Black Christmas (1974)
If this movie doesn't make your skin crawl... it's on too tight.
Year of Release: 1974
Genre: Horror
Rated: R
Running Time: 98 minutes (1:38)
Director: Bob Clark
Cast:
Olivia Hussey ... Jess Bradford
Keir Dullea ... Peter
Margot Kidder ... Barb
John Saxon ... Lt. Ken Fuller
Marian Waldman ... Mrs. Mac
Andrea Martin ... Phyl
James Edmond ... Mr. Harrison
Doug McGrath ... Sergeant Nash
Art Hindle ... Chris Hayden
Lynne Griffin ... Clare Harrison
Nick Mancuso ... The Prowler / Phone Voice (uncredited)
Bob Clark ... Prowler Shadow / Phone Voice (uncredited)
Summary:
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, a creature was stirring. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, but it was hardly St. Nicholas soon to be there. In the college town of Bedford, several unsuspecting people are about to receive Seasons Greetings - of terror.
Review:
Black Christmas, remindin' us that pianist envy never got anybody to Carnegie Hall.
And speakin' of the meat sweats, I got my Christmas present three days early this year and I've been laid up on the hide-a-bed ever since. Not sure if its the flu (avian, swine, or classic), the pneumonia-rona, or just the "eat at your own risk" Five Alarm Flatch-in-the-Pants chili Otis Turlinger was givin' away at the Gutter Bowl after a weekend of disappointing sales resulted in a surplus that the compassion center politely declined due to humanitarian concerns.
It's my first Christmas alone since I turned 18 and Pop gave me his "Well, I've done my part. Good luck, kid" speech and disappeared off the grid. I'd expected more considerin' he'd been workin' on it since Billy Hilliard and I tried replacing the missing weather stripping on his '58 Studebaker Golden Hawk with caulk when we were 10, but he always was a man of few words.
I guess I'm never truly alone beins I have Apollo and Shankles to keep me company, and thanks to this newfangled "speaker phone" technology I got all the benefits of dinner with friends without havin' to worry about gettin' my knuckles rapped with a wooden spoon for makin' insensitive remarks. 'Course I didn't realize a plan to include me had been formulated until I'd already stuck my Hungry Man holiday feast in the microwave and so Apollo and Shankles feasted like kings on a fried chicken dinner, but fortunately, I was able to drag my carcass to the phone while it was in there rotatin'.
"That you, Death? If so, you're worse than the cable company," I groaned.
"You poor thing, you sound terrible! Are you sure I can't come..." It was Mrs. Sadie; her tizzy still going strong after I'd told 'er the night before that I wasn't gonna make it.
In retrospect, I probably shoulda clarified that I was referring specifically to dinner.
"I'll be fine. I just got a little winded from all the breathin' I been doin'. Besides, those people can't make their own beds, much less Christmas dinner," I reasoned, tryna appeal to her inner hostess.
"It's really no trouble, everything's prepared and... was that a microwave? Don't eat anything! Sadie's on her way with a plate and... just a minute, Billy wants to talk to you. Now, be sure to save the pie for dessert so you don't upset..." she continued babbling.
"Thup, fiffy? Iunno wha'uh pway - yeow fuppofah han'ow vif. I gah Jack Fwof, Gwemwins, ah, nevowmine - iv vuh 50th anniverfowy of Bwack Cwifmuf," Billy relayed over the shuffling of tapes.
"No more training do you require. Already know you, that which you need," I managed in my best Yoda.
"Fankf. Hole ah, Woxanne wanna valka you," he instructed, handin' me off to Roxanne Bigelow.
"How you feelin'? You're not passin' that crud on to my baby, are ya?" she scolded.
"Say 'hi' to Roxanne, buddy," I instructed, to which Apollo barked a greeting.
"Alright then... um... listen, Duke wants to go 'chase tail' at Berenstain Beers later and I'm... should I... would that be..." she stumbled continuously.
"That's up to you. I mean, everyone's gonna call you a fallen woman and all, but I expect you're used to it," I chided.
"I still miss him," she croaked, the humor gone from her voice.
