? Halloween, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, even freaking April Fools’ Day—is no holiday safe?
Apparently not.
It’s New Year’s Eve (duh), and Blaze (Roz Kelly) is preparing for her live-from-L.A. TV show, Hollywood Hotline, which will ring in the New Year in all four U.S. time zones with satellite hookups to New York, Chicago and Aspen. Blaze is in a rotten mood, though—not just because she’s more than a bit of an asshole, but also because her assistant, Yvonne, has gone missing.
Seems our crazed killer (Kip Niven) is one of those guys who likes to start his New Year’s resolutions early: he dispatches poor Yvonne—stabs her to death in the shower (how original!)—before the opening credits even roll.
While hotel security searches for Yvonne, Blaze goes on with the show, which consists of a couple of punk rock bands (if you define “punk rock” as “shitty music played poorly buy guys wearing way too much eyeliner), an unruly crowd and four phone operators taking calls from viewers/listeners.
One of those callers is, of course, our killer, who speaks through a voice modulator, identifies himself as “Evil” and reveals his master plan: He’s going to kill someone every time the clock strikes 12 in each of the time zones, with Blaze saved for the night’s final victim. (Never mind that he’s already blown his own concept by killing Yvonne well before midnight.)
So “Evil” spends the rest of the movie wearing various disguises—hospital orderly, sleazy business manager, priest—while slicing his way through L.A. Things go reasonably well at first—he bumps off a nurse and two bar patrons—but then he runs afoul of a biker gang and, after a high-speed chase, hides in a drive-in where a horror-movie marathon is playing. (There’s a fleeting moment of hope that we might cut away from New Year’s Evil and stick with what’s playing at the show. No such luck, though.)
Meanwhile, Blaze’s actor son (Grant Cramer) is having quite the meltdown in her dressing room—popping pills, pulling one of Mom’s nylons over his head, self-piercing his ear with a nail (ow!) and trying to call his dad, whose line is perpetually busy.
Finally, “Evil” makes his way back to the hotel, hits a cop in the head with a brick (ow!) and dons a Stan Laurel mask before confronting Blaze and revealing his true identity.
Director Emmett Alston doesn’t do much with the New Year’s setting—aside from a bar scene and the time zone gimmick, this movie could be take place on any of the other 364 days of the year—and the murders themselves mostly happen off-screen (what little blood we see looks awfully fake).
Kelly, best remembered for playing Fonzie’s girlfriend, Pinky Tuscadero on Happy Days, really doesn’t have much to do except look alternately irritable and terrified (more the former than the latter), but Niven does bring a bug-eyed intensity to his mad-slasher role, especially when he’s being pursued by the bikers—the hunter briefly becomes the hunted.
The cops, though, are typically useless until the dramatic conclusion, which sets us up for a sequel that, mercifully, never arrived.
Toward the end of New Year’s Evil, a drunk man in a plummeting elevator says, “There’s some funky shit goin’ on here!”
Couldn’t have put it better myself, sir.
Showing posts with label Holidaze Reviews. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holidaze Reviews. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Holidaze Review: The House without a Christmas Tree (1972)
For most people, Christmastime is a season of celebration, a time to share happiness and joy with family and friends.
For others, though, it’s a season of sadness, of painful reminders of what they have lost, of wounds inflicted and never fully healed.
So it is for James Mills (Jason Robards), who is still mourning the loss of his wife, Helen, 10 years later and refuses to allow a Christmas tree in the house he shares with his daughter, Addie (Lisa Lucas) and her grandmother (Mildred Natwick), even as Addie begs for a tree. Her friends have Christmas trees in their houses, so why can’t her family have one, too?
It’s not about money, Addie knows. The Mills family isn’t wealthy, by any means, but Jamie has some money in the bank—certainly enough for a Christmas tree, even a small one. Addie wonders aloud if her father really loves her, a point Grandma disputes: “He loves you,” she assures her granddaughter. “He’s just not good at showing it.”
An unfortunate understatement, that. James shows affection for his daughter by constantly correcting her, regardless of the activity: From the messy way she eats to shooting marbles to how Addie leaves the newspaper when she’s done reading it, it seems nothing she does is done the right way, according to him.
When Addie wins a prize at school—surprise! A Christmas tree—it sets up a confrontation between daughter and father, with Grandma smack in the middle.
Emotions, positive and otherwise, tend to get magnified in the yuletide season. It would be easy to take such material and turn it into an extended shouting match, but director Paul Bogart (a TV veteran who helmed many episodes of All in the Family) and screenwriter Eleanor Perry (working from a story by Gail Rock) keep the emotions in check. Even the faceoff over the tree is plainly and directly spoken, not shouted, with more emotion conveyed by facial expressions than by words and the recognition of the tensions that exist in all families, even a loving one like the Mills.
Robards, in particular, underplays wonderfully, the look of sadness and anger on his face when he sees the tree conveying more than a page of dialog ever could have.
No surprise there—Robards was one of the finest character actors of his era, shifting between lead and supporting roles with ease, later in the decade, winning two Academy Awards for Best Supporting actor. Here, he plays James as a man so full of regret and pain that he’s blind to the needs of those he loves most. When Addie brings home her school’s choir to sing Christmas carols—specifically, “O Christmas Tree”—Grandma clearly knows what her granddaughter is up to and looks nervously at James, who never speaks a word. He doesn’t have to. The hurt on Robards’ face says it all.
Natwick, a former member of John Ford’s stock company and an Oscar nominee herself, has the difficult role of the peacemaker of the family—Grandma loves and understands both Addie and James, but know that only they can settle their differences.
And Lucas as Addie, the true lead in The House without a Christmas Tree, could have been precocious or grating—or, worse, overly sweet or downright angelic. Instead, she plays Addie as clever, artistic, and emotional in the natural way a 10-year-old would be. She doesn’t scream at Robards over the fate of the tree; like Robards, Lucas conveys her character’s disappointment and anger with her face and her eyes.
Set in a small Nebraska town in 1946, The House without a Christmas Tree is an inexpensive production—shot on videotape and on limited sets (the Mills house, the classroom and the neighborhood between—giving it the look of a filmed play. But this movie doesn’t need anything elaborate or expensive. It’s the story of ordinary people who aren’t good at saying what they feel, told simply, without an overabundance of nostalgia or sentiment.
Many viewers will recognize their own family’s dynamics in the way the Mills family struggles with how to say what they really feel—with how hard it is to convey even the most simple, obvious things, especially at what’s supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year.
For others, though, it’s a season of sadness, of painful reminders of what they have lost, of wounds inflicted and never fully healed.
So it is for James Mills (Jason Robards), who is still mourning the loss of his wife, Helen, 10 years later and refuses to allow a Christmas tree in the house he shares with his daughter, Addie (Lisa Lucas) and her grandmother (Mildred Natwick), even as Addie begs for a tree. Her friends have Christmas trees in their houses, so why can’t her family have one, too?
It’s not about money, Addie knows. The Mills family isn’t wealthy, by any means, but Jamie has some money in the bank—certainly enough for a Christmas tree, even a small one. Addie wonders aloud if her father really loves her, a point Grandma disputes: “He loves you,” she assures her granddaughter. “He’s just not good at showing it.”
An unfortunate understatement, that. James shows affection for his daughter by constantly correcting her, regardless of the activity: From the messy way she eats to shooting marbles to how Addie leaves the newspaper when she’s done reading it, it seems nothing she does is done the right way, according to him.
When Addie wins a prize at school—surprise! A Christmas tree—it sets up a confrontation between daughter and father, with Grandma smack in the middle.
Emotions, positive and otherwise, tend to get magnified in the yuletide season. It would be easy to take such material and turn it into an extended shouting match, but director Paul Bogart (a TV veteran who helmed many episodes of All in the Family) and screenwriter Eleanor Perry (working from a story by Gail Rock) keep the emotions in check. Even the faceoff over the tree is plainly and directly spoken, not shouted, with more emotion conveyed by facial expressions than by words and the recognition of the tensions that exist in all families, even a loving one like the Mills.
Robards, in particular, underplays wonderfully, the look of sadness and anger on his face when he sees the tree conveying more than a page of dialog ever could have.
No surprise there—Robards was one of the finest character actors of his era, shifting between lead and supporting roles with ease, later in the decade, winning two Academy Awards for Best Supporting actor. Here, he plays James as a man so full of regret and pain that he’s blind to the needs of those he loves most. When Addie brings home her school’s choir to sing Christmas carols—specifically, “O Christmas Tree”—Grandma clearly knows what her granddaughter is up to and looks nervously at James, who never speaks a word. He doesn’t have to. The hurt on Robards’ face says it all.
Natwick, a former member of John Ford’s stock company and an Oscar nominee herself, has the difficult role of the peacemaker of the family—Grandma loves and understands both Addie and James, but know that only they can settle their differences.
And Lucas as Addie, the true lead in The House without a Christmas Tree, could have been precocious or grating—or, worse, overly sweet or downright angelic. Instead, she plays Addie as clever, artistic, and emotional in the natural way a 10-year-old would be. She doesn’t scream at Robards over the fate of the tree; like Robards, Lucas conveys her character’s disappointment and anger with her face and her eyes.
Set in a small Nebraska town in 1946, The House without a Christmas Tree is an inexpensive production—shot on videotape and on limited sets (the Mills house, the classroom and the neighborhood between—giving it the look of a filmed play. But this movie doesn’t need anything elaborate or expensive. It’s the story of ordinary people who aren’t good at saying what they feel, told simply, without an overabundance of nostalgia or sentiment.
Many viewers will recognize their own family’s dynamics in the way the Mills family struggles with how to say what they really feel—with how hard it is to convey even the most simple, obvious things, especially at what’s supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Holidaze Review: Northpole (2014)
I’m not a big fan of Hallmark holiday movies.
Too often, they seem like romantic comedies dressed up in Christmas sweaters--tacky ones at that. And while I agree with my friend who recently pointed out that romance is also a vital part of the holiday season, it also seems to be a crutch that the network leans on too heavily and too frequently. The movies in question could be about Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Arbor Day—doesn’t matter. The seasons and decorations may change, but the plots and execution would be about the same.
Now and again, though, out of the seemingly dozens of yuletide offerings Hallmark puts out every year (I know it’s not that many, but throw in all the movies and specials from previous years and they can run with Christmas 24/7 from Dia de los Muertos all the way through New Year’s Eve), one will show interest in more then mistletoe.
This year, that one is Northpole.
As the title implies, Northpole is concerned with that place way up north where Santa and Mrs. Claus (real-life couple Robert Wagner and Jill St. John) and all the elves make all those toys for good girls and boys. But something’s wrong this year: The Christmas spirit “down south” (as they apparently refer to the rest of the planet) is fading, which means the aurora borealis won’t be able to produce the magic snowflakes the elves need to make all those toys. (Got that? If not, no worries—the movie explains it more than once.)
Everyone at Northpole is worried about the situation, but spunky elf Clementine (Bailee Madison) is determined to do something about it. When she sees that the Christmas spirit of a young boy “down south” (Max Charles) is still glowing bright despite the crisis, she steals one of Santa’s reindeer and flies down to help him spead Christmas cheer.
Not as easy as it sounds, though: Kevin’s mom, Chelsea (Tiffani Thiessen) is a recently divorced, no-nonsense reporter who loves her son, but has little patience with his bursts of imagination (like, say, conversations he has with his “imaginary friend,” Clementine), especially when Kevin’s hunky teacher, Ryan (josh Hopkins), encourages the kid to go for his big dream: Saving the town’s Christmas tree-lighting ceremony, which has been mysteriously canceled.
Will Chelsea find out why the town is so down on Christmas? Will she realized that Ryan is the perfect man for her? Will Kevin save the tree-lighting ceremony? Will that even be enough to help Clementine save Christmas? Is Northpole doomed?
If you’ve seen enough of these Hallmark movies, you know the answers to those questions already. You also won’t be shocked to find Hallmark trying to sell you various bits of Northpole chotchke (own your very own Magic Snowflake!) not only in the commercial breaks, but also in banner ads during the movie itself.
And while Northpole does have the requisite romance, it’s treated as a subplot rather than the main concern. What Northpole does better than most Hallmark offerings—heck, than most TV holiday movies, period—is it focuses on the importance of the Christmas spirit itself. The way it makes us feel. The comfort and joy it can bring. The effort it takes to keep that spirit stoked—and the benefits of that effort.
Thiessen and Charles have great chemistry—you could almost believe they’re really mother and son—and Madison’s enthusiasm never crosses over from charming into annoying. She’s having fun with the role, which makes it so much easier for the audience to do so as well. And while Wagner and St. John don’t get a lot of screen time, they bring a quiet authority and dignity to their roles—when they’re on screen, you don’t look anywhere else.
Director Douglas Barr (a former actor best known as Lee Major’s sidekick on The Fall Guy) keeps things moving along at a steady pace and juggles the various subplots admirably. Even the special effects—often a major weakness in made-for-TV movies—are handled well. (It might help that most of the SFX sequences happen at night, thus hiding any budgetary restraints.)
And that romance? It’s allowed to develop slowly over the course of the movie, even if the hunky teacher is a bit bland in that way that most leading men in these movies tend to be. Still, the romance never takes the focus away from the main plot, but you’re not the least bit surprised where this subplot is going.
