Black Christmas – 2019 – PG13
The good thing about going to a movie in the waning weeks of December is you can declare, “I just saw the best/worst film of the year.” So how much better to go towards the end of the decade when you can justifiably proclaim, “I just saw the worst movie of the decade!” Indeed. Black Christmas, 92 minutes of horror released 12/13, Friday the 13th.
It’s winter break eve at Hawthorne College. Think East Coast, Ivy League. Gothic, gargoyles, stones and spires. The traditional holiday follies are underway! A chorus line of MKE sorority sisters take the stage and sing a parody set to “Up on the Housetop” that’s directed at former president and (respected) rapist of the AKO fraternity who is smirking from the back of the packed room. This #MeToo performance sends AKO—aka ghoulish underworld black magic fratboys into a murderous revenge rage fueled by a supernatural, sticky tar gunk that seeps out of the bust of college founder, Calvin Hawthorne, a known racist, sexist and misogynist. Hunker down, the hunt is on! Apparently Ivy League colleges now teach archery along with the classics because the depraved, rampaging fratbrats are armed with none other than bows and arrows to kill their feminist prey. Trinkets that identify each targeted woman are stolen by a treasonous, back-stabbing (literally) sorority sister and used to track down the #MeToo crew. Missing a hair clip? Watch out! An arrow is whizzing your way. Robin Hood would be repulsed. There are a few weapon substitutes such as extra-pointy icicles snapped off snowy eaves and attic-stashed Christmas lights, those vintage, extra large red and green bulbous strings—that never work—so the better to choke you with, my dear! The Brothers Grimm would be proud. If you’re curious about the PG-13 rating, unusual for a slasher/horror movie, the kills are blood-free. The ladies get bonked or impaled or gashed Disney-style, resulting in artsy, palatable gore, sans splatter. The bad boys don’t even have blood, just busty black goo ooze, “This can’t be real,” says one brassy coed examining a dead diablo boy. How perceptive. The ghost of bad Calvin Hawthorne, condensed into coal dust from landing one too many years on Santa’s naughty list, mucks amok.
Eventually the story shifts from women-as-victims to women-as-attackers. But not before they turn on each other, taking a respite from arrows and axes and knives to argue and bicker. Picture this, you and your BFF, nearly slasher fodder, escape by commandeering a car and are racing for your lives down a dark, isolated wintery road. But mean looks are exchanged, harsh words levied and feelings are hurt, so naturally it makes perfect sense to stop and refuse to ride any farther together. Separate. Stomp off. Now one of you must walk for your life. Oh, please. Da-dum-dum-dum, dum, dumb. Her foolish move drags Little Drummer Boy into the fray. Don’t worry. The disgruntled walker survives, appearing in the next scene slogging menacingly towards the AKO voodoo brothers with a snow shovel slung over her shoulder, the weapon du jour. Visualize a shovel-toting Annie Oakley in a Santa cap. Hard to imagine….unless you’ve seen Black Christmas. The film ends with the sisterhood unified in fiery defiance. Let the slings and arrows fly. I won’t spoil it by saying anything more. Well, maybe just one more thing. Skip it.