"Yeah, I kinda miss havin' 'im around too. But he's gonna hafta get his head out of his ass before you can have any kinda serious conversation. That rectal cavity is an awful sound dampener," I told 'er.
"I guess that's true. Oh, here, Jeannie wants to ask you something," she managed after a massive snort momentarily pulled 'er away from her heartache.
"Question," Jeannie posited, sounding uncharacteristically nervous.
"No matter what he tells ya, jumpin' up and down afterwards is not a reliable form of birth control," I asserted.
"Great. Thanks. I'm having an existential crisis and you're making jokes that wouldn't get a laugh at a Full House taping," she snapped.
"Jeannie, you're 16. If I'm not allowed to make jokes until you're self-assured and ready to face the world I may not see you again until you're appointed as my count-ordered legal counsel," I objected.
"Whatever. Look, it's my first Christmas dinner at Harley's house and I want his mom to like me. Got any pointers?" she pleaded in that huffy teenage way that tries to mask insecurity with contempt.
"Compliment the lasagna; do not get your fingers within eight inches of Edgar's plate; and ask to see Bambi's collection of Twilight memorabilia," I replied.
"Seriously?" Jeannie asked, her voice dripping with suspicion.
"She'll have you tryin' on her wedding dress before the cops show up to question Rowdy about the disappearance of the Baby Jesus from the park's manger scene," I insisted.
"You're not just messing with me?" she continued to prod.
"Well, yes. It's really more of a wedding miniskirt. Regardless, she'll be askin' you to join her bowling team by night's end," I assured her.
"Thanks. And thanks for... approving," she mumbled, recovering her confidence.
"No problem. Listen, I gotta go - Sadie's outside peltin' my window with snowballs and I'd better get out there before she gets P.O.'d and starts chuckin' ice. Good luck," I said, droppin' the phone back into its cradle and headin' for the front porch.
"Ya know, this routine was a lot more romantic when it involved pebbles, the cover of darkness, and parents down the hall that'd release their rottweiler if they caught ya in the act," I hollered so's to be heard over the Ramcharger's engine.
"Shut up'n eat your turkey," she yelled back, pitchin' one last snowball that just missed my left ear.
"Turkey? I thought she always made ham for Christmas. Somethin' about letting her 'culinary repertoire' go to waste," I called.
"She made it for you," she explained, shifting her weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"Oh. Uh, hope everybody's okay with that," I mumbled, strangely touched.
"They didn't get a vote. Anyway, I better get home, but don't you go dyin' on me or I'll be back over here to kick the crap outta your corpse," she smiled.
"Thanks, Sadie. Merry Christmas," I waved.
"Oh, gross. I knew you'd get mushy about this," she scowled, grabbin' another handfulla snow and bustin' me right in the ass when I knelt down to grab the plate.
Still hurts. I think she musta coated one of Apollo's old baseballs.
Once Sadie made it home her missus brought the cordless phone into the livin' room and put it on speaker so we could all hear each other and Billy and I were able to sync up our copies of Black Christmas close enough to watch together.
Shankles especially enjoyed the excess heat my fever was puttin' off and parked his hinder on my lap mosta the night while Apollo howled along with everyone over at Sadie's place anytime somebody in the movie got their halls decked, so all-in-all it was still a nice holiday. Right up until the neighbor started lightin' off fireworks while Shankles was snorin' on my groin.
The bleeding's mostly stopped now and Tetnis said he'd try to make it over in the morning to stitch up the more concerning gashes, but I'd imagine you'd all like to move on to the matter at hand - namely, the best Christmas horror flick of all time as voted by myself and nearly all the unemployed film aficionados who hang out at the Videodome while their girlfriends think they're out job hunting.
Silent Night, Deadly Night will always be my favorite 'cause you can't just beat the rack-impaled-on-a-rack scene where Linnea Quigley gets mounted on the wall of her boyfriend's rec-room, but Black Christmas is in a class of its own; as evidenced by the fact that greedy indoor bullstuff studios were willin' to finance remakes of it on two separate occasions while everybody got all riled up about whether or not the movie was tryna make some kinda social statement. I think the problem had somethin' to do with the abortion subplot and some folks' deeply held belief that it oughta be illegal 'cause otherwise the fetus might not have the opportunity to grow up and be slaughtered by a jibbering sociopath like all the sorority girls in the flick; though I have been known to misinterpret these kinda things from time to time.
Whatever the case, I've got zero interest in critiquing either of those 21st Century butthurt generators anyway, so for those of you who've been livin' in an igloo the last 50 years and just now decided to see what all the fuss was about, I've selected three holiday tidbits direct from Toronto to reinforce your decision to get with the program.
First, it may sound callous, but when the search party has a lower body temperature than the corpse they're tryna find, it's time to pack it in. Second, Santa can't leave an abortion under the tree, so consider using a stocking whenever possible. And third, if you must hide booze around the house during the holidays, please, draw the line at egg nog.
The movie begins at a sorority house where a creepy Pisexual's playin' point of view peekaboo at the window before climbin' a trellis and hidin' out in the attic, only nobody notices because pretty quick the phone rings and some hoser poser starts makin' noises like he's consummatin' his relationship with a Brillo pad and volunteering his gynecological services until Margot Kidder takes the phone away from Olivia Hussey and gives the guy permanent erectile dysfunction. This causes the nice girl (Clare) to question the wisdom of Margot's care and feeding of trolls before she goes upstairs to pack for her holiday vacation and gets called home by the man upstairs as he wraps a garment bag around 'er head while everyone's downstairs givin' the alcoholic den mother a thoughtfully hideous sweater with a pattern capable of concealing an unexpected round of vomiting. The next day, Olivia goes over to the collegiate concert hall to tell 'er boyfriend (Keir Dullea) that she's plannin' to abort their baby 'cause she can't stand the thought of bringin' another brooding ivory tickler into the world until he gets so P.O.'d that he basically says she's worse than the Whore of Babylon and that if she really cared about 'im she'd abandon her dreams and dedicate 'erself full time to raisin' his children while he tours Europe and diddles symphony rats.
Meantime though, the sousemother's back at the sorority lookin' for 'er cat and instead finds Clare lazy bagged for the holidays, but before she can unwrap 'er and see if there's any formaldehyde to siphon, she gets meathooked and raised into the attic on a pulley in what may be the only recorded instance of the old lush gettin' a lift from a non-alcoholic Beam. Elsewhere, Keir's so frazzled by Olivia's bodily autonomy that he bombs his piano audition like a Russian drone on a Ukrainian orphanage and decides the best path forward is to abandon his musical ambitions and settle into a domineering marriage where he can sit around the house in his boxer shorts takin' hits of Cheez Whiz straight off the can, but when he tries to paint his vision of wedded bliss to Olivia she refuses and tells 'im it's over and that she ain't about to settle for such a tiny pianist. Then John Saxon comes by the sorority to tap the phone line 'cause he thinks there might be a connection between the recent string of murders, missing co-eds, and telephonic harassment plaguing the neighborhood and just misses some serious disturbin' of the peace when the loft squatter sneaks into Margot's room and plunges a crystal unicorn into 'er chest while she's in bed tryna earn an 8-hour AA chip.
Obscene Gene calls again shortly thereafter, and although Olivia can't keep the guy on the phone long enough to get a trace, he does dictate most of the conversation she'd had with Keir earlier in the day, and so John puts out an all points beatnik on Keir and sends out a buncha search parties who all look like they just finished doin' guest shots on Newhart to boost the public's confidence in the police response. Unfortunately, it's all a waste of perfectly good flannel, 'cause the next time the smooth operator calls and performs what sounds like a one-man show detailing the horrors of a family's cross-country vacation, John's able to get a trace, and danged if the calls aren't comin' from the house mama's secret phone sex line upstairs. 'Course John can't raise the squad car he stationed outside the house 'cause the attic depressive's already turned the guy's face into Chef Boyardee filler and so he hasta send a message to the coach from Porky's to get Olivia outta the house without 'causin' a spectacle and needless to say, he blows it. This's about as far as I can go without spoilin' the swerve, but if any doubts remain about Bob Clark's status as the King of Christmas or his ability to transcend genre, just stick with this baby for another ten minutes or so and the truth shall be revealed.