In fact, there’s very little in Northpole that qualifies as surprising. Does that make it a bad movie? No. Familiar elements well executed can still entertain, amuse, and warm the holiday heart, and Northpole does that—even as it tries to sell me stuff and lets me know that there will be a sequel next year, whether I wanted one or not.
As it happens…I do.
Too often, they seem like romantic comedies dressed up in Christmas sweaters--tacky ones at that. And while I agree with my friend who recently pointed out that romance is also a vital part of the holiday season, it also seems to be a crutch that the network leans on too heavily and too frequently. The movies in question could be about Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Arbor Day—doesn’t matter. The seasons and decorations may change, but the plots and execution would be about the same.
Now and again, though, out of the seemingly dozens of yuletide offerings Hallmark puts out every year (I know it’s not that many, but throw in all the movies and specials from previous years and they can run with Christmas 24/7 from Dia de los Muertos all the way through New Year’s Eve), one will show interest in more then mistletoe.
This year, that one is Northpole.
As the title implies, Northpole is concerned with that place way up north where Santa and Mrs. Claus (real-life couple Robert Wagner and Jill St. John) and all the elves make all those toys for good girls and boys. But something’s wrong this year: The Christmas spirit “down south” (as they apparently refer to the rest of the planet) is fading, which means the aurora borealis won’t be able to produce the magic snowflakes the elves need to make all those toys. (Got that? If not, no worries—the movie explains it more than once.)
Everyone at Northpole is worried about the situation, but spunky elf Clementine (Bailee Madison) is determined to do something about it. When she sees that the Christmas spirit of a young boy “down south” (Max Charles) is still glowing bright despite the crisis, she steals one of Santa’s reindeer and flies down to help him spead Christmas cheer.
Not as easy as it sounds, though: Kevin’s mom, Chelsea (Tiffani Thiessen) is a recently divorced, no-nonsense reporter who loves her son, but has little patience with his bursts of imagination (like, say, conversations he has with his “imaginary friend,” Clementine), especially when Kevin’s hunky teacher, Ryan (josh Hopkins), encourages the kid to go for his big dream: Saving the town’s Christmas tree-lighting ceremony, which has been mysteriously canceled.
Will Chelsea find out why the town is so down on Christmas? Will she realized that Ryan is the perfect man for her? Will Kevin save the tree-lighting ceremony? Will that even be enough to help Clementine save Christmas? Is Northpole doomed?
If you’ve seen enough of these Hallmark movies, you know the answers to those questions already. You also won’t be shocked to find Hallmark trying to sell you various bits of Northpole chotchke (own your very own Magic Snowflake!) not only in the commercial breaks, but also in banner ads during the movie itself.
And while Northpole does have the requisite romance, it’s treated as a subplot rather than the main concern. What Northpole does better than most Hallmark offerings—heck, than most TV holiday movies, period—is it focuses on the importance of the Christmas spirit itself. The way it makes us feel. The comfort and joy it can bring. The effort it takes to keep that spirit stoked—and the benefits of that effort.
Thiessen and Charles have great chemistry—you could almost believe they’re really mother and son—and Madison’s enthusiasm never crosses over from charming into annoying. She’s having fun with the role, which makes it so much easier for the audience to do so as well. And while Wagner and St. John don’t get a lot of screen time, they bring a quiet authority and dignity to their roles—when they’re on screen, you don’t look anywhere else.
Director Douglas Barr (a former actor best known as Lee Major’s sidekick on The Fall Guy) keeps things moving along at a steady pace and juggles the various subplots admirably. Even the special effects—often a major weakness in made-for-TV movies—are handled well. (It might help that most of the SFX sequences happen at night, thus hiding any budgetary restraints.)
And that romance? It’s allowed to develop slowly over the course of the movie, even if the hunky teacher is a bit bland in that way that most leading men in these movies tend to be. Still, the romance never takes the focus away from the main plot, but you’re not the least bit surprised where this subplot is going.
In fact, there’s very little in Northpole that qualifies as surprising. Does that make it a bad movie? No. Familiar elements well executed can still entertain, amuse, and warm the holiday heart, and Northpole does that—even as it tries to sell me stuff and lets me know that there will be a sequel next year, whether I wanted one or not.
As it happens…I do.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Holidaze Review: WGN Christmas Classics (1951/53/54)
As I’ve mentioned in this space before, I grew up in Chicago, where I was lucky enough to have a plethora of viewing choices in the days before everyone had cable or satellite or TV shows streaming on the Internet.
This meant not only a sterling education in cinematic history via the many movie shows spread across all the VHF and UHF stations in the city (back when VHF and UHF were still things), but that I wasn’t necessarily tied to network programming at any time of the day or night.
If I wanted news, I didn’t have to rely on Walter Cronkite. If I wanted sports, I had options beyond Howard Cosell. And if I wanted children’s programming, I wasn’t stuck with Captain Kangaroo.
Not that I had any problem with the good Captain—Bob Keeshan’s long-running show (1955-1984) was fun, but I had local options that were just as good—and, during the holiday season, even better.
Over on WGN—then a local powerhouse, rather than the cable superstation it would later become--Garfield Goose and Friends bore some similarities to the daily CBS offering: It started around the same time (1952, though it first premiered on WGN in 1955) and had a genial host (Frazier Thomas) who spent much of his time talking to puppets, usually Garfield Goose (who believed himself to be King of the United States) and Romberg Rabbit.
Thomas also showed short films and cartoons on the show, like the weird limited-animation adventures of Clutch Cargo; the serialized Journey to the Beginning of Time, in which a group of kids went back in time and saw stop-motion dinosaurs; or more educational segments like Thomas’s trip to sites in Great Britain relating to the legend of King Arthur.
During December, though, Thomas broke out three animated shorts: Frosty the Snowman, Hardrock, Coco and Joe and Suzy Snowflake. They were all produced in the early 1950s and were likely intended to run before or between feature films, but since they hit television in the middle of that decade, they’ve all gone on to become holiday classics and traditional—practically mandatory—viewing for generations of Chicagoland kiddies.
Frosty boasts the best known song of the three and was produced by UPA, the studio responsible for both Mister Magoo and Gerald McBoing Boing, which may explain why the kids in this short all kind of look like Gerald. The animation is traditional line art, but limited in scope and application—movements are repeated throughout, though the backgrounds change regularly. It’s also really short—under three minutes—so there’s little chance for young viewers to get bored.
The most interesting thing about this version of Frosty is really the treatment song itself. It was still a relatively new tune when this cartoon was made in 1954 and has always been up-tempo, but this rendition is downright swingy, with Frosty bouncing down streets and over hills while the kids cheer him on.
Hardrock, Coco and Joe (also known as The Three Little Dwarfs or as both names combined for one long title) is more obscure, at least in terms of its song, which, according to Wikipedia, was written by Stuart Hamblen, a singing cowboy who later underwent a religious conversion and focused on gospel instead. The production company, Centaur, is also obscure—apparently, they made this and Suzy Snowflake and blipped out of existence.
What’s not obscure is the talent of the man who made the stop-motion figures: Wah Ming Chang, who worked on everything from Disney pictures (creating life models of animated characters) to Star Trek (creating not only iconic monsters like Tribbles and the Gorn for the show, but also the signature communicators that have now more or less become reality).
The figures are pretty simple and their motion isn’t especially complicated, but the story, in which Santa brings Hardrock and Coco along to help him operate the sleigh and distribute the toys. Santa doesn’t actually need Joe for the trip, but brings him along “’cause he loves him so.” It always seemed like Santa didn’t need any of these guys, but brought them along because, well, flying around the world in one night is a lonely gig, and time passes faster when you’ve got someone to share the ride with you.
The last of the trio, Suzy Snowflake, is not only more obscure and surreal--it’s not really even a Christmas song. It’s more about winter in general and snowfall in particular, Suzy being the first flurry of the season personified. However, as winter and Christmas are permanently tied together (if only by other songs like “White Christmas” and the aforementioned “Frosty”), Suzy fits in with the other two shorts pretty well. As with Hardrock, this short features stop-motion animation with figures by Wah Ming Chang.
What sets Suzy apart from the other two is its sense of melancholy—not so much conveyed by the tune itself (which, while not as up-tempo as Hardrock and nowhere near as bouncy as Frosty, is hardly a dirge), but by its visuals. Suzy is often seen either in shadow or silhouette, and while there are a few closeups, she’s often viewed at a distance, as if her limited time on Earth (“Come out, everyone, and play with me," she tells us in the lyrics, I haven’t long to stay") is as solitary as it is brief.
Maybe that’s why Suzy has much more of an emotional effect on me than the other two do. Christmastime is often a time of gladness and cheer, but not for everyone—for some, it’s a time when loneliness is magnified and isolation stings more than it does the other 11 months of the year. While she speaks to something magical about snowfall (and, by extension, winter and Christmastime), her time is short. And let’s face it: Some look on the onset of winter not with wonder, but dread.
So Suzy Snowflake can make me cry—more readily than either Hardrock, Coco and Joe or Frosty the Snowman can, anyway. After all these years, and all in under three minutes. There’s wonder in that as well.
This meant not only a sterling education in cinematic history via the many movie shows spread across all the VHF and UHF stations in the city (back when VHF and UHF were still things), but that I wasn’t necessarily tied to network programming at any time of the day or night.
If I wanted news, I didn’t have to rely on Walter Cronkite. If I wanted sports, I had options beyond Howard Cosell. And if I wanted children’s programming, I wasn’t stuck with Captain Kangaroo.
Not that I had any problem with the good Captain—Bob Keeshan’s long-running show (1955-1984) was fun, but I had local options that were just as good—and, during the holiday season, even better.
Over on WGN—then a local powerhouse, rather than the cable superstation it would later become--Garfield Goose and Friends bore some similarities to the daily CBS offering: It started around the same time (1952, though it first premiered on WGN in 1955) and had a genial host (Frazier Thomas) who spent much of his time talking to puppets, usually Garfield Goose (who believed himself to be King of the United States) and Romberg Rabbit.
Thomas also showed short films and cartoons on the show, like the weird limited-animation adventures of Clutch Cargo; the serialized Journey to the Beginning of Time, in which a group of kids went back in time and saw stop-motion dinosaurs; or more educational segments like Thomas’s trip to sites in Great Britain relating to the legend of King Arthur.
During December, though, Thomas broke out three animated shorts: Frosty the Snowman, Hardrock, Coco and Joe and Suzy Snowflake. They were all produced in the early 1950s and were likely intended to run before or between feature films, but since they hit television in the middle of that decade, they’ve all gone on to become holiday classics and traditional—practically mandatory—viewing for generations of Chicagoland kiddies.
Frosty boasts the best known song of the three and was produced by UPA, the studio responsible for both Mister Magoo and Gerald McBoing Boing, which may explain why the kids in this short all kind of look like Gerald. The animation is traditional line art, but limited in scope and application—movements are repeated throughout, though the backgrounds change regularly. It’s also really short—under three minutes—so there’s little chance for young viewers to get bored.
The most interesting thing about this version of Frosty is really the treatment song itself. It was still a relatively new tune when this cartoon was made in 1954 and has always been up-tempo, but this rendition is downright swingy, with Frosty bouncing down streets and over hills while the kids cheer him on.
Hardrock, Coco and Joe (also known as The Three Little Dwarfs or as both names combined for one long title) is more obscure, at least in terms of its song, which, according to Wikipedia, was written by Stuart Hamblen, a singing cowboy who later underwent a religious conversion and focused on gospel instead. The production company, Centaur, is also obscure—apparently, they made this and Suzy Snowflake and blipped out of existence.
What’s not obscure is the talent of the man who made the stop-motion figures: Wah Ming Chang, who worked on everything from Disney pictures (creating life models of animated characters) to Star Trek (creating not only iconic monsters like Tribbles and the Gorn for the show, but also the signature communicators that have now more or less become reality).
The figures are pretty simple and their motion isn’t especially complicated, but the story, in which Santa brings Hardrock and Coco along to help him operate the sleigh and distribute the toys. Santa doesn’t actually need Joe for the trip, but brings him along “’cause he loves him so.” It always seemed like Santa didn’t need any of these guys, but brought them along because, well, flying around the world in one night is a lonely gig, and time passes faster when you’ve got someone to share the ride with you.
The last of the trio, Suzy Snowflake, is not only more obscure and surreal--it’s not really even a Christmas song. It’s more about winter in general and snowfall in particular, Suzy being the first flurry of the season personified. However, as winter and Christmas are permanently tied together (if only by other songs like “White Christmas” and the aforementioned “Frosty”), Suzy fits in with the other two shorts pretty well. As with Hardrock, this short features stop-motion animation with figures by Wah Ming Chang.
What sets Suzy apart from the other two is its sense of melancholy—not so much conveyed by the tune itself (which, while not as up-tempo as Hardrock and nowhere near as bouncy as Frosty, is hardly a dirge), but by its visuals. Suzy is often seen either in shadow or silhouette, and while there are a few closeups, she’s often viewed at a distance, as if her limited time on Earth (“Come out, everyone, and play with me," she tells us in the lyrics, I haven’t long to stay") is as solitary as it is brief.
Maybe that’s why Suzy has much more of an emotional effect on me than the other two do. Christmastime is often a time of gladness and cheer, but not for everyone—for some, it’s a time when loneliness is magnified and isolation stings more than it does the other 11 months of the year. While she speaks to something magical about snowfall (and, by extension, winter and Christmastime), her time is short. And let’s face it: Some look on the onset of winter not with wonder, but dread.
So Suzy Snowflake can make me cry—more readily than either Hardrock, Coco and Joe or Frosty the Snowman can, anyway. After all these years, and all in under three minutes. There’s wonder in that as well.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Holidaze Review: Santa Claus (1959)
Santa versus…Satan?
Yes, the Jolly Ol’ Elf takes on the Devil himself in this intensely surreal Christmas “treat” from writer/director Rene Cardona, better know for directing Mexican horror films like Night of the Bloody Apes and films featuring Lucha Libre legends El Santo and Blue Demon.
In Santa Claus, St. Nick doesn’t live at the North Pole, but in a palace in the clouds, where it’s got all sorts of high-tech gadgets—including a telescope with an actual eyeball and a satellite dish with an ear—to peek in on kids to see if they’ve been naughty or nice. (The NSA has nothing on Santa.)
Speaking of kids, Santa has a whole bunch of them in his palace (or maybe outside the palace, since it’s snowing on them constantly). The children come from all over the world in conveniently stereotypical costumes: The Mexican kids wear sombreros, the Americans are dressed as cowboys, the African tykes have bones through their noses, etc. It’s not clear why all these children are here, or where Santa got them. (Did he kidnap them? Is Santa running a sweatshop?) They all sing songs in their native tongues. Most of them look pretty unhappy to be there.
Meanwhile, in the fiery pits (yes, this movie literally goes straight to Hell), Pitch is engaged in an energetic dance number with other devils when Lucifer gives him his marching orders: Go to Earth and convince some kids to be naughty for Christmas.
Pitch has no problems talking a trio of little boys into throwing rocks at a department store window (we know these kids are bad news because, even at 10 years old, they’re already wearing leather jackets).
It’s tougher, though, to make little Lupita steal a doll she really wants (maybe she hears the narrator screaming at her to stop) even when he makes her dream about it in a really weird sequence of life-sized dolls dancing around Lupita, telling her that good girls never get dolls.
There’s also a little boy who has plenty of presents under the tree from his wealthy parents, but all he really wants for Christmas is the parents themselves. (In yet another creepy dream sequence, we see the little boy open up huge gifts containing his mom and dad.)
Back in La Casa del Santa, Kris Kringle is working with his assistant, Merlin the Wizard (yes, that Merlin), on ways to stop Pitch and save Christmas.
Nothing I’ve written above can properly convey the sheer weirdness of Santa Claus. From the descent into Hell to the dream sequences to the abundant glee with which Santa plays his organ (while the children left out in the snow sing and sing) to the windup mechanical reindeer, the whole thing has the uncomfortable feel of adults trying to imagine what kids would like to see in a Christmas movie, but instead projecting all their adult insecurities onto the screen.
Imagine being a kid at a matinee in the early 1960s, dropped of by Mom/Dad to dip into this cauldron of fever dreams? Were these kids scarred for life? Could they ever sit in Santa’s lap again without expecting an eyeball telescope to be watching their every move? How many years of therapy did it take to shake this movie off?
Or is it possible to unsee Santa Claus, once it’s been seen? It’s likely only Merlin knows—and he ain’t telling.
Yes, the Jolly Ol’ Elf takes on the Devil himself in this intensely surreal Christmas “treat” from writer/director Rene Cardona, better know for directing Mexican horror films like Night of the Bloody Apes and films featuring Lucha Libre legends El Santo and Blue Demon.
In Santa Claus, St. Nick doesn’t live at the North Pole, but in a palace in the clouds, where it’s got all sorts of high-tech gadgets—including a telescope with an actual eyeball and a satellite dish with an ear—to peek in on kids to see if they’ve been naughty or nice. (The NSA has nothing on Santa.)
Speaking of kids, Santa has a whole bunch of them in his palace (or maybe outside the palace, since it’s snowing on them constantly). The children come from all over the world in conveniently stereotypical costumes: The Mexican kids wear sombreros, the Americans are dressed as cowboys, the African tykes have bones through their noses, etc. It’s not clear why all these children are here, or where Santa got them. (Did he kidnap them? Is Santa running a sweatshop?) They all sing songs in their native tongues. Most of them look pretty unhappy to be there.
Meanwhile, in the fiery pits (yes, this movie literally goes straight to Hell), Pitch is engaged in an energetic dance number with other devils when Lucifer gives him his marching orders: Go to Earth and convince some kids to be naughty for Christmas.
Pitch has no problems talking a trio of little boys into throwing rocks at a department store window (we know these kids are bad news because, even at 10 years old, they’re already wearing leather jackets).
It’s tougher, though, to make little Lupita steal a doll she really wants (maybe she hears the narrator screaming at her to stop) even when he makes her dream about it in a really weird sequence of life-sized dolls dancing around Lupita, telling her that good girls never get dolls.
There’s also a little boy who has plenty of presents under the tree from his wealthy parents, but all he really wants for Christmas is the parents themselves. (In yet another creepy dream sequence, we see the little boy open up huge gifts containing his mom and dad.)
Back in La Casa del Santa, Kris Kringle is working with his assistant, Merlin the Wizard (yes, that Merlin), on ways to stop Pitch and save Christmas.
Nothing I’ve written above can properly convey the sheer weirdness of Santa Claus. From the descent into Hell to the dream sequences to the abundant glee with which Santa plays his organ (while the children left out in the snow sing and sing) to the windup mechanical reindeer, the whole thing has the uncomfortable feel of adults trying to imagine what kids would like to see in a Christmas movie, but instead projecting all their adult insecurities onto the screen.
Imagine being a kid at a matinee in the early 1960s, dropped of by Mom/Dad to dip into this cauldron of fever dreams? Were these kids scarred for life? Could they ever sit in Santa’s lap again without expecting an eyeball telescope to be watching their every move? How many years of therapy did it take to shake this movie off?
Or is it possible to unsee Santa Claus, once it’s been seen? It’s likely only Merlin knows—and he ain’t telling.
Monday, December 15, 2014
Holidaze Review: The Cheaters (1945)
Joseph Schildkraut was a popular actor who enjoyed a long career spread over several decades, a romantic lead in the silent era who later transitioned into memorable character roles from the fawning, vain Vadas in the Christmas classic, The Shop Around the Corner, to King Louis XIII in the 1939 version of The Three Musketeers, to his Oscar-winning role as Dreyfus in The Life of Emile Zola.
After the advent of sound, though, Schildkraut rarely played the lead. The Cheaters is a happy exception.
It’s Christmastime (of course, otherwise this wouldn’t be much of a Holidaze review), but J.C. Pidgeon (Eugene Pallette) isn’t full of holiday cheer. In fact, he’s flat broke and on the verge of bankruptcy, with process servers hovering in his office lobby. J.C .hasn’t told his wife (Billie Burke) yet, though, so she’s spending on the holiday like the family is still wealthy.
Back at the Pidgeon home, preparations for Christmas are well under way, but youngest daughter Therese (Ruth Terry) is fretting that her fiancé Stephen (not “Steve”) Bates (Robert Livingston) won’t understand her family’s eccentricities when he meets them. Her suggestion: Bring in a “charity case” just like her fiancé’s mom does every holiday season. Where can they find one? Uncle Willie (Raymond Walburn), jovial but otherwise useless, suggests randomly picking one out of the newspaper.
Enter Anthony Marchand (Schildkraut), formerly a famous stage actor before an accident rendered him lame and, most recently, watchman at a mattress factory, which subsequently burned down. (It is hinted that Marchand set the fire himself—perhaps as a suicide attempt.) Marchand is a study in contradictions: Handsome, suave and eloquent; but also bitter, self-defeating and more than slightly alcoholic.
Marchand limps into the Pidgeon household, accepts their charity and hospitality, and, when given a wad of cash by J.C., gets thoroughly plastered.
While recovering in the library, Marchand overhears a scheme being cooked up by the family: Turns out that a wealthy uncle has died in Denver, but his will leaves $5 million to a stage actress he admired ages ago. The family decides to find the actress, hide her out until the period to find her has passed (about one week), and keep the cash for themselves. Marchand pipes up and helpfully suggests how they can find the actress—search through Actors’ Equity—and leaves the room, only to listen at the door to the plot he has set into motion. He then walks toward his room—without the slightest hint of a limp!
The actress, Florie Watson (Ona Munson), is found rather easily, and Uncle Willie tells her that she’s a long-lost relation and invites her to spend Christmas with the Pidgeons. Will she find out the family’s plan to cheat her? Will the private detectives searching for Florie find her once the whole family has fled to a house in the country? And what of Mr. Marchand’s manipulations? Will things come out the way he wants them to?
If this sounds like a lot of plot for a little movie, it is. However, even though The Cheaters is overstuffed with story threads, things never become confusing, mostly because the focus here is more on character than on plot. Each member of the Pidgeon clan is defined early on (mostly as unlikable, greedy beasts)—then, as the movie progresses, each is redefined through their interactions with the enigmatic Mr. M and Florie, who knows she’s not related to this clan of weirdoes, but accepts their hospitality just the same.
The supporting cast is top notch, with screwball comedy vets Burke and Pallette on hand to keep the one-liners flying, and Munson makes Florie’s destitute actress into a warm, salt-of-the-earth sweetheart to be admired, not pitied.
Mostly, though, this is a showcase for Schildkraut, who underplays much of his dialog to great effect, and whose bombastic flourishes are strictly within character—especially a wonderful scene in which Mr. M reminds the gathered family that before the three spirits who haunt Scrooge in A Christmas Carol get to work, it’s Jacob Marley, fettered with chains and money boxes, who sends Scrooge on the path to redemption. The Pidgeons are riveted in a way they wouldn’t have been at the beginning of the movie—Mr. M has been subtly sending them on their own redemption journey.
The Cheaters has been largely forgotten, as has Schildkraut, even though he continued working for another couple of decades after this movie (most famously in The Diary of Anne Frank). Both of those oversights should be rectified: The Cheaters is sincere, sweet and smart holiday fare, and Schildkraut gives one of his greatest performances in it.
After the advent of sound, though, Schildkraut rarely played the lead. The Cheaters is a happy exception.
It’s Christmastime (of course, otherwise this wouldn’t be much of a Holidaze review), but J.C. Pidgeon (Eugene Pallette) isn’t full of holiday cheer. In fact, he’s flat broke and on the verge of bankruptcy, with process servers hovering in his office lobby. J.C .hasn’t told his wife (Billie Burke) yet, though, so she’s spending on the holiday like the family is still wealthy.
Back at the Pidgeon home, preparations for Christmas are well under way, but youngest daughter Therese (Ruth Terry) is fretting that her fiancé Stephen (not “Steve”) Bates (Robert Livingston) won’t understand her family’s eccentricities when he meets them. Her suggestion: Bring in a “charity case” just like her fiancé’s mom does every holiday season. Where can they find one? Uncle Willie (Raymond Walburn), jovial but otherwise useless, suggests randomly picking one out of the newspaper.
Enter Anthony Marchand (Schildkraut), formerly a famous stage actor before an accident rendered him lame and, most recently, watchman at a mattress factory, which subsequently burned down. (It is hinted that Marchand set the fire himself—perhaps as a suicide attempt.) Marchand is a study in contradictions: Handsome, suave and eloquent; but also bitter, self-defeating and more than slightly alcoholic.
Marchand limps into the Pidgeon household, accepts their charity and hospitality, and, when given a wad of cash by J.C., gets thoroughly plastered.
While recovering in the library, Marchand overhears a scheme being cooked up by the family: Turns out that a wealthy uncle has died in Denver, but his will leaves $5 million to a stage actress he admired ages ago. The family decides to find the actress, hide her out until the period to find her has passed (about one week), and keep the cash for themselves. Marchand pipes up and helpfully suggests how they can find the actress—search through Actors’ Equity—and leaves the room, only to listen at the door to the plot he has set into motion. He then walks toward his room—without the slightest hint of a limp!
The actress, Florie Watson (Ona Munson), is found rather easily, and Uncle Willie tells her that she’s a long-lost relation and invites her to spend Christmas with the Pidgeons. Will she find out the family’s plan to cheat her? Will the private detectives searching for Florie find her once the whole family has fled to a house in the country? And what of Mr. Marchand’s manipulations? Will things come out the way he wants them to?
If this sounds like a lot of plot for a little movie, it is. However, even though The Cheaters is overstuffed with story threads, things never become confusing, mostly because the focus here is more on character than on plot. Each member of the Pidgeon clan is defined early on (mostly as unlikable, greedy beasts)—then, as the movie progresses, each is redefined through their interactions with the enigmatic Mr. M and Florie, who knows she’s not related to this clan of weirdoes, but accepts their hospitality just the same.
The supporting cast is top notch, with screwball comedy vets Burke and Pallette on hand to keep the one-liners flying, and Munson makes Florie’s destitute actress into a warm, salt-of-the-earth sweetheart to be admired, not pitied.
Mostly, though, this is a showcase for Schildkraut, who underplays much of his dialog to great effect, and whose bombastic flourishes are strictly within character—especially a wonderful scene in which Mr. M reminds the gathered family that before the three spirits who haunt Scrooge in A Christmas Carol get to work, it’s Jacob Marley, fettered with chains and money boxes, who sends Scrooge on the path to redemption. The Pidgeons are riveted in a way they wouldn’t have been at the beginning of the movie—Mr. M has been subtly sending them on their own redemption journey.
The Cheaters has been largely forgotten, as has Schildkraut, even though he continued working for another couple of decades after this movie (most famously in The Diary of Anne Frank). Both of those oversights should be rectified: The Cheaters is sincere, sweet and smart holiday fare, and Schildkraut gives one of his greatest performances in it.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Holidaze Review: Christmas Holiday (1944)
With a title like Christmas Holiday and stars like Deanna Durbin and Gene Kelly, the viewer wouldn’t be unreasonable in expecting a holiday-themed song-and-dance extravaganza, full of laughter and cheer.
Instead, the viewer gets…Christmas noir?
Robert Siodmak, who’d directed the eerily effective Son of Dracula for Universal the year before and would go on to helm such film noir classics as The Spiral Staircase, and Criss Cross, applies his dark sensibilities to Herman Mankiewicz’s adaptation of a W. Someset Maugham short story. And the results are not exactly overflowing with holiday cheer.
Newly minted Amry officer Lieutenant Mason (Dean Harens) is about to head off to San Francisco to marry his girlfriend, Mona, when he gets a Dear John telegram from her. (She’s gone ahead and married someone else.) Heartbroken but determined, he tries to fly to San Fran anyway, but a storm forces the plane to land in New Orleans.
Mason is provided accommodations at a local hotel and heads down to the bar for a bite to eat. There, a drunken reporter (Richard Whorf) convinces Mason to go to a “joint” with him where there are lots of pretty women in pretty dresses, including Jackie Lamont (Durbin), a hostess and singer. (It’s subtly implied that she does more than host and sing, but the Production Code likely frowned upon mentions of prostitution, especially in a movie with “Christmas” in the title.)
When the prospect of going to midnight mass is raised, Jackie practically begs Mason to take her with him, even though he’s not even sure he’s going. He does go, though, and Jackie cries inconsolably throughout.
Afterward, at an all-night diner (and later, in Mason’s hotel room), Jackie explains her behavior: Her name’s not really Jackie Lamont, but Abigail Manette, wife of convicted murderer Robert Manette (Kelly). He’s a ne’er-do-well Southern aristocrat charmer who, unfortunately, is also heavily into gambling and one night kills and robs a man. Robert’s mother (Gale Sondergaard) tries to cover up for her son by burning his blood-stained clothing and hiding the money, but he’s convicted of murder anyway, and Mom blames Abigail for it.
Jackie/Abigail still loves Robert, though…which is quite convenient, really, since he just escaped from prison in time for Christmas.
The gritty material is an ill-enough fit for a holiday-themed movie, but the casting of Durbin (a contract player at Universal best known for her fluffy ingénue roles and beautiful singing voice) and Kelly (on loan from MGM) makes the film feel downright bizarre. Sondergaard is well suited to her role as the domineering, forceful mother, and Durbin and Kelly are charming together in the scenes where Robert is wooing Abigail. Once the story turns dark, though, Kelly looks clearly uncomfortable in the role of a gambler/murderer, and Durbin’s usual bubbly screen persona is suppressed nearly out of existence. She spends most of the movie wearing an expression of beat-down resolve—surviving rather than living—although she does at least get to sing a couple of songs (including a lovely rendition of Irving Berlin’s “Always,” which also serves as a recurring theme throughout the movie).
It’s not that Christmas Holiday is a bad movie. There’s plenty to like about it--it’s beautifully shot (Durbin looks exquisite throughout), the music is good (Hans Salter was nominated for an Oscar for his score) and the actors all give it their best shot. Unfortunately, the whole thing is too dour to work as holiday fare and too dark to let Durbin and Kelly sparkle the way they usually do.
Christmas Holiday would be a fine film to watch as part of a film noir marathon or to suit the mood of a rainy day. But if you put this movie in your Christmas stocking, you’re more than likely mistake it for a lump of coal.
Instead, the viewer gets…Christmas noir?
Robert Siodmak, who’d directed the eerily effective Son of Dracula for Universal the year before and would go on to helm such film noir classics as The Spiral Staircase,
Newly minted Amry officer Lieutenant Mason (Dean Harens) is about to head off to San Francisco to marry his girlfriend, Mona, when he gets a Dear John telegram from her. (She’s gone ahead and married someone else.) Heartbroken but determined, he tries to fly to San Fran anyway, but a storm forces the plane to land in New Orleans.
Mason is provided accommodations at a local hotel and heads down to the bar for a bite to eat. There, a drunken reporter (Richard Whorf) convinces Mason to go to a “joint” with him where there are lots of pretty women in pretty dresses, including Jackie Lamont (Durbin), a hostess and singer. (It’s subtly implied that she does more than host and sing, but the Production Code likely frowned upon mentions of prostitution, especially in a movie with “Christmas” in the title.)
When the prospect of going to midnight mass is raised, Jackie practically begs Mason to take her with him, even though he’s not even sure he’s going. He does go, though, and Jackie cries inconsolably throughout.
Afterward, at an all-night diner (and later, in Mason’s hotel room), Jackie explains her behavior: Her name’s not really Jackie Lamont, but Abigail Manette, wife of convicted murderer Robert Manette (Kelly). He’s a ne’er-do-well Southern aristocrat charmer who, unfortunately, is also heavily into gambling and one night kills and robs a man. Robert’s mother (Gale Sondergaard) tries to cover up for her son by burning his blood-stained clothing and hiding the money, but he’s convicted of murder anyway, and Mom blames Abigail for it.
Jackie/Abigail still loves Robert, though…which is quite convenient, really, since he just escaped from prison in time for Christmas.
The gritty material is an ill-enough fit for a holiday-themed movie, but the casting of Durbin (a contract player at Universal best known for her fluffy ingénue roles and beautiful singing voice) and Kelly (on loan from MGM) makes the film feel downright bizarre. Sondergaard is well suited to her role as the domineering, forceful mother, and Durbin and Kelly are charming together in the scenes where Robert is wooing Abigail. Once the story turns dark, though, Kelly looks clearly uncomfortable in the role of a gambler/murderer, and Durbin’s usual bubbly screen persona is suppressed nearly out of existence. She spends most of the movie wearing an expression of beat-down resolve—surviving rather than living—although she does at least get to sing a couple of songs (including a lovely rendition of Irving Berlin’s “Always,” which also serves as a recurring theme throughout the movie).
It’s not that Christmas Holiday is a bad movie. There’s plenty to like about it--it’s beautifully shot (Durbin looks exquisite throughout), the music is good (Hans Salter was nominated for an Oscar for his score) and the actors all give it their best shot. Unfortunately, the whole thing is too dour to work as holiday fare and too dark to let Durbin and Kelly sparkle the way they usually do.
Christmas Holiday would be a fine film to watch as part of a film noir marathon or to suit the mood of a rainy day. But if you put this movie in your Christmas stocking, you’re more than likely mistake it for a lump of coal.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Holidaze Review: Star in the Night (1944)
It can’t be easy to attempt a fresh take on one of the oldest and most revered stories known to man: The Nativity, the tale of Joseph and Mary, of their trip to Bethlehem, of their search for shelter on a cold winter’s night and of the birth of their child, the baby Jesus.
But Star in the Night, the Oscar-winning short subject for 1944, tells the story in modern dress, with great simplicity and efficiency (it’s only 20 minutes long.
Nick (J. Carroll Naish) is the surly owner/operator of a rest station in the desert.(I thinbk he’s supposed to be Greek, but Naish plays him with an exaggerated Italian accent.) Life has got Nick down, and he has little use for holiday cheer. He tells a hitchhiker (Donald Woods) that because people are rotten to each other every other day of the year, why should it be any different on Christmas? Nick refuses to spare a room or a cup of coffee for the hitchhiker, but does let him come in and warm himself by the fire for a few minutes.
Nick has just installed a super-bright light (shaped like a star, of course) to draw customers from near and far. Seems to be working—on Christmas Eve, all of his cabins are filled with various discontented travelers, including a woman who constantly complains about the noise and mess made by the travelers next door who won’t stop singing carols; a man angry the laundry service messed up his shirts; and a couple who insist on extra blankets, no matter how much Nick and his wife assure them that the cabins are warm and comfortable.
There’s no more room for any more visitors—not for the hitchhiker, nor for the three guys on horseback who have ridden at least 10 miles through the desert following the light of the super-bright star light. And certainly not for the young couple whose car dies outside the station, the young woman obviously unwell and needing rest. Nick’s wife suggests that they stay in the shed out back…
See where this is going? Of course you do. But Star in the Night wisely shifts the focus away from the familiar story and focuses on the role of the innkeeper, Nick. He’s hard and bitter at the beginning of the story, but he becomes softer and warmer as he watches everyone else forgets their own concerns to help the young woman when she goes into labor. (Although it’s never stated out loud that she’s pregnant—it’s only whispered into characters’ ears--and she wears loose-fitting clothing that hides her baby bump. Something in the Production Code, I’m sure). The woman who has to get up early stops complaining and pitches in to help; the couple who asked for extra blankets gives those blankets to the cause; and the man whose shirts were ruined shreds the shirts for bandages.
By the end, Nick is crying tears…of joy.
Star in the Night packs a lot of story into its short running time, but director Don Siegel (who later helmed such diverse features as Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Dirty Harry and The Shootist) moves things along briskly without making it feel rushed. And despite the familiarity of the story, the performers all throw themselves into their roles with both gravity and humor, making them all much more human relatable than they would have been had this been played as a more obvious allegory.
Instead, Star in the Night is as reassuringly warm as a cup of coffee on a cold December night. You may know where it’s going, but you’ll enjoy getting there.
But Star in the Night, the Oscar-winning short subject for 1944, tells the story in modern dress, with great simplicity and efficiency (it’s only 20 minutes long.
Nick (J. Carroll Naish) is the surly owner/operator of a rest station in the desert.(I thinbk he’s supposed to be Greek, but Naish plays him with an exaggerated Italian accent.) Life has got Nick down, and he has little use for holiday cheer. He tells a hitchhiker (Donald Woods) that because people are rotten to each other every other day of the year, why should it be any different on Christmas? Nick refuses to spare a room or a cup of coffee for the hitchhiker, but does let him come in and warm himself by the fire for a few minutes.
Nick has just installed a super-bright light (shaped like a star, of course) to draw customers from near and far. Seems to be working—on Christmas Eve, all of his cabins are filled with various discontented travelers, including a woman who constantly complains about the noise and mess made by the travelers next door who won’t stop singing carols; a man angry the laundry service messed up his shirts; and a couple who insist on extra blankets, no matter how much Nick and his wife assure them that the cabins are warm and comfortable.
There’s no more room for any more visitors—not for the hitchhiker, nor for the three guys on horseback who have ridden at least 10 miles through the desert following the light of the super-bright star light. And certainly not for the young couple whose car dies outside the station, the young woman obviously unwell and needing rest. Nick’s wife suggests that they stay in the shed out back…
See where this is going? Of course you do. But Star in the Night wisely shifts the focus away from the familiar story and focuses on the role of the innkeeper, Nick. He’s hard and bitter at the beginning of the story, but he becomes softer and warmer as he watches everyone else forgets their own concerns to help the young woman when she goes into labor. (Although it’s never stated out loud that she’s pregnant—it’s only whispered into characters’ ears--and she wears loose-fitting clothing that hides her baby bump. Something in the Production Code, I’m sure). The woman who has to get up early stops complaining and pitches in to help; the couple who asked for extra blankets gives those blankets to the cause; and the man whose shirts were ruined shreds the shirts for bandages.
By the end, Nick is crying tears…of joy.
Star in the Night packs a lot of story into its short running time, but director Don Siegel (who later helmed such diverse features as Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Dirty Harry and The Shootist) moves things along briskly without making it feel rushed. And despite the familiarity of the story, the performers all throw themselves into their roles with both gravity and humor, making them all much more human relatable than they would have been had this been played as a more obvious allegory.
Instead, Star in the Night is as reassuringly warm as a cup of coffee on a cold December night. You may know where it’s going, but you’ll enjoy getting there.
Friday, December 5, 2014
Holidaze Review: Toy Story That Time Forgot (2014)
My love to the Toy Story movies knows few, if any, bounds, but last year’s Halloween special, Toy Story of TERROR!, left me unimpressed.
It’s not that it was bad, exactly—there were plenty of moments to smile at, the animation was as lovely as we’ve come to expect from any Pixar product, and, at half an hour, it didn’t wear out its welcome like some holiday specials. (Looking at you, Grumpy Cat.)
Maybe it was because TERROR! lacked the emotional impact of the three Toy Story movies (all of which left me a hot sobbing mess). It was cute and charming, but not much more. Perhaps my expectations were just too high.
One thing I will say for Terror, though, is that writer/director Angus MacLane had the good sense to turn the focus away from the main characters of the franchise—cowboy Woody (Tom Hanks) and space ranger Buzz (Tim Allen)—and concentrate instead on Jessie (Joan Cusack), one to the many supporting characters, instead.
This year’s holiday special, Toy Story That Time Forgot, employs the same strategy toward its cast—Woody, Buzz and the rest of the gang are on hand, but the spotlight is on Trixie (Kristen Schaal), the toy triceratops who joined the gang when they were given to Bonnie (Emily Hahn) at the end of Toy Story 3.
In this special, which begins just as Christmas is ending (thus just barely qualifying it as a holiday event), Trixie is frustrated: She’s happy to have a kid to play with her, but she’s upset that she’s never used as what she is—a dinosaur. (For much of the special, Bonnie pretends that Trixie is a reindeer.)
When Bonnie brings Woody, Buzz, Trixie, Rex (Wallace Shawn) and a kitty/bear ornament from the Christmas tree (Emma Hudak) along for a playdate with her friend Mason (R.C. Cope), the toys get quickly tossed aside for video games and wind up in a playset for Battlesaurs—humanoid dinosaurs in armor who, um, battle and stuff.
Trixie is immediately smitten with Reptillus Maximus, the Battlesaurs’ best warrior, and Rex finally gets the larger arms he’s always wanted. (T-Rexes had itty-bitty arms that weren’t good for anything.) But the Cleric (Steve Purcell, who also wrote and directed this special) is not exactly welcoming to these strange new toys and has sinister plans afoot—plans that could be downright lethal to our heroes.
With Woody and Buzz pushed to the background (literally—they’re yanked off-screen and stay gone for several minutes), it’s up to Trixie to impart life lessons to Reptillicus, Bonnie, Mason and (as it turns out) herself, all while saving everybody from the Cleric’s evil schemes.
Toy Story That Time Forgot improves on its predecessor with a faster pace, more action and, most importantly, more and better character development. (Jessie was already pretty well fleshed out before Toy Story of TERROR!, and a rehash of her abandonment issues didn’t break any new ground.)
Trixie, arguably the least fleshed-out of all the Toy Story gang, really shines at center stage, and Schaal seems to have a ball with the character—her slightly squeaky, slightly high voice contrasts nicely with the bulk and awkwardness of the triceratops (much the same way Wallace Shawn’s voice has always complemented Rex’s supposedly ferocious appearance). Trixie gets to be sweet, smart and (unlike Rex) decisive when everything around her starts spiraling out of control.
Toy Story That Time Forgot may only marginally qualify as a Christmas special, and it may not be the same as a full-blown movie (that we have to wait another three years for), but it’s a good time spent with characters we love--and one little dinosaur we now love a lot more.
It’s not that it was bad, exactly—there were plenty of moments to smile at, the animation was as lovely as we’ve come to expect from any Pixar product, and, at half an hour, it didn’t wear out its welcome like some holiday specials. (Looking at you, Grumpy Cat.)
Maybe it was because TERROR! lacked the emotional impact of the three Toy Story movies (all of which left me a hot sobbing mess). It was cute and charming, but not much more. Perhaps my expectations were just too high.
One thing I will say for Terror, though, is that writer/director Angus MacLane had the good sense to turn the focus away from the main characters of the franchise—cowboy Woody (Tom Hanks) and space ranger Buzz (Tim Allen)—and concentrate instead on Jessie (Joan Cusack), one to the many supporting characters, instead.
This year’s holiday special, Toy Story That Time Forgot, employs the same strategy toward its cast—Woody, Buzz and the rest of the gang are on hand, but the spotlight is on Trixie (Kristen Schaal), the toy triceratops who joined the gang when they were given to Bonnie (Emily Hahn) at the end of Toy Story 3.
In this special, which begins just as Christmas is ending (thus just barely qualifying it as a holiday event), Trixie is frustrated: She’s happy to have a kid to play with her, but she’s upset that she’s never used as what she is—a dinosaur. (For much of the special, Bonnie pretends that Trixie is a reindeer.)
When Bonnie brings Woody, Buzz, Trixie, Rex (Wallace Shawn) and a kitty/bear ornament from the Christmas tree (Emma Hudak) along for a playdate with her friend Mason (R.C. Cope), the toys get quickly tossed aside for video games and wind up in a playset for Battlesaurs—humanoid dinosaurs in armor who, um, battle and stuff.
Trixie is immediately smitten with Reptillus Maximus, the Battlesaurs’ best warrior, and Rex finally gets the larger arms he’s always wanted. (T-Rexes had itty-bitty arms that weren’t good for anything.) But the Cleric (Steve Purcell, who also wrote and directed this special) is not exactly welcoming to these strange new toys and has sinister plans afoot—plans that could be downright lethal to our heroes.
With Woody and Buzz pushed to the background (literally—they’re yanked off-screen and stay gone for several minutes), it’s up to Trixie to impart life lessons to Reptillicus, Bonnie, Mason and (as it turns out) herself, all while saving everybody from the Cleric’s evil schemes.
Toy Story That Time Forgot improves on its predecessor with a faster pace, more action and, most importantly, more and better character development. (Jessie was already pretty well fleshed out before Toy Story of TERROR!, and a rehash of her abandonment issues didn’t break any new ground.)
Trixie, arguably the least fleshed-out of all the Toy Story gang, really shines at center stage, and Schaal seems to have a ball with the character—her slightly squeaky, slightly high voice contrasts nicely with the bulk and awkwardness of the triceratops (much the same way Wallace Shawn’s voice has always complemented Rex’s supposedly ferocious appearance). Trixie gets to be sweet, smart and (unlike Rex) decisive when everything around her starts spiraling out of control.
Toy Story That Time Forgot may only marginally qualify as a Christmas special, and it may not be the same as a full-blown movie (that we have to wait another three years for), but it’s a good time spent with characters we love--and one little dinosaur we now love a lot more.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Holidaze Review: Remember the Night (1940)
It’s unfortunate—ironic, even—that a movie called Remember the Night should have been forgotten for so many years.
After all, it starred two of the most popular actors of the time, Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray; it was written by the great Preston Sturges (this was the last movie he would only write—he would also direct every one of his scripts hereafter); and it was a box office hit when it was first released (oddly, on January 19, 1940, missing the holiday season by several weeks).
For whatever reason, though, the film faded into obscurity until recently, when TV showings and home video releases by Turner Classic Movies (including a restored Blu-ray release this year) have boosted its profile substantially.
And deservedly so: Remember the Night is a hidden gem with its two stars, writer and director (Mitchell Leisen) all at the top of their game, carefully toeing the line between romantic comedy and holiday drama without leaning to heavily on either. (Until the ending, anyway—more on that later.)
Stanwyck stars as Lee, an unrepentant shoplifter who has the misfortune to get busted right before Christmas. When her attorney puts up a spirited, unique defense (“Hypnotism!”) that appears to sway the jury, Assistant District Attorney John Sargent (MacMurray) convinces the judge to continue the case after the New Year—which means Lee will have to spend Christmas in jail.
Feeling guilty, John has Lee bailed out of jail, and the bail bondsman, thinking John has, um, other “plans” for Lee, delivers her to John’s apartment. John’s getting ready to head back to his Mom’s house in Indiana for Christmas, but it turns out that Lee is a Hoosier too, so he offers to drop her off on his way.
Road trip hijinks ensue--including car crashes, wrestling matches with cows and just a hint of arson—before they arrive in Lee’s hometown to find that her mother is a cold, hard, bitter woman who wants nothing to do with her larcenous offspring, so Lee sticks with John to visit his mom (Beulah Bondi) and the rest of the family.
Of course, Mom and everyone else assume that John and Lee are a couple, even when they both say they’re not, so guess what happens? Yup, they fall in love, which makes the whole prosecutor/perpetrator thing so much more complicated.
This may well sound like a typical screwball comedy with a holiday theme—and, except for the ending, which tips the storytelling scales in favor of full-blown melodrama, it pretty much is.
What distinguishes Remember the Night, however, is Sturges’s excellent script, in which adults talk and act like adults, even in situations that lend themselves to silliness or sappiness.
For example: Before John and Lee take off for Indiana, they have dinner and talk about Lee’s shoplifting “career” in terms both serious and witty (hint: it’s not “Hypnotism!”) And John’s mom, realizing the “kids” are falling for each other, goes to Lee’s room and expresses her concerns over what their budding relationship would mean for John’s career. It would have been very easy to paint Mom as cruel or insensitive, but Sturges fills her dialogue with warmth and gentleness, and Bondi and Stanwyck play the scene with beauty and sensitivity—when Mom asks, “But you love him, don’t you?” and Lee answers, “Yes, I’m afraid so,” it’s downright heartbreaking.
It doesn’t hurt that MacMurray and Stanwyck have great screen chemistry, which they’d uses to even greater effect four years later in Billy Wilder’s classic film noir, Double Indemnity.
It’s deeply cool that Remember the Night has emerged after all these years as a lost Christmas classic and is getting the respect and play that it deserved all along. If you’re tired of the holiday staples and are looking for something “new,” Remember the Night might just be for you.
After all, it starred two of the most popular actors of the time, Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray; it was written by the great Preston Sturges (this was the last movie he would only write—he would also direct every one of his scripts hereafter); and it was a box office hit when it was first released (oddly, on January 19, 1940, missing the holiday season by several weeks).
For whatever reason, though, the film faded into obscurity until recently, when TV showings and home video releases by Turner Classic Movies (including a restored Blu-ray release this year) have boosted its profile substantially.
And deservedly so: Remember the Night is a hidden gem with its two stars, writer and director (Mitchell Leisen) all at the top of their game, carefully toeing the line between romantic comedy and holiday drama without leaning to heavily on either. (Until the ending, anyway—more on that later.)
Stanwyck stars as Lee, an unrepentant shoplifter who has the misfortune to get busted right before Christmas. When her attorney puts up a spirited, unique defense (“Hypnotism!”) that appears to sway the jury, Assistant District Attorney John Sargent (MacMurray) convinces the judge to continue the case after the New Year—which means Lee will have to spend Christmas in jail.
Feeling guilty, John has Lee bailed out of jail, and the bail bondsman, thinking John has, um, other “plans” for Lee, delivers her to John’s apartment. John’s getting ready to head back to his Mom’s house in Indiana for Christmas, but it turns out that Lee is a Hoosier too, so he offers to drop her off on his way.
Road trip hijinks ensue--including car crashes, wrestling matches with cows and just a hint of arson—before they arrive in Lee’s hometown to find that her mother is a cold, hard, bitter woman who wants nothing to do with her larcenous offspring, so Lee sticks with John to visit his mom (Beulah Bondi) and the rest of the family.
Of course, Mom and everyone else assume that John and Lee are a couple, even when they both say they’re not, so guess what happens? Yup, they fall in love, which makes the whole prosecutor/perpetrator thing so much more complicated.
This may well sound like a typical screwball comedy with a holiday theme—and, except for the ending, which tips the storytelling scales in favor of full-blown melodrama, it pretty much is.
What distinguishes Remember the Night, however, is Sturges’s excellent script, in which adults talk and act like adults, even in situations that lend themselves to silliness or sappiness.
For example: Before John and Lee take off for Indiana, they have dinner and talk about Lee’s shoplifting “career” in terms both serious and witty (hint: it’s not “Hypnotism!”) And John’s mom, realizing the “kids” are falling for each other, goes to Lee’s room and expresses her concerns over what their budding relationship would mean for John’s career. It would have been very easy to paint Mom as cruel or insensitive, but Sturges fills her dialogue with warmth and gentleness, and Bondi and Stanwyck play the scene with beauty and sensitivity—when Mom asks, “But you love him, don’t you?” and Lee answers, “Yes, I’m afraid so,” it’s downright heartbreaking.
It doesn’t hurt that MacMurray and Stanwyck have great screen chemistry, which they’d uses to even greater effect four years later in Billy Wilder’s classic film noir, Double Indemnity.
It’s deeply cool that Remember the Night has emerged after all these years as a lost Christmas classic and is getting the respect and play that it deserved all along. If you’re tired of the holiday staples and are looking for something “new,” Remember the Night might just be for you.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
Holidaze Review: Grumpy Cat's Worst Christmas Ever (2014)
Late in Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever, a made-for-TV holiday movie based on the popular Internet meme, the heroine (with the titular feline in the passenger’s seat) drives a Camero in circles around the villain’s car.
That scene sums up the movie pretty well: Going around and around without ever actually getting anywhere.
The plot of Worst Christmas Ever is barely enough to fill out a half-hour special, much less a two hour extravaganza: Grump Cat (real name: Tardar Sauce; voiced by Aubrey Plaza) lives in a failing pet shop, whose owner is pinning all his hopes on selling a super-expensive dog. (How the owner can afford such an expensive dog when he can’t even pay his rent on the pet shop is never explained.)
One of the owner’s employees, Crystal (Megan Carpentier), is a 12-year-old who isn’t popular with the cool kids and is going through her first Christmas after her parents’ divorce, so when she gets a magic coin from a mall Santa Claus (who may be the real deal), she wishes for “a friend—one who listens to me and on whom I can depend.” And for her wish, Crystal gains the ability to hear Grumpy Cat talk and therefore has to suffer all the misanthropic one-liners and unfunny narration along with the rest of us.
Meanwhile, two nitwit thieves (think Home Alone, only dumber) plan to steal the dog when the mall closes on Christmas Eve, and it’s up to Crystal, Grumpy and the other denizens of the pet shop to stop them.
