‘I’m Santa Claus, Teddy, not Yoda…’
Because Christmas films are so ripe for a critical mauling, more recent efforts tend to be much more post modern and self referential. Filmmakers are understandably reluctant to go full Christmas in case they accidentally make The Holiday. A film so odious that just thinking about it makes me sick up a little bit of eggnog.
The Christmas Chronicles is as Christmas as yuletide logs and red-nosed reindeer. Director Clay Kurtis takes no risks in a predictable movie that stands and falls on its Santa Claus. Luckily, in this case, we are treated to Kurt goddamn Russell in the sleigh. Although he doesn’t Ho Ho Ho, that’s a myth apparently.
When a little turd is mean to his sister following the death of their father, it takes jolly old Saint Nick to make him realise the error of his ways. All the other characters in this movie are forgettable and one dimensional. The acting is ordinary, the CGI elves annoying, the soundtrack terrible. Kurt Russell though… well he’s bloody Kurt Russell isn’t he. The guys a legend. The thought of the man who brought us Snake Plissken donning the red cape and beard is just too delicious not to enjoy. And nobody enjoys it more than Russell himself. He steals every scene. Even scenes in which he isn’t in, he steals them. I wish we could remake every Christmas film with Kurt Russell as Santa Claus. Can somebody get on that?
As Christmas films go, The Christmas Chronicles is not a classic, but then it certainly isn’t bad either. In a genre that currently struggles to produce a non-ironic, sincere take on Christmas, Netflix have produced a film that harks back to classics such as Miracle on 34th Street without ever really being in danger of emulating them. The fact that The Christmas Chronicles can even be mentioned in the same breath as genre staples such as that suggest that it has to be considered a success. Also, Kurt Russell.
Kurt Russell.