Alrighty, well, there aren't many flicks that can still claim the mantle of bein' the greatest of their subgenre on the 50th anniversary of their release, but the twice-remade Black Christmas still stands atop the heap of Christmas slashers produced in its wake. To say that director Bob Clark had an uneven career would be an understatement, considering the man holds the distinction of having created the best Christmas horror flick, best Christmas comedy, and best teen sex comedy, while also having directed the two Baby Geniuses films that are, evidently, bad enough to warrant separate positions on the IMDB's Bottom 100 list (with the sequel taking the #4 spot, which, as of the time of this writing, is two positions behind Manos: The Hands of Fate, and one ahead of Kirk Cameron's Saving Christmas). Clark's inspiration for Black Christmas is said to have come from a series of serial killings that took place in Montreal between 1969 and 1970, though the story also owes a lot to the urban legend of "The Babysitter and the Man Upstairs" that became popular in the '60s. Ironically, a situation similar to the one Clark cites as inspiration for the story quashed its network television debut, as NBC was scheduled to air Black Christmas on the night of January 28th, 1978 - but two weeks before its planned air date a series of slayings at a Florida State University sorority house caused a public outcry that led to the network canceling the broadcast. These murders were later attributed to serial killer Ted Bundy.
In addition to its other accolades, many people argue that Black Christmas is the first bonafide slasher flick, and although a case can certainly be made that the film helped lay the groundwork and solidified certain elements that would become permanent fixtures within that subgenre, I still maintain that Halloween is the first. Of course, everyone has their own idea about what's required to justify the moniker of "slasher," and consequently, you'll find people who feel Psycho is the first, while others claim it's Chainsaw, Warlock Moon, or even Twitch of the Death Nerve (which is probably the closest of the aforementioned despite being more like a Giallo as told by the folks who used to write the plots for Scooby-Doo, Where Are You?). Another reason I'm hesitant to offer this designation is that Black Christmas is a very smart, well-plotted, subdued film, and when you get right down to it, the first really intelligent slasher flick didn't come along until Tourist Trap in '79. That's not a knock on Halloween, Friday the 13th, or their many clones, but when watching slashers from the late '70s and early '80s (with notable exceptions like Sleepaway Camp and A Nightmare on Elm Street) there's little emphasis placed on plot or character development, and lumping something like Black Christmas in with Just Before Dawn or My Bloody Valentine feels disingenuous when there's such a gulf between them both in terms of production value and on-screen violence (of which Black Christmas has very little).
So yeah - A Christmas Story is the best Christmas comedy, and Halloween is the first slasher. Now, having built an impregnable bulwark that will deflect any assertions to the contrary for the rest of recorded time, I will now get down to the nitty-gritty on Black Christmas.
The plot is very calculated, well staged, and generally fleshed-out in a way that most horror flicks of the era aren't; so much so that the movie begins to bump up against the Thriller designation at times and barely manages to pull itself back with intrusive close-ups of Lynne Griffin's suffocated face rocking back and forth next to the attic window. In truth, the film shares a similar distinction to The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (released the same year), where the tension and claustrophobic atmosphere are so effective that the MPAA decided to slap an R rating on it despite a lack of any truly objectionable material, and any time that happens you know you've got something exceptional that's inevitably gonna garner the mainstream appeal necessary propel it to the next level. There will be those who hate the open-ended conclusion, but the swerve leading up to it was solid for the time, and whether or not it comes across as a bit tired 50 years after its original theatrical run - the movie remains the best iteration of "The Babysitter and the Man Upstairs" urban legend, even if Carol Kane played the role a bit better in When a Stranger Calls.