There’s also some nonsense about a bumbling mall cop and some romantic shenanigans between Crystal’s mom and a mall elf, but even with all that, screenwriters Tim Hill (who also directed) and Jeff Morris pad the proceedings out with lots of self-deprecating humor (mocking this movie, other Lifetime movies, holiday specials in general and Grumpy Cat merchandise) and pop culture references (to Batman, Murder She Wrote, The A-Team and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, among others).
This wouldn’t be so bad if Worst Christmas Ever were cut down to an hour, weeding out repetitive action and Grumpy Cat’s never-ending yammering (read in a sullen monotone by Plaza). Such a pruning would also have given the special a tighter focus on whatever audience this thing was intended for and spared the viewers some truly tasteless sequences, like when Grumpy imagines the horrid sequence of events if the pet shop closes, culminating in her being put to sleep (no, seriously), and a child molestation joke, in a Christmas special (no, seriously).
Instead, what we get is an unfocused, rambling, overlong, tone-deaf mess.
Turns out the title qualifies as truth in advertising--Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever really is the worst.
That scene sums up the movie pretty well: Going around and around without ever actually getting anywhere.
The plot of Worst Christmas Ever is barely enough to fill out a half-hour special, much less a two hour extravaganza: Grump Cat (real name: Tardar Sauce; voiced by Aubrey Plaza) lives in a failing pet shop, whose owner is pinning all his hopes on selling a super-expensive dog. (How the owner can afford such an expensive dog when he can’t even pay his rent on the pet shop is never explained.)
One of the owner’s employees, Crystal (Megan Carpentier), is a 12-year-old who isn’t popular with the cool kids and is going through her first Christmas after her parents’ divorce, so when she gets a magic coin from a mall Santa Claus (who may be the real deal), she wishes for “a friend—one who listens to me and on whom I can depend.” And for her wish, Crystal gains the ability to hear Grumpy Cat talk and therefore has to suffer all the misanthropic one-liners and unfunny narration along with the rest of us.
Meanwhile, two nitwit thieves (think Home Alone, only dumber) plan to steal the dog when the mall closes on Christmas Eve, and it’s up to Crystal, Grumpy and the other denizens of the pet shop to stop them.
There’s also some nonsense about a bumbling mall cop and some romantic shenanigans between Crystal’s mom and a mall elf, but even with all that, screenwriters Tim Hill (who also directed) and Jeff Morris pad the proceedings out with lots of self-deprecating humor (mocking this movie, other Lifetime movies, holiday specials in general and Grumpy Cat merchandise) and pop culture references (to Batman, Murder She Wrote, The A-Team and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, among others).
This wouldn’t be so bad if Worst Christmas Ever were cut down to an hour, weeding out repetitive action and Grumpy Cat’s never-ending yammering (read in a sullen monotone by Plaza). Such a pruning would also have given the special a tighter focus on whatever audience this thing was intended for and spared the viewers some truly tasteless sequences, like when Grumpy imagines the horrid sequence of events if the pet shop closes, culminating in her being put to sleep (no, seriously), and a child molestation joke, in a Christmas special (no, seriously).
Instead, what we get is an unfocused, rambling, overlong, tone-deaf mess.
Turns out the title qualifies as truth in advertising--Grumpy Cat’s Worst Christmas Ever really is the worst.
Monday, December 1, 2014
Holidaze Review: A Christmas Carol (1971)
According to Wikipedia, the oldest known film adaptation of A Christmas Carol, the 1843 Charles Dickens novella that introduced the world to Ebenezer Scrooge--the mean, cheap old man who nonetheless gets a shot at late-life redemption thanks to the ghost of his late business partner, Jacob Marley, and spirits representing the past, present and future of the Christmas holiday--popped up in 1901, when film itself was little more than a decade old and Dickens had existed within living memory.
Over the century-plus since, dozens of versions have appeared on screens big and small. Full-length features, made-for-TV specials, musicals, adaptations filtered through the pop culture prisms of Mister Magoo, Mickey Mouse and the Muppets, sitcom episodes…you name it, A Christmas Carol has probably been pounded, shoved or twisted into it.
The most popular version of the tale is probably the 1951 big-screen version starring Alistair Sim as Scrooge. Completely understandable--that version was in the public domain for years and played on many TV stations in many holiday seasons.
But did you know that, 20 years later, Sim starred in another version of A Christmas Carol--possibly the best, if most obscure, version of all?
It was a half-hour animated TV special, which aired in 1971 and was later issued on VHS, but never made it to DVD, much less Blu-ray.
That’s a shame, because this version deserves the widest audience possible, for a number of reasons.
First off, the special, produced by the legendary Chuck Jones directed by Richard Williams, is visually stunning, with fine line work in the hand-drawn animation that not even the blur of my copy (a bootleg bought from eBay and obviously dubbed from the aforementioned VHS release) could obscure. There are some moments that hint at Jones’s usual style (previously gracing another Christmas classic, How the Grinch Stole Christmas), but many more that look like book illustrations come to life.
Second, the special uses the relative brevity of the original story to great advantage. It was, after all, a novella, not a full-blown novel, and this version packs nearly all the major incidents into its 25-minute running time while still hitting on minor moments often forgotten in other, more lavish versions, like the visits to a mining camp and a ship at sea with the Ghost of Christmas Present, or Bob Cratchit lamenting at deathbed of Tiny Tim. There’s not a line or scene in it that’s not straight from Dickens, making this possibly the most accurate adaptation of all.
Lastly? The ghosts. The scary, scary ghosts.
Marley’s Ghost (voiced by Michael Hordern, who played the same role opposite Sim in the 1951 version) is one of the most frightening creatures ever to float across a TV screen, and even the usually jolly Ghost of Christmas Present had kids jumping behind the couch when he pulled back his robe to reveal the children, Want and Ignorance, clinging to his legs. (I remember this scene from the one time I saw this version when I was a kid—probably when it originally aired in 1971--and it still gives me the creeps.)
We can always hope that somebody somewhere gets the bright idea to release a “special edition” of this special, especially in high definition. It really deserves to be seen. Until then, those of you who still own VCRs (like me) can track down VHS copies on eBay or Amazon. Trust me--it will be worth it, though I apologize in advance for any nightmares Marley’s ghost scares up…sorry about that.
Over the century-plus since, dozens of versions have appeared on screens big and small. Full-length features, made-for-TV specials, musicals, adaptations filtered through the pop culture prisms of Mister Magoo, Mickey Mouse and the Muppets, sitcom episodes…you name it, A Christmas Carol has probably been pounded, shoved or twisted into it.
The most popular version of the tale is probably the 1951 big-screen version starring Alistair Sim as Scrooge. Completely understandable--that version was in the public domain for years and played on many TV stations in many holiday seasons.
But did you know that, 20 years later, Sim starred in another version of A Christmas Carol--possibly the best, if most obscure, version of all?
It was a half-hour animated TV special, which aired in 1971 and was later issued on VHS, but never made it to DVD, much less Blu-ray.
That’s a shame, because this version deserves the widest audience possible, for a number of reasons.
First off, the special, produced by the legendary Chuck Jones directed by Richard Williams, is visually stunning, with fine line work in the hand-drawn animation that not even the blur of my copy (a bootleg bought from eBay and obviously dubbed from the aforementioned VHS release) could obscure. There are some moments that hint at Jones’s usual style (previously gracing another Christmas classic, How the Grinch Stole Christmas), but many more that look like book illustrations come to life.
Second, the special uses the relative brevity of the original story to great advantage. It was, after all, a novella, not a full-blown novel, and this version packs nearly all the major incidents into its 25-minute running time while still hitting on minor moments often forgotten in other, more lavish versions, like the visits to a mining camp and a ship at sea with the Ghost of Christmas Present, or Bob Cratchit lamenting at deathbed of Tiny Tim. There’s not a line or scene in it that’s not straight from Dickens, making this possibly the most accurate adaptation of all.
Lastly? The ghosts. The scary, scary ghosts.
Marley’s Ghost (voiced by Michael Hordern, who played the same role opposite Sim in the 1951 version) is one of the most frightening creatures ever to float across a TV screen, and even the usually jolly Ghost of Christmas Present had kids jumping behind the couch when he pulled back his robe to reveal the children, Want and Ignorance, clinging to his legs. (I remember this scene from the one time I saw this version when I was a kid—probably when it originally aired in 1971--and it still gives me the creeps.)
We can always hope that somebody somewhere gets the bright idea to release a “special edition” of this special, especially in high definition. It really deserves to be seen. Until then, those of you who still own VCRs (like me) can track down VHS copies on eBay or Amazon. Trust me--it will be worth it, though I apologize in advance for any nightmares Marley’s ghost scares up…sorry about that.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Holidaze Review: Mr. Krueger's Christmas (1980)
For years, WGN-TV aired Mr. Krueger's Christmas, a half-hour holiday special starring James Stewart as an elderly, lonely man and produced by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, better known as the Mormon Church, but they aired it at odd times, often burying it in unpredictable timeslots (as if they really didn't know what to do with it) and making it difficult to find from year to year.
I had seen Mr. Krueger's Christmas a few times over the years and always found it an odd, even weird, program. (Not nearly as weird as The Star Wars Holiday Special, but nothing else could ever be quite that weird.) I last happened across Mr. Krueger's Christmas on a Saturday afternoon sometime in the mid-1990s and, luckily having a videotape handy, recorded it for posterity, or perhaps to prove to later generations that it existed at all.
As it turned out, that videotape came in handy a few years later, when I described Mr. Krueger's Christmas to a coworker who refused to believe any such thing had ever aired. Even after I proved the program's existence via its listing on The Internet Movie Database, she doubted that I had a copy of Mr. Krueger's Christmas. Now it had become a matter of pride--I don't just make shit up. Of course, it might have helped my cause somewhat if I'd actually labeled the tape. However, after about a week of determined searching through what must have been at least a couple dozen videotapes, I found my copy and presented it to her. She watched it and found it to be just as strange and unintentionally unsettling as I had.
Fast-forward to this Christmas weekend. I was to spend the Saturday before Christmas (technichally Christmas Eve Eve Eve) at JB's apartment for dinner, presents exchanged with him and Dee, and holiday movies. JB doesn't have as many DVDs as I do--I don't think anyone does, outside your local Blockbuster--so he asked me to bring along a selection of movies and TV specials to watch. One of the 10 or so DVDs jammed into my big burgundy shopping bag was Mr. Krueger's Christmas, now upgraded to a 25th anniversary DVD issued a couple of years ago by the Mormon Church. To my surprise, neither J.B. nor Dee had seen it before. So beneath the soft light of J.B.'s large white Christmas tree, warm and glowing in the gathered twilight, we watched this seemingly forgotten holiday oddity.
Stewart, a natural choice for a holiday special (having already starred in a couple of Christmas classics, The Shop Around the Corner and, of course, It's a Wonderful Life) plays the title character, an elderly building custodian. When we first meet Willie Krueger, he's just finished sweeping the lobby, only to have a resident trundle through the lobby with a Christmas tree, leaving pine needles in his wake. Mr. Krueger doesn't mind sweeping the lobby again, though--he loves the season, even if people walk straight past him without a word when he wishes them a Merry Christmas on the street. He stops beside a family looking in a toy store window and asks a young boy if what he sees in the window is what he wants Santa to bring. The mom, seemingly horrified by the vaguely creepy old man, drags her son away.
Willie continues down the street and looks into the window of a men's clothing store, where he sees himself, clean-shaven and sharply dressed, being attended to by store clerks and doffing his hat to a pretty young woman. Meanwhile, back out on the street and in reality, Mr. Krueger has taken his hat off, only to have a passer-by assume that Krueger is begging for money and drop a dollar in it. Even this can't dampen Krueger's Christmas spirit--he gives the dollar to a decidedly lackluster Salvation Army singer and continues on his way, buying a tiny pine tree for his apartment and looking longingly at the families shopping for their own Christmas trees.
Mr. Krueger returns to his apartment, greeted only by his calico kitty, George (named after Stewart's Character, George Bailey, in It's a Wonderful Life, maybe?). Willie puts down food for George, wishes a Merry Christmas to the photo of his long-dead wife, and puts on an album of carols sung by--who else?--the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Willie falls asleep in his chair as the album plays, leading to a dream sequence where he conducts the Choir, then goes out frolicking with them in the snowy country (a dream within a dream?), only to return to conducting and, at the end of the song, receive a standing ovation from them.
Mr. Krueger awakens to find that the album has finished, but there's still singing--live carolers are coming down the street. He hurries to his window and calls to them, inviting them in for some hot chocolate. The lead caroler, a middle-aged woman, isn't too sure this is a good idea, but agrees to come down anyway. Willie dashes about his apartment, winding garland around his little pine tree and slipping into yet another dream/vision/hallucination in which he's living in a mansion, welcoming the carolers (now dressed in Victorian finery) and kissing the lead caroler's hand. When he comes back to his senses, he's really kissing the lead caroler's hand, which she with draws with a look of horror before launching into a very awkward rendition of "The First Noel" in Willie's living room.
Willie notices a shy little blonde girl peeking from behind her mother and smiling at the old man. She sets her fuzzy mittens down and checks out Mr. Krueger's Nativity scene, lifting the Baby Jesus out of his place. Mom comes over and makes the little girl put Jesus back on the table, even as Willie protests that "I was gonna rearrange it like that anyway."
The carolers file out Willie's apartment, even as he practically begs them to stay. "Please don't go," Willie pleads. "I was gonna make some hot chocolate. I have a new Christmas album--wouldn't you like to hear it?" Guess not--the carolers move on down the snowy street, leaving Willie and his cat George alone again.
George walks around the underdecorated tree and meows at Willie. "I guess you're right, george," he says. "We'd better trim that tree. If we don't hurry, we'll be too late." So he starts to string lights on the tiny pine and, sure enough, another dream/hallucination kicks in. This time, Willie is decorating a huge outdoor tree (with the help of the help of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) while dancers twirl around the tree and the little blonde girl is lifted high enough to place the topper on the tree and light the whole thing up brilliantly.
A loud clanging brings Willie back to reality, such as it is. "Mrs. McClain" is banging on her pipes, demanding more heat. "She'd freeze to death in the Sahara Desert," Willie grumbles initially, then concludes that nobody should be cold on Christmas Eve and heads off to stoke the furnace. When Willie returns, he discovers that the little girl left her mittens behind. He drapes them on the branches of his tiny Christmas tree, smiles and starts rearranging the Nativity scene.
Willie picks up baby Jesus and regards him for a moment. You know that that means--another dream sequence! This one isn't just a flight of fancy, though. This time, he's in a cave with a bunch of people dressed in Biblical clothing crowded around a manger...yep, Willie is now IN the Nativity scene, talking to Baby Jesus himself! "I'm Willie Krueger, custodian at the Beck Apartments...but you know that, don't you?" Willie quickly realizes that Baby Jesus is the only one who can see or hear him, and thanks Jesus for always being there for him, especially in those first few hours after his wife died. "I love you," he tells Jesus tearfully. "You're my closest, my finest friend, and that means I can hold my head high."
Willie awakens from his revelry, wiping tears from his eyes and blowing his nose. Someone's at the door: the little girl, Clarissa, and her mom are back in search of the missing mittens. Clarissa thinks it's pretty weird that Willie hung the mittens on the tree, but then goes ahead and invites him to come sing with them after Willie gives Clarissa the Baby Jesus from his tabletop Nativity scene.
Mom looks fairly dubious at first, then grants that the group could use a bass and that Willie would be obligated to join them for a turkey dinner afterward. When Willie tries to protest that he needs to stick around and keep George company, Clarissa calls him out, point out that the cat is asleep on the couch. Willie concedes that George sleeps a lot, so he rushes to grab his coat and hat and heads out into the cold winter's night with his two new friends.
Outside in the snow, Clarissa looks down at the Baby Jesus, then back up at Willie and says, for no apparent reason, "I love you, Mr. Krueger!" Then a previously unheard narrator tells us, ""I love you.' That's what Christmas is all about. Clarissa said it to Mr. Krueger. Mr. Krueger said it to Jesus. And Jesus, in so many ways, has said it to all of us." The end.
It's easy to be snarky and cynical about Mr. Krueger's Christmas--see any (or all) of the comments above--especially with the dream sequences eating up so much of its slight running time (without the commercial breaks, it's just over 20 minutes long). It's not as easy, however, to dismiss Jimmy Stewart's performance. He approaches the role with absolute sincerity, and even when Willie retreats into fuzzy-edged fantasy, he remains entirely sympathetic because Stewart plays the part completely straight and wrings emotion out of the potentially silliness, especially in the hallucinatory "Willie talks to Jesus" scene.
Maybe I'm just being hard on Mr. Krueger's Christmas because it depicts what my life could very well be 20 years from now. Or 10. Or now.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
I had seen Mr. Krueger's Christmas a few times over the years and always found it an odd, even weird, program. (Not nearly as weird as The Star Wars Holiday Special, but nothing else could ever be quite that weird.) I last happened across Mr. Krueger's Christmas on a Saturday afternoon sometime in the mid-1990s and, luckily having a videotape handy, recorded it for posterity, or perhaps to prove to later generations that it existed at all.
As it turned out, that videotape came in handy a few years later, when I described Mr. Krueger's Christmas to a coworker who refused to believe any such thing had ever aired. Even after I proved the program's existence via its listing on The Internet Movie Database, she doubted that I had a copy of Mr. Krueger's Christmas. Now it had become a matter of pride--I don't just make shit up. Of course, it might have helped my cause somewhat if I'd actually labeled the tape. However, after about a week of determined searching through what must have been at least a couple dozen videotapes, I found my copy and presented it to her. She watched it and found it to be just as strange and unintentionally unsettling as I had.
Fast-forward to this Christmas weekend. I was to spend the Saturday before Christmas (technichally Christmas Eve Eve Eve) at JB's apartment for dinner, presents exchanged with him and Dee, and holiday movies. JB doesn't have as many DVDs as I do--I don't think anyone does, outside your local Blockbuster--so he asked me to bring along a selection of movies and TV specials to watch. One of the 10 or so DVDs jammed into my big burgundy shopping bag was Mr. Krueger's Christmas, now upgraded to a 25th anniversary DVD issued a couple of years ago by the Mormon Church. To my surprise, neither J.B. nor Dee had seen it before. So beneath the soft light of J.B.'s large white Christmas tree, warm and glowing in the gathered twilight, we watched this seemingly forgotten holiday oddity.
Stewart, a natural choice for a holiday special (having already starred in a couple of Christmas classics, The Shop Around the Corner and, of course, It's a Wonderful Life) plays the title character, an elderly building custodian. When we first meet Willie Krueger, he's just finished sweeping the lobby, only to have a resident trundle through the lobby with a Christmas tree, leaving pine needles in his wake. Mr. Krueger doesn't mind sweeping the lobby again, though--he loves the season, even if people walk straight past him without a word when he wishes them a Merry Christmas on the street. He stops beside a family looking in a toy store window and asks a young boy if what he sees in the window is what he wants Santa to bring. The mom, seemingly horrified by the vaguely creepy old man, drags her son away.
Willie continues down the street and looks into the window of a men's clothing store, where he sees himself, clean-shaven and sharply dressed, being attended to by store clerks and doffing his hat to a pretty young woman. Meanwhile, back out on the street and in reality, Mr. Krueger has taken his hat off, only to have a passer-by assume that Krueger is begging for money and drop a dollar in it. Even this can't dampen Krueger's Christmas spirit--he gives the dollar to a decidedly lackluster Salvation Army singer and continues on his way, buying a tiny pine tree for his apartment and looking longingly at the families shopping for their own Christmas trees.
Mr. Krueger returns to his apartment, greeted only by his calico kitty, George (named after Stewart's Character, George Bailey, in It's a Wonderful Life, maybe?). Willie puts down food for George, wishes a Merry Christmas to the photo of his long-dead wife, and puts on an album of carols sung by--who else?--the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Willie falls asleep in his chair as the album plays, leading to a dream sequence where he conducts the Choir, then goes out frolicking with them in the snowy country (a dream within a dream?), only to return to conducting and, at the end of the song, receive a standing ovation from them.
Mr. Krueger awakens to find that the album has finished, but there's still singing--live carolers are coming down the street. He hurries to his window and calls to them, inviting them in for some hot chocolate. The lead caroler, a middle-aged woman, isn't too sure this is a good idea, but agrees to come down anyway. Willie dashes about his apartment, winding garland around his little pine tree and slipping into yet another dream/vision/hallucination in which he's living in a mansion, welcoming the carolers (now dressed in Victorian finery) and kissing the lead caroler's hand. When he comes back to his senses, he's really kissing the lead caroler's hand, which she with draws with a look of horror before launching into a very awkward rendition of "The First Noel" in Willie's living room.
Willie notices a shy little blonde girl peeking from behind her mother and smiling at the old man. She sets her fuzzy mittens down and checks out Mr. Krueger's Nativity scene, lifting the Baby Jesus out of his place. Mom comes over and makes the little girl put Jesus back on the table, even as Willie protests that "I was gonna rearrange it like that anyway."
The carolers file out Willie's apartment, even as he practically begs them to stay. "Please don't go," Willie pleads. "I was gonna make some hot chocolate. I have a new Christmas album--wouldn't you like to hear it?" Guess not--the carolers move on down the snowy street, leaving Willie and his cat George alone again.
George walks around the underdecorated tree and meows at Willie. "I guess you're right, george," he says. "We'd better trim that tree. If we don't hurry, we'll be too late." So he starts to string lights on the tiny pine and, sure enough, another dream/hallucination kicks in. This time, Willie is decorating a huge outdoor tree (with the help of the help of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir) while dancers twirl around the tree and the little blonde girl is lifted high enough to place the topper on the tree and light the whole thing up brilliantly.
A loud clanging brings Willie back to reality, such as it is. "Mrs. McClain" is banging on her pipes, demanding more heat. "She'd freeze to death in the Sahara Desert," Willie grumbles initially, then concludes that nobody should be cold on Christmas Eve and heads off to stoke the furnace. When Willie returns, he discovers that the little girl left her mittens behind. He drapes them on the branches of his tiny Christmas tree, smiles and starts rearranging the Nativity scene.
Willie picks up baby Jesus and regards him for a moment. You know that that means--another dream sequence! This one isn't just a flight of fancy, though. This time, he's in a cave with a bunch of people dressed in Biblical clothing crowded around a manger...yep, Willie is now IN the Nativity scene, talking to Baby Jesus himself! "I'm Willie Krueger, custodian at the Beck Apartments...but you know that, don't you?" Willie quickly realizes that Baby Jesus is the only one who can see or hear him, and thanks Jesus for always being there for him, especially in those first few hours after his wife died. "I love you," he tells Jesus tearfully. "You're my closest, my finest friend, and that means I can hold my head high."
Willie awakens from his revelry, wiping tears from his eyes and blowing his nose. Someone's at the door: the little girl, Clarissa, and her mom are back in search of the missing mittens. Clarissa thinks it's pretty weird that Willie hung the mittens on the tree, but then goes ahead and invites him to come sing with them after Willie gives Clarissa the Baby Jesus from his tabletop Nativity scene.
Mom looks fairly dubious at first, then grants that the group could use a bass and that Willie would be obligated to join them for a turkey dinner afterward. When Willie tries to protest that he needs to stick around and keep George company, Clarissa calls him out, point out that the cat is asleep on the couch. Willie concedes that George sleeps a lot, so he rushes to grab his coat and hat and heads out into the cold winter's night with his two new friends.
Outside in the snow, Clarissa looks down at the Baby Jesus, then back up at Willie and says, for no apparent reason, "I love you, Mr. Krueger!" Then a previously unheard narrator tells us, ""I love you.' That's what Christmas is all about. Clarissa said it to Mr. Krueger. Mr. Krueger said it to Jesus. And Jesus, in so many ways, has said it to all of us." The end.
It's easy to be snarky and cynical about Mr. Krueger's Christmas--see any (or all) of the comments above--especially with the dream sequences eating up so much of its slight running time (without the commercial breaks, it's just over 20 minutes long). It's not as easy, however, to dismiss Jimmy Stewart's performance. He approaches the role with absolute sincerity, and even when Willie retreats into fuzzy-edged fantasy, he remains entirely sympathetic because Stewart plays the part completely straight and wrings emotion out of the potentially silliness, especially in the hallucinatory "Willie talks to Jesus" scene.
Maybe I'm just being hard on Mr. Krueger's Christmas because it depicts what my life could very well be 20 years from now. Or 10. Or now.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Saturday, October 8, 2005
Review: The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993)
Imagine a Rankin/Bass holiday special written by Charles Addams and designed by Edward Gorey, and you've pretty much got the gist of The Nightmare Before Christmas.
Based on a story by Tim Burton (hence his name in the title), The Nightmare Before Christmas is the story of Jack Skellington (speaking voice by Chris Sarandon, singing voice by Danny Elfman, who also provides the score and songs), the "Pumpkin King" of Halloween Town, where all of the frights and scares for All Hallow's Eve are manufactured by various creeptacular denizens--werewolves, vampires, witches, etc. Jack is the best at what he does, but he's bored with it all and wants something more, something new, in his (after)life.
While walking through the forest with his ghost-dog, Zero, Jack stumbles onto the doorways to the homes of other holidays, including Christmas Town, where Santa Claus (Ed Ivory) is busily preparing for the upcoming yuletide season. Jack falls through the door and is enthralled by what he finds on the other side: Snow! Lights! Tinsel! Ornaments! Presents!
When he returns to Halloween Town, Jack is determined to have a go at this Christmas thing himself--which, of course, would mean putting this "Sandy Claws" fellow out of the way until the holiday is done. Jack enlists Lock, Shock and Barrel (Paul Reubens, Catherine O'Hara and Elfman, respectively), three little trick-or-treaters who are scarier with their masks off, to kidnap Santa without doing him harm. Unfortunately, they work for Oogie Boogie (Ken Page), a burlap-wrapped, maggoty, malevolent ghost who'd be more than happy to take over Halloween Town if Jack's so tired of it.
