One Paragraph Movie Review: A Christmas Story

Seventy-ninth film: A Christmas Story, a 1983 movie set in the 1940s. A goddamn Christmas movie. For the record, I have an excellent record of loathing Christmas movies, which remains intact to this moment. As housemate Jerry said while watching it: “If Chevy Chase was in this it’d be much better”, and the second part of that sentence is aspirational at best. The treacly whimsy is offset somewhat by the presence of some decent implied swearing, and I smiled wanly a couple of times, but it’s as erroneously assured of its own limited charm as marzipan or Kyle Sandilands. Look, if you like sardonic blue-eyed nine-year olds spraying childhood anecdotes across your yard like Indiana snow, or the unfettered racism of Chinese waiters singing “deck the halls with boughs of horry, fa ra ra ra ra, ra ra ra ra”, then go for it. Alternatively, maybe get a bb gun for Christmas and shoot your eye out. One stereotypical ginger bully out of five.