The acting is excellent, with great performances by Margot Kidder as the damaged, foul-mouthed sorority sister with rejection issues, Marian Waldman as the alcoholic house mother with a hidden cache of booze in every room and a bizarrely strained relationship with her cat, the always reliable John Saxon playing the police lieutenant for the 722nd time in his career, and the hopelessly square Doug McGrath as the police sergeant whose ignorance of modern sexual terminology brings amusement to a jaded world. Keir Dullea, despite being much too old for the part, does a nice job building suspicion to the point that you almost believe he's the psycho in question (and maybe you would have in 1974 before the story became a trope), and Olivia Hussey finally gets her moment to shine in the last 10 minutes when McGrath tells her the killer's in the house and she realizes how long it's been since she last saw her sorority sisters whom she believed to be sleeping upstairs.
These are all fine performances, though the most important one of all comes from Nick Mancuso who never appears on screen and delivers all his dialogue (if you wanna call it that) over the phone in his portrayal of the maniacal man upstairs. Without his chilling, unhinged ravings, the whackadoo's credibility as a figure of menace would not be capable of building and sustaining the tension that makes the film work - although, to their credit, it should be pointed out that all of Mancuso's insanity was dubbed in during post-production, and that all the sorority sisters' reactions were done without the benefit of his lunacy. Also worth mentioning is the odd sense of humor woven into the story that, if not handled perfectly, would seriously damage the looming sense of dread hanging over the flick. It's a risky gambit, but Saxon, McGrath, Hussey, Kidder, and Andrea Martin all present it in a way that comes across as amusing, but also as a believable coping mechanism to help them deal with the situation in which they find themselves. Superb stuff here from a cast with zero weak links.
Here's who matters and why ('sides the legend, John Saxon): Olivia Hussey (Stephen King's IT 1990, The Gardener, Ice Cream Man, Quest of the Delta Knights, Psycho IV, Turkey Shoot, Virus 1980), Keir Dullea (2001: A Space Odyssey, 2010: The Year We Make Contact, Fahrenheit 451 2018, Space Station 76, Alien Hunter, BrainWaves, Brave New World 1980, The Haunting of Julia, Welcome to Blood City, Margot Kidder (Superman I - IV, The Amityville Horror 1979, Halloween II 2009, The Clown at Midnight, Shadow One: My Teacher Ate My Homework), Marian Waldman (Phobia, Deranged), Andrea Martin (Black Christmas 2006, Innerspace, Cannibal Girls), James Edmond (Devil Girl from Mars), Doug McGrath (Ghost of Mars, Twilight Zone: The Movie, Helter Skelter 1976), Art Hindle (Invasion of the Body Snatchers 1978, The Brood, Woodland Grey, The Void, Monster Brawl, Offspring, Saint Sinner), Lynne Griffin (Fahrenheit 451 2018, Bugs, Curtains), Leslie Carlson (The Dead Zone, The Fly, Videodrome, Anonymous Rex, Deadly Harvest, Deranged, The Neptune Factor), Martha Gibson (IT 2017, Murder by Phone), John Rutter (Trapped, Virus 1980), Robert Warner (Funeral Home, Deranged, Octoman, The Cult), Sydney Brown (Welcome to Blood City, Change of Mind), Jack Van Evera (My Bloody Valentine 1981, Plague 1979, Deadly Eyes, The Incubus, Funeral Home), Les Rubie (Blue Monkey, Spasms, Funeral Home), Marcia Diamond (Deranged, The Reincarnate), Robert Hawkins (Solar Crisis), David Clement (Darkman II, Blue Monkey, 984: Prisoner of the Future, Cannibal Girls), Dave Mann (The Neptune Factor), John Stoneham Sr. (Millennium 1989, Coda, The Pit, Phobia, Deadly Harvest), Bob Clark (Dead of Night 1974), Nick Mancuso (Mary Loss of Soul, Entity 2013, Lost Soul, Deadtime Stories, Vol. 1, Rise of the Gargoyles, Saurian, Twists of Terror, The Invader, Death Ship 1980, Nightwing), David M. Robertson (Mania: The Intruder), Ann Sweeny (The Incredible Melting Man).
And the traitors: Olivia Hussey (Juliet in Romeo and Juliet 1968, Rosalie Otterbourne in Death on the Nile, Mary in Jesus of Nazareth), Margot Kidder (the voice of Gaia from Captain Planet and the Planeteers, and the voice of Rebecca Madison in Phantom 2040), Doug McGrath (Coach Warren in Porky's, Spider Conway in Pale Rider), Art Hindle (Ted Jarvis in Porky's 1 & 2),
The special effects are virtually non-existent, due to Clark's desire to make the kinda classy flick that might someday air on television as the NBC Movie of the Week if not for the bad manners of one Theodore Bundy. They did a nice job shrink-wrapping Lynne Griffin for the shot everyone remembers, but otherwise, we're talkin' small amounts of strangely-colored blood splashed around sparingly on the faces of the deceased upon discovery. I can see what they were going for here, but they may as well've gone a little farther than they did given that the critics still savaged the flick as running contrary to the values of Christianity or whatever excuse they were givin' to save their phony baloney jobs that week. In other words, you can probably check this one out with Grandma without much blowback.
The shooting locations are great, with the entire film being shot on location in Toronto during the winter of 1974 where, even in April, the temperatures would often plunge well below freezing, and let me just say - everyone involved oughta be proud to have frozen their hinders off for the sake of the flick because those nasty temperatures really bolster the atmosphere. However, despite subzero temperatures, snow was not forthcoming, and the crew would have to call upon the local fire department to spray a foamy fire retardant to create the desired effect. Makes ya wonder if this was also the case for nearby Grenadier Pond (used for the scene where the town searches for the missing girl) or whether the pond afforded them some lake effect snow, 'cause you'd think the city woulda been a little P.O.'d about those snowmobile tracks shreddin' the park's manicured lawn like a brick of gouda. Regardless, the exteriors are all phenomenal and pull their weight in creating the perfect winter atmosphere that keeps folks coming back to the movie year in and year out for its festive holiday aura.
Clark was also able to gain entry to the University of Toronto for the concert sequences as well as the police station (the latter of which became a community center the year after the film's release), but it's the sorority house that proves the most memorable and still stands to this day with minimal restructuring. The house had been empty for a time prior to its rental for use in the film, and consequently, was in a state of moderate disrepair that required the production crew to strip the wallpaper and repaint before it would become presentable for filming. The set decoration is subtle but effective, with most of the Christmas decor sticking closer to the ground level and diminishing the closer one comes to the attic, and this is one of those movies where the house is simultaneously welcoming as a refuge from the elements, yet foreboding as a result of the dangers lurking within, creating an excellent dichotomy to the point that it almost becomes a character in its own right.
The soundtrack keeps a low profile much of the time, functioning in a support role and only taking center stage when the situation calls for either a jarring sound effect or tone generated by the tortured instruments of composer Carl Zittrer who would tie various eating utensils to his piano strings in a way that warped the sound when he would play it. He would also apply pressure to the reels in his recording equipment to alter the speed at which they functioned, and the result is an unnerving score that keeps the audience off balance while knowing exactly when to chime in and when to remain silent. Of course, it wouldn't be a Christmas horror flick without the requisite (sometimes choral) iterations of the classics, including Silent Night, Jingle Bells, O Come All Ye Faithful, and O Little Town of Bethlehem, and these cheerful favorites strike a perfect contrast against Zittrer's grim compositions. This would be Zittrer's second collaboration with Clark, having previously scored his first foray into horror, Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things, and the two would continue to work together on most of Clark's best titles, such as Dead of Night, Porky's 1 & 2, and A Christmas Story, before moving onto soundtrack editing for the rest of his professional life. It may not be the catchiest of scores, but it, in conjunction with Nick Mancuso's manic jibberish, and the foreboding terror lurking in the sorority house's upper reaches, creates a menacing atmosphere that never lets up.
Overall, Black Christmas remains the champion of holiday horror five decades later, and probably the best Canadian horror film made by a director not named Cronenberg. The only place it suffers is the special effects department (both in terms of quality and quantity), but for those seeking an intelligent, atmospheric holiday proto-slasher - this is your stop. Pair it with Silent Night, Deadly Night, Christmas Evil, and Jack Frost every Christmas for a marathon guaranteed to bring holiday cheer into your home, and keep unwanted family members in theirs.
Rating: 85%