Meanwhile, Jack goes on trying to duplicate the Christmas spirit (filtered through his Halloween sensibilities, so you wind up with stuff like bat garlands and gifts that try to eat you) with the help of mad scientist Doctor Finkelstein (William Hickey). Only Finkelstein's assistant/creation, Sally (O'Hara), thinks this is all a spectacularly bad idea. Of course, she's also in love with Jack, even though he can't see it (I feel your pain, girlfriend).
All of the above is, of course, plot summary for The Nightmare Before Christmas and nothing more. It doesn't convey the wonder of the stop-motion, computer-aided animation directed by Henry Selick It doesn't properly capture the charm, wit and cheerful morbidity (can one be cheerful and morbid at the same time?) of Caroline Thompson's script, which dances carefully between comical creepiness and holiday/romantic sentimentality while throwing in sly references to classic holiday specials. (Zero's little pumpkin nose just happens to glow like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer's--wonder who will wind up pulling Jack's sleigh?) It doesn't speak to the catchiness of Elfman's songs, most of which will be stuck in your head for days.
If this movie were just a satire of all those seasonal specials we grew up with, it'd still be great fun. But throw in its serious message about taking risks (for both satisfaction with your life's work and for someone you love), its gothic charm and its ultimate sweetness the final scene is tear-inducing), and The Nightmare Before Christmas becomes something unique: An animated feature that has itself become a classic for not one, but both of America's most popular holidays.
Based on a story by Tim Burton (hence his name in the title), The Nightmare Before Christmas is the story of Jack Skellington (speaking voice by Chris Sarandon, singing voice by Danny Elfman, who also provides the score and songs), the "Pumpkin King" of Halloween Town, where all of the frights and scares for All Hallow's Eve are manufactured by various creeptacular denizens--werewolves, vampires, witches, etc. Jack is the best at what he does, but he's bored with it all and wants something more, something new, in his (after)life.
While walking through the forest with his ghost-dog, Zero, Jack stumbles onto the doorways to the homes of other holidays, including Christmas Town, where Santa Claus (Ed Ivory) is busily preparing for the upcoming yuletide season. Jack falls through the door and is enthralled by what he finds on the other side: Snow! Lights! Tinsel! Ornaments! Presents!
When he returns to Halloween Town, Jack is determined to have a go at this Christmas thing himself--which, of course, would mean putting this "Sandy Claws" fellow out of the way until the holiday is done. Jack enlists Lock, Shock and Barrel (Paul Reubens, Catherine O'Hara and Elfman, respectively), three little trick-or-treaters who are scarier with their masks off, to kidnap Santa without doing him harm. Unfortunately, they work for Oogie Boogie (Ken Page), a burlap-wrapped, maggoty, malevolent ghost who'd be more than happy to take over Halloween Town if Jack's so tired of it.
Meanwhile, Jack goes on trying to duplicate the Christmas spirit (filtered through his Halloween sensibilities, so you wind up with stuff like bat garlands and gifts that try to eat you) with the help of mad scientist Doctor Finkelstein (William Hickey). Only Finkelstein's assistant/creation, Sally (O'Hara), thinks this is all a spectacularly bad idea. Of course, she's also in love with Jack, even though he can't see it (I feel your pain, girlfriend).
All of the above is, of course, plot summary for The Nightmare Before Christmas and nothing more. It doesn't convey the wonder of the stop-motion, computer-aided animation directed by Henry Selick It doesn't properly capture the charm, wit and cheerful morbidity (can one be cheerful and morbid at the same time?) of Caroline Thompson's script, which dances carefully between comical creepiness and holiday/romantic sentimentality while throwing in sly references to classic holiday specials. (Zero's little pumpkin nose just happens to glow like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer's--wonder who will wind up pulling Jack's sleigh?) It doesn't speak to the catchiness of Elfman's songs, most of which will be stuck in your head for days.
If this movie were just a satire of all those seasonal specials we grew up with, it'd still be great fun. But throw in its serious message about taking risks (for both satisfaction with your life's work and for someone you love), its gothic charm and its ultimate sweetness the final scene is tear-inducing), and The Nightmare Before Christmas becomes something unique: An animated feature that has itself become a classic for not one, but both of America's most popular holidays.
Monday, November 26, 2001
When Reindeer Attack!
Okay. Thanksgiving has now come and gone. So now I must accept the things I cannot change: Christmastime is indeed upon us. I like Christmas. Truly, I do. But some years, I'm just not in the mood for it, especially when it gets rammed down my throat like it did this year. So I'm trying to ease into it. I listened to holiday CDs Thanksgiving morning (more on these next week). I watched Miracle on 34th Street Thanksgiving evening at Mom's house.
And I decorated my apartment. Somewhat.
I battle myself annually over the issue of how much decoration to put up in the happy (heh) home. Some years, I dig up the full-sized fake pine tree and use every ornament in the storage container--carousel horses and angels and glass balls and cartoon characters like Superman and Batman and the Tick (SPOON!) and Ren & Stimpy and Pinky & the Brain and I think you get the damn idea so I'd better stop now while I can.
Other years, I give in to my less cheerful impulses and decide that it won't matter what I put up because nobody will see the decorations except for me and the cats so there's really no point, right?
This year, I split the difference. I brought out the smallest tree that I own--the 18-inch-high lighted tree that Grandma kept in her center living room window for year--and stood it on an end table. Then I untangled the string of red chili pepper lights and hung them over the three living room windows. And finally, I decorated the tin dollhouse (a remnant of my mother's youth) with various festive figures, like 50-year-old angel ornaments and a Father Christmas figurine (hand-painted by me when I was inclined to be artistic). But most of the figures placed in, on and around the tin dollhouse were from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
I'm not exactly sure why I've always had such an affinity for Rudolph above all other holiday specials. Maybe it's because it first aired the year I was born (1964, if you must know). Maybe it's a matter of civic pride, since the original story on which the song (and, subsequently, the TV special) was based came from an ad writer at Montgomery Ward's, the late, great department store chain that was based out of the Windy City. (Its former corporate headquarters still says "WARDS" in huge white letters.)
But most likely, I like Rudolph for the same reason I like Edward Scissorhands and the movies of Ed Wood. I like outsiders. I root for underdogs. And it's always coolest when the class nerd saves the day.
The special itself still retains its uplifting message, even when viewed as a jaded adult, but some of its elements do seem bizarre now. For instance, I understand the other reindeer giving Rudy shit for his glowing nose. Kids will seize on whatever abnormality they can--thick glasses, crooked teeth, a radioactive schnoz--to make fun of in order to feel some sense of superiority, of power, of not being as much of a freak as the geek with the neon nostrils.
But why are the adults so skeeved? Rudolph's dad, Donner (which should be "Donder," by the way, he said in his most superior, snooty, know-it-all voice possible), is horrified the first time he gets a look at his kid's "blinkin' beacon" and covers it with mud. And Santa comes right out and says that Rudolph's nose disqualifies him from ever pulling his sleigh. But why? His nose doesn't inhibit his ability to fly. Why, Santa, why?
There's only one answer, boys and girls: Santa Claus is a bigot.
That's right. You heard me. Old Kris Kringle, the King of Jingling himself, is the Archie Bunker of the Arctic Circle. And he proves it himself when, during the reindeer inspection, he rejects Rudolph even after the little buck flies his fuzzy little Dynamagic butt off when the adorable doe Clarice tells him she thinks he's "cute." (Funny, I react the same way when women tell me that.) Santa doesn't give a reason for his rejection. He doesn't have to. He's Santa-Fuckin'-Claus, Baybee! Rudolph is different, and that's enough.
Of course, being an outsider has its benefits. Rudolph winds up making all kinds of strange (but wonderful) friends, like Clarice, who sings Rudy a heart-felt song about how "there's always tomorrow for dreams to come true" (with rabbits and raccoons singing backup) even though she's only known him for, like, five minutes; Hermie, the elf with the oral fixation; Yukon Cornelius, the most half-assed prospector who ever lived (and who has a blue poodle in his dogsled team); and most heart-wrenching of all, all the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys.
I thought I belonged there. I still think I do.
Rudolph triumphs in the end, naturally. He leads Santa's team (bet that nose is looking mighty tasty now, huh, Mr. Bigot in the Big Red Suit?), Hermie gets his own dentist office, Yukon lands a peppermint mine (highly lucrative, given all the candy canes that need to be made), the Misfit Toys all get homes and Sam the Snowman sings the title song.
And then there's the Abominable Snow Monster, who looks like about 12 miles of hairy ass to an adult viewer, but is one of the most scary things every to crawl over a mountain to a five-year-old hunkered down on the living room rug, staring up at the big black-and-white Zenith console in mingled wonder, awe and fear. The "Bumble" gets his teeth yanked out and is good for little more than placing the star atop the tree without a ladder, but at least he's reformed and lives out his life eating baby foot and getting poked at by sharp sticks by the emboldened elves...
Okay, I made that last bit up. But that'll happen when you've spent way too much time in the so-called "Real World," and not nearly enough time on the Island of Misfit Toys.
And I decorated my apartment. Somewhat.
I battle myself annually over the issue of how much decoration to put up in the happy (heh) home. Some years, I dig up the full-sized fake pine tree and use every ornament in the storage container--carousel horses and angels and glass balls and cartoon characters like Superman and Batman and the Tick (SPOON!) and Ren & Stimpy and Pinky & the Brain and I think you get the damn idea so I'd better stop now while I can.
Other years, I give in to my less cheerful impulses and decide that it won't matter what I put up because nobody will see the decorations except for me and the cats so there's really no point, right?
This year, I split the difference. I brought out the smallest tree that I own--the 18-inch-high lighted tree that Grandma kept in her center living room window for year--and stood it on an end table. Then I untangled the string of red chili pepper lights and hung them over the three living room windows. And finally, I decorated the tin dollhouse (a remnant of my mother's youth) with various festive figures, like 50-year-old angel ornaments and a Father Christmas figurine (hand-painted by me when I was inclined to be artistic). But most of the figures placed in, on and around the tin dollhouse were from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
I'm not exactly sure why I've always had such an affinity for Rudolph above all other holiday specials. Maybe it's because it first aired the year I was born (1964, if you must know). Maybe it's a matter of civic pride, since the original story on which the song (and, subsequently, the TV special) was based came from an ad writer at Montgomery Ward's, the late, great department store chain that was based out of the Windy City. (Its former corporate headquarters still says "WARDS" in huge white letters.)
But most likely, I like Rudolph for the same reason I like Edward Scissorhands and the movies of Ed Wood. I like outsiders. I root for underdogs. And it's always coolest when the class nerd saves the day.
The special itself still retains its uplifting message, even when viewed as a jaded adult, but some of its elements do seem bizarre now. For instance, I understand the other reindeer giving Rudy shit for his glowing nose. Kids will seize on whatever abnormality they can--thick glasses, crooked teeth, a radioactive schnoz--to make fun of in order to feel some sense of superiority, of power, of not being as much of a freak as the geek with the neon nostrils.
But why are the adults so skeeved? Rudolph's dad, Donner (which should be "Donder," by the way, he said in his most superior, snooty, know-it-all voice possible), is horrified the first time he gets a look at his kid's "blinkin' beacon" and covers it with mud. And Santa comes right out and says that Rudolph's nose disqualifies him from ever pulling his sleigh. But why? His nose doesn't inhibit his ability to fly. Why, Santa, why?
There's only one answer, boys and girls: Santa Claus is a bigot.
That's right. You heard me. Old Kris Kringle, the King of Jingling himself, is the Archie Bunker of the Arctic Circle. And he proves it himself when, during the reindeer inspection, he rejects Rudolph even after the little buck flies his fuzzy little Dynamagic butt off when the adorable doe Clarice tells him she thinks he's "cute." (Funny, I react the same way when women tell me that.) Santa doesn't give a reason for his rejection. He doesn't have to. He's Santa-Fuckin'-Claus, Baybee! Rudolph is different, and that's enough.
Of course, being an outsider has its benefits. Rudolph winds up making all kinds of strange (but wonderful) friends, like Clarice, who sings Rudy a heart-felt song about how "there's always tomorrow for dreams to come true" (with rabbits and raccoons singing backup) even though she's only known him for, like, five minutes; Hermie, the elf with the oral fixation; Yukon Cornelius, the most half-assed prospector who ever lived (and who has a blue poodle in his dogsled team); and most heart-wrenching of all, all the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys.
I thought I belonged there. I still think I do.
Rudolph triumphs in the end, naturally. He leads Santa's team (bet that nose is looking mighty tasty now, huh, Mr. Bigot in the Big Red Suit?), Hermie gets his own dentist office, Yukon lands a peppermint mine (highly lucrative, given all the candy canes that need to be made), the Misfit Toys all get homes and Sam the Snowman sings the title song.
And then there's the Abominable Snow Monster, who looks like about 12 miles of hairy ass to an adult viewer, but is one of the most scary things every to crawl over a mountain to a five-year-old hunkered down on the living room rug, staring up at the big black-and-white Zenith console in mingled wonder, awe and fear. The "Bumble" gets his teeth yanked out and is good for little more than placing the star atop the tree without a ladder, but at least he's reformed and lives out his life eating baby foot and getting poked at by sharp sticks by the emboldened elves...
Okay, I made that last bit up. But that'll happen when you've spent way too much time in the so-called "Real World," and not nearly enough time on the Island of Misfit Toys.
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