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I didn’t see Bad Santa when it came out in theaters, but it raised such a ruckus I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Word on the street (at least whatever random street in the world I happened to be walking along at that point) was that it was total trash, but a few dissenting voices defended its worthiness. I always take it as a good sign when a film is divisive – it’s indicative of a project that takes a stand and goes against the grain (think Fight Club). While it doesn’t immediately follow that it will be good, it’s guaranteed to at least be interesting (because who objects to the usual toothless fodder)?

After renting Bad(der) Santa (the longer, naughtier, unrated version on DVD), I’m happy to report that its supporters are absolutely right - it’s one of the funniest movies I’ve seen in ages. Though it’s easy to see why so many were up in arms about it, – it’s definitely not one for the kids – don’t adults deserve a good Xmas (I’m using the ‘X’ rather than ‘Christ’ in order to distinguish between the faith-based implications of the holiday and the more consumerist way it tends to be celebrated in reality in the U.S., and in which vein the movie firmly positions itself) flick now and then? Possibly the only other of the species I’ve loved besides it is It’s a Wonderful Life. And seriously, how that superbly subversive classic, which peeks over the brink at the depths of darkness and despair, slipped under the radar to become the seasonal must-see religiously played on major channels, astonishes me no end as a weird pop cultural anomaly. It was high time for another quality holiday romp (though I harbor no illusions that Bad Santa will be kicking out that Frank Capra tradition from its customary slot anytime soon). Just reading the reviews for Surviving Christmas and Christmas with the Kranks left me agitated, likewise The Polar Express.

Hollywood’s got the schmaltzy, child-friendly stuff more than covered, so why not a little diversity? Throw a bone to a niche audience. A swearing, alcoholic, sex maniac taking on the task of mall Santa in order to rip it off as directed by the man (Terry Zwigoff) who gave us the film version of Daniel Clowes’ Ghostworld, as well as the tantalizing documentary Crumb? Brilliant. It starts off with a pointedly bland veneer of tastefulness, classical music playing as the camera moves along a polished-wood bar, white-collar workers sipping drinks and talking in appropriate, low tones. The scene ends with Billy Bob Thornton puking in the garbage outside.

As the titular Santa, Thornton is truly pathetic, in both the pejorative (loser connotations) and denotative (from ‘pathos’ - arous[ing] feelings of pity, sympathy, tenderness, or sorrow”) sense of the word. It’s to Thornton’s credit that he bears this description out to its fullest, unapologetically inhabiting this sad sack without a backward glance, deadpanning endless streams of profanities and looking out through glazed eyes, while still managing to make us feel sorry for him. His desperation is that pronounced. The supporting cast complements him well: Tony Cox as Marcus, his sidekick elf, spars nicely; the latter’s nail-filing, indoor visor-wearing wife (Lauren Tom) does amazing things with very little dialogue; Bernie Mac splendidly plays Bernie Mac; the Gilmore Girls goody-goody Lauren Graham as a woman with a Santa fetish is an inspired story stroke; and every beautifully-realized quirk on John Ritter’s overly-P.C. department store manager’s face made me miss him more. Hallelujah, a movie whose multiculturalism is true rather than token, unlike another holiday offering from the same year, Love Actually (not that I’m immune to the feel-goodness of this and others of its ilk, but while I fell under its insidious spell for the duration, it left me with a bad aftertaste I still can’t shake a year later), which, unsurprisingly, found more widespread appeal though its pretensions towards inclusivity are largely belied by the lack of romantic storylines for its ethnic characters (despite the fact that the lovely actor, Chiwetel Ejiofor, from Dirty Pretty Things, is newly-married to Keira Knightly in the movie, that narrative really belongs to his white best friend), and its barely-concealed sizist derision of the ever-so-slightly plump, pretty, Martine McCutcheon, apple of Prime Minister Hugh Grant’s eye (you wish writer/director Richard Curtis would just get over it and stop his offensive apologizing - in the form of having the character constantly make derogatory remarks about her weight - for not casting yet another anorexic-looking actress). But I digress.

For a film with such rancor in its bones, Bad Santa gradually reveals an unexpected tenderness, all the more rewarding because Thornton’s been such a miserable asshole throughout. His enlightenment in the form of baby steps, as he comes to realize he can help a child (the wonderfully cast Brett Kelly as the cruelly-named Thurman Merman) in his ill-advised way (the best line in the movie is when he declares, “I beat up some kids today . . . but it had a purpose”), is not exactly the punk rock move you’d expect from a movie which has defied the conventions in all its other particulars, but it’s good enough to deliver a small (if occasionally vile) dose of the warm fuzzies by the end (because let’s face it – if it allowed its nihilism to completely soak through, it would’ve never been released – though there was a shining, flickering moment when it could’ve ended on a thrillingly depressing note, before it somewhat wistfully revives itself), which is really what Xmas flicks are all about anyway. Besides, you can’t not love a film where the kid gives the father figure a hand-made, blood-stained (his) wooden pickle as a present, especially not when said gift is the catalyst that begins Bad Santa’s long-overdue thaw.

- km

This entry was posted on Sunday, December 19th, 2004 at 12:28 pm and is filed under true love. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.