I wonder if these Jews think that there will be no consequences to defiling Christmas and Christianity?
Ten years after its release, Terry Zwigoff’s Bad Santa, a rail whiskey blend of Brecht and Bukowski, has become a holiday standard. Brought to life by a Jew from Wisconsin (Zwigoff) and four Jewish brothers (two Coens and two Weinsteins), it is regarded as a classic send-up of Christmas culture gone awry. The crude, brilliant movie is a staple of Comedy Central’s December line-up. It also lives on in holiday viewings on the big screen and has spawned several ersatz genre knock-offs with unimaginative titles like Bad Teacher and Bad Grandpa. (A long-rumored Bad Santa sequel is reportedly set to shoot next year.)
Last week, when a New York Times opinion contributor railed against SantaCon—the annual parade of 30,000 drunken Santa Clauses through parts of Manhattan—the writer grimly characterized the average participant as “Billy Bob Thornton in ‘Bad Santa,’ if the character were 24 and worked at Bain Capital.” That’s a lot of juice for a decade-old movie that only grossed about $60 million at the domestic box office.
But it’s the genius of Bad Santa that gets overshadowed by its notoriety. With an assault of impiety, the film makes Christmastime in America seem an impossible place to be if you live at the margins. The way that message is conveyed throughout the movie, however, is more fluid than solid. After his introductory monologue, Willie stumbles into the alley behind the bar where, with the Chopin nocturne still lilting, he upchucks loudly into the snow. It’s a beautiful shot, retching Santa and all, that ends with the postcard appearance of the movie title in red lettering.
The script for Bad Santa was written by John Requa and Glenn Ficarra, a longtime Hollywood writing duo of some banal comedies. The final product, however, teems with classic flourishes from Joel and Ethan Coen, who rewrote the script and served as executive producers on the film.
In true Coen fashion, the world of Bad Santa is populated by a cast of quirky, slightly defective characters. In addition to the acidly disapproving Marcus, there is the chubby, sincere, and infuriating 10-year-old Thurman (Brett Kelly), the Metamucil-guzzling mall detective Gin (Bernie Mac), the nervously well-meaning mall manager Bob (John Ritter in his last film), and Sue, a bartender whose Jewish father’s dismissal of Christmas planted the seeds for her Santa fetish (Lauren Graham). As the characters intersect with Willie, there isn’t a punch pulled or disappointment unlevied. For a dark comedy, there are remarkably few flat moments. (Sarah Silverman’s scenes were cut from the theatrical version.)
According to legend, both Jack Nicholson and Bill Murray were interested in the lead part which, given Thornton’s masterful performance as the weary, perturbed Willie, seems unimaginable now. Handing an actor a role where no social grace is honored is a dream scenario; nevertheless Thornton delivers with aplomb. His watery eyes shift from resignation to lust to indifference as he both gives and absorbs some jaw-dropping vitriolic lines.
