Elf Poffy, slave to Klaus Kringlehoffen

Like a straightjacketed epileptic, this film bashes itself against hundreds of paradoxes, in frothing attempts at taking one step forward (in its high-end production value and A-list acting) and then three or four steps backwards into the mouth of Hell (with its thigh-numbing sentiments of goodness and niceness and the utility of believing in figments as reality). Miracle on 34th Street is one of those well-intentioned, "dangerous" movies - the type over-popularized in the last two decades by brain-damaging fare like the Home Alone's and the Cheaper By The Dozen's, which purport to wholesome "family" entertainment, whilst insidiously intimating that intelligence and reason are only for fools.

The greatest paradox faced by any Santa-Is-Real film is that in the film's world, it is always taken for granted that Santa DOES exist and that parents do not believe in him. But if he actually exists, it is not a question of "belief" - it is a case of "evidence." All it takes is one christmas morning and a cluster of unidentified presents under the christian-killed Tree and - question of veracity solved! Therefore, in these movies, if the parents are, in fact, buying all the presents, there are two possibilities: either the Alzheimered old men claiming to be Santas are not doing their job, or they really are the delirious, white-haired fogeys that the parents think them to be.

Les Mayfield directs this remake of the 1947 "classic," though nothing has been changed for better or worse. A Coles store Santa (Richard Attenborough) claims to be the Real Thing. The plot lands him in a hearing court, