How festive.

Review: SILENT NIGHT

SILENT NIGHT
2012
Directed by Steven C. Miller

Here's a concept for you: guy dressed as Santa Claus, around Christmas time, killing people. You hear that and think "You'd have to be an idiot to fuck that up!"

And yet, for five films, the filmmakers of the original Silent Night, Deadly Night series did just that. The first film is regarded as something of a "classic," but I think that has more to do with nostalgia and also people remembering something the movie is not. And aside from the infamous and memorable "GARBAGE DAY!!!" sequence from Part 2 (CLICK HERE TO SEE IT!!), the original franchise is a tiny, uncooked Christmas goose, not worthy of even Bob Cratchit and his poor family.

Here is one franchise that was read for a reboot/remake/whatever. So how did they do? Well, it's not a total catastrophe! That's something!

For one thing, the film looks pretty professional, and director Steven C. Miller must have been watching a ton of J.J. Abrams stuff before he sat down in the director's chair, because there are lens flares all over this thing.

SPIT OUT THAT GUM, YOUNG MAN.

SILENT NIGHT takes place in a town where apparently everyone is a fucking jerk-off. There are creepy, pervert priests; there are disgruntled Santa's who make kids cry; there are pornographers and cocaine addicts; and there is lazy town sherif, played by lazy actor Malcolm McDowell.

Jamie King stars as Aubrey, a deputy getting over the loss of her husband. She's nervous on the job, which is bad timing, because some crazy man in a Santa Claus suit is killing people in town. He appears to be killing "naughty" people, like a really bratty little girl, and people committing adultery and so on. However, the filmmakers seem to abandon this plot point, because soon our killer Santa is killing everyone in sight, naughty or nice.

The movie is kind of a mess. There's a strange plot-line that appears in the middle of the film about man in the past who ALSO dressed as Santa and killed a bunch of people with a flame thrower. Then there's Aubrey's uncertainty with her job. At one point she's even visited by what I can only assume is the ghost of her dead husband, dressed in a Santa suit. It's weird. Most likely there were half a dozen different drafts of the screenplay, and they just did a little pick-n-choose and hoped they all stuck.

Malcolm McDowell ponders: "What the fuck happened to my career?"

The movie does have its saving graces. The gore-factor is top notch, and I appreciate that they used a lot of practical effects rather than just CGI blood and gore. The Santa costume, with its clear mask, is actually pretty creepy looking. And the film doesn't pull punches; people die in nasty ways.

But there's no heart or soul at play here. If a filmmaker with passion had tackled this film, even with its messy screenplay, we could've ended up with something near-perfect. But Steven C. Miller seems to just be going through the motions, moving from point A to point B in dull procession.

"PUNISH!"

Characters come and go, popping up from time to time to make the audience say "Oh yeah, that guy..."; the ending "plot-twist" is pointless; the town looks like an obvious studio backlot. And then there's that whole "naughty or nice" angle. Early in the film, there are several scenes where killer Santa will dispatch some rude asshole, and spare some "innocent" person nearby. Okay, that's fine. But then they forget all about that, and soon Santa is going after the Mayor, who seemed like a nice guy, and the cute police station dispatch girl, who also seems pretty nice. What's your deal, Santa? Make up your goddamn mind. 

Also, Jamie King is a cute actress and she's clearly trying, but she gives a pretty bad performance here, and is incapable of carrying a film. At one point she comes across the corpse of someone very very close to her and her "horrified" reaction is laughable.

But, any film that features a scene like this can't be all bad:

SILENT NIGHT is a not an awful film. It has its moments, and its certainly more enjoyable than any of the films from the original franchise (GARBAGE DAY!! scene excluded, of course). You could do a lot worse when it comes to Killer Santa movies. However, with such a seemingly good concept, it still baffles me that no one has managed to get it right yet.

I give SILENT NIGHT:

         TWO NOGS out of FOUR

Review: SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE!

SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE
1985
Directed by Jeannot Szwarc


Mmm, McDonald's! I could really go for some Big Mac's and fries and nuggets! Also, some Coke! Delicious, delicious Coke!

Speaking of Coke, the producers of the 1985 flop SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE were probably snorting a tone of cocaine when they came up with this holiday "classic."

Basically it broke down to this: the producers of the box office smash SUPERMAN thought they could translate that same success onto another character, one in the public domain that they didn't have to pay rights to. And Santa Claus is sort of like Superman, in that they both fly, and that they both can see through women's clothes with X-Ray Vision.

"I wish they had just let us freeze to death."

Unfortunately, Santa didn't quite adapt as well to the Hero treatment, and what resulted was a fever dream of bright colors, possible musical numbers that never start but seem like they should, blatant product placement (by McDonald's, Coke, and, of all things, Pabst Blue Ribbon), and John Lithgow chewing so much scenery he must have dislocated his jaw.

SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE decides to give Santa (the Big Lebowski himself, David Huddleston) a backstory. It seems before he became the jolly old elf the world knows and fears  loves, he was a simple toymaker living in some undisclosed century. He and his wife and his two reindeer would ride around in the snow and give wooden toys to kids. How charming!

Well not so fast, because in the first fifteen minutes of this film, Santa, his wife, and his two reindeer freeze to death. Merry Christmas!

I'm gonna burn this mother fucker down!!!!

Riding back home, they get caught in a blizzard and all die. But wait! Luckily for them, they happen to die at the spot where a magical Christmas tree appears, and out of this glowing magic tree come elves!

The elves bring them all back to life, and the head elf announces himself by saying "I am the one called Dooley!" All the elves introduce themselves that way; it's a weird elf thing, I guess. Also, one of the elves is named Patch, and played by lovable drunk Dudley Moore, who does NOT look good with lipstick.

The elves make Santa a job offer: they'll make toys, and he'll deliver them to all the boys and girls of the world, in ONE NIGHT! How can this be? I don't know, there's some bullshit prophecy at play and Santa is the chosen one, and he can control time, or something. It's all very weird. Also, the elves dance.

As the centuries tick on, Santa entrusts the elf Patch with coming up with bigger, better ways to make toys, so Patch pulls a Henry Ford and constructs an assembly line. Unfortunately, it produces really shoddy toys that fall apart, which gives Santa a bad name. So, uh, I guess in the universe this film takes place in everyone is aware that Santa Claus is real? I mean, kids get into fist-fights over the subject, and say things like "My dad says he's all washed up!" which implies parents are sitting around discussing the productive merits of Santa Claus.

Santa promptly fires Patch, and Patch heads to New York City (for reasons unknown), and he also brings with him the magical gold dust that makes the reindeer fly. Also, I am making none of this up--this is exactly what happens.

Anyway, Santa befriends a little street urchin named Joe. Joe is always dirty, wears a leather jacket, has no family, and he really wants to eat some fucking McDonald's. In one scene, he stares through a window and longingly watches as families shove fist-fulls of fries into their faces. Joe has a friend name Cornelia, whom he refers to as "Corny."

Corny, like Joe, has no parents. But unlike Joe, she lives in a big mansion, which is owned by her cartoonishly evil uncle, B.Z., played by John Lithgow with such gleeful over-the-top-ness that you can't help become enchanted as Lithgow glowers and snarls and cackles and chomps on cigars.

Lithgow is a big-shot toymaker. So, wait--everyone is aware of Santa Claus, yet there is still a need for toymakers? Whatever. Anyway, Lithgow has just gotten in trouble with Congress because his toys catch fire, and he sells teddy bears stuffed with nails and glass (????). He needs some good P.R., and he gets it in the form of Patch, who shows up and offers to help B.Z. create something AWESOME for Christmas. Their awesome idea? Lollipops that make people FLY!!

"I want you to get nude with me in a bathtub, and then I'll cut you femoral artery." 

This is bad news for Santa. Kids love these magic lollipops so much that Santa sinks into a Sylvia Plath-like depression, where he mopes around and probably contemplates sticking his head into the gingerbread man oven.

Meanwhile, Lithgow wants to keep the success going by launching CHRISTMAS 2, and selling magic candy canes this time. There's a catch: these candy canes can explode and KILL PEOPLE. Street urchin McDonald's loving Joe overhears this, and ends up held captive by Lithgow and co., until he is rescued by Patch.

Then it's time for a "thrilling" chase across the skies as Santa and Corny and Patch and Joe ride in their respective flying sleighs and try to avoid exploding.

Did I mention this movie is fucking insane?

There's a weird charm to SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE. It's just so weird and off the walls that you can't help but sitting through it. It has a real train wreck effect--there's something more productive you could be doing with your time, but it's much more fun to watch the carnage.

It's so god damn magical!

Also, the film has such wonderfully tone-deaf dialog exchanges such as this:

SANTA: Next Christmas, you and I will have a date!
JOE: Really?
SANTA: Santa Claus never lies, Joe!

It's worth mentioning for a film called SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE, Santa Claus is barely featured. He takes a back-seat to Patch, but I guess PATCH: THE DRUNK ELF wouldn't be as good as a title (wait, yes it would...).

The film also features a rather horrifying comeuppance for Lithgow's character: in an effort to avoid being arrested, Lithgow eats a whole bundle of the magic candy canes, and ends up flying up into the cold, dead wasteland of space, where he will likely suffocate to death, after his eyeballs explode out of his head.

Merry Christmas!

SANTA CLAUS: THE MOVIE is a bad, bad movie, but it's so bad you have to see it; also, it gets major points for being a Christmas movie and not once mentioning or even hinting at Christ or Christianity--and therefor I give the film

Four out of Four Lithgows:

Obligatory Krampus Post

KRAMPUS is a beast-like creature from the folklore of Alpine countries thought to punish bad children during the Yule season, in contrast with Santa Claus, who rewards the nice ones with gifts. Krampus is said to capture particularly naughty children in his sack and carry them away to his lair.

Krampus is represented as a beast-like creature, generally demonic in appearance. The creature has roots in Germanic folklore. Traditionally young men dress up as the Krampus in Austria, southern Bavaria, South Tyrol, Hungary, Slovenia and Croatia during the first week of December, particularly on the evening of December 5th, and roam the streets frightening children with rusty chains and bells. Krampus is featured on holiday greeing cars called Krampuskarten.

The Cat in the Shopping Bag

transcribed from More Scary Stories to tell in the Dark by Alvin Schwartz

Mrs. Briggs was driving to the shopping mall to do some last-minute Christmas shopping when she accidentally ran over a cat. She could not bear to leave the corpse on the road for the other cars to hit and squash. So she stopped, wrapped the cat in some tissue paper she had with her, and put it in an old shopping bag in the backseat. She would bury it in the backyard when she got home.

At the mall, she parked her car and began walking to one of the stores. She had only taken a few steps when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a woman reach into the open window of her car and take the shopping bag with the dead cat. The woman quickly got into a car nearby and drove away.

Mrs. Briggs ran back to her car and followed the woman. She caught up with her at a diner down the road. She followed her inside and watched the woman slide into a booth and give a waitress her order.

As the woman sat sipping her soda, she reached into Mrs. Briggs' shopping bag. Then she bent down and looked inside. A look of horror crossed her face. She screamed, and fainted.

The waitress called an ambulance. Two attendants carried the woman away on a stretcher. But they left the shopping bag behind. Mrs. Briggs picked up the bag and ran after them.

"This is hers," she called. "It's her Christmas present! She wouldn't want to lose it."

Art by Stephen Gammell

Last Meal

I am driving Willa to work because her parents took the car away, and because it snowed the night before, and because I love her.  Barely 10 a.m. and she wears the alcohol on her breath like a fine perfume.
          
“I had a dream last night,” she says, tracing her index finger along the frost of her passenger window.  Her fingernails are painted with glittery green polish, chipping away.  Her platform see-through heels sit on her lap, along with a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a paperback novel, the cover stripped and the pages turned a coffee-stain color.  “In the dream, I was at a diner.  And I knew I was in a dream, too.  And I knew that since this was a dream, I could eat whatever I wanted.  So I ordered a double cheeseburger with extra bacon and cheese fries.  And the waitress brought it out to me.  And I was just about to sink my teeth into it.  And then the alarm went off and woke me up.  Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
          
“I suppose not,” I mumble.  The windshield wipers cut back and forth, back and forth, brushing the still-falling, flakey snow away. The streets are wet, reflecting everything and warping it hideously.  I feel tired and I ache like I fell down a flight of stairs.  I want to drive this car into a telephone poll to delay the inevitable.
          
Willa lights a cigarette from her damaged pack.  Normally I don’t let people smoke in the car, but what am I going to do?  After all, her fingernails are painted with glittery green polish--I’m powerless.
          
“What would your last meal be?” Willa asks, rolling her window down a crack and letting the freezing air into the car.  The heater is on the fritz again, not that I mind.  I can’t stand it; I usually get overheated and I start to sweat.  A puddle forms beneath my ass--it’s not pretty, let me tell you.
          
“I don’t know,” I tell her and make a left.  The sun hasn’t come out yet, if it will come out at all today.  It doesn’t matter.  I need to sleep.  I need to get beneath the flannel sheets and lay in the cold darkness of my tiny room.  I need to learn to believe in miracles and turn everything to dust with my very thoughts.  I need Willa to ask me to turn the car around.
          
But she won’t.
          
Instead, she says: “C’mon, if you were on death row--”
          
“Why am I on death row?”
          
“You killed someone.”

“Who did I kill?”

“It’s a tragic story--someone killed me, and you were out for revenge.  You thought you found the guy who did it, and you strangled him to death with your bare hands.  It turns out he was innocent, though.”

“You’re right; that is a tragic story.”

“So,” she continues, taking a long hard drag off the cigarette, as if it will impress me, “you’re on death row--what’s your last meal before they take you to the chair and make you ride the lightning?”

“I dunno.  Eggs,” I say, my eyes never leaving the wet road.

“Eggs?” she says, clearly not impressed with my choice.

“I like eggs.  Scrambled eggs.  I dunno--this is stupid.”

“Eggs?  Good lord.  You’re about to die!  You will never eat again!  And you’re going to have eggs?”

“Well, what would you have?”

“Oh god, I would go nuts.  Hog wild.  I would get five burgers, and a big plate of chicken parm, and a huge ice cream sundae.  And spicy wings--”

“I don’t like spicy food,” I say.

“I do.  Spicy wings, and sushi, and an Oreo milkshake.  And an entire bottle of tequila.”

“I don’t think they give you tequila on death row.”

“That seems cruel.”

We cross into Pennsauken and right about now would be a good time to press that secret button that turns this car into a rocket and sends us to the moon--the button that doesn’t exist.  Now would be a good time to lie and say we’re out of gas.  Now would be a good time to slam on the breaks so hard that I cause a massive pile-up, the kind you see on the news shot from the expensive news chopper.

Willa stuffs her cigarettes and her paperback into her small backpack, getting ready to arrive.  She checks her eye make-up in the mirror--black as night and thick as an Oreo milkshake being handed to a death row prisoner.  She applies glittery lip-gloss and puckers up.  She looks like she hasn’t showered in a week.  I badly want to bite the nape of her neck.  I badly want to press her into my flesh.

“You’re a doll for driving me,” she says.

“I don’t like driving you here,” I say quietly.

She gives me a sympathetic smile.  A “don’t be silly” smile.  A “you’ll never have me to yourself” smile.

I pull the car into the parking lot of the strip club.  The letters above the door scream FANTASY SHOWBAR in neon pink. I pull around to the back door, marked EMPLOYEES
ONLY.  There are broken beer bottles piled up on either side of the door, and someone has spray-painted a crude-looking cock beneath “ONLY.”

“Do you need me to pick you up?” I ask, my eyes focused on that spray-painted cock.

“No, I’ll get a ride,” Willa says.  She unbuckles her seatbelt and opens the door.  The overhead light goes on, and I look at her.  She’s twenty-two years old this winter, and she looks forty.  And she suddenly looks sad, like her favorite puppy just died.  Like she was all out of cigarettes.  Like she was being denied tequila on death row.

She speaks soft: “You know, you can ask me not to go.  You can ask me not to do this.”

“Would you, if I asked?” I say.

Neither of us says anything for a full minute.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says, and she is gone.  She pounds on the door, her knuckles against that cartoon cock, and a large bouncer opens and the darkness of the club swallows her up.

I drive home listening to Christmas music with the volume low, and I cry softly, the scent of her and her cigarettes tickling my nostrils.  I think about her green fingernails and her black eyes.  I think about what I would have for my last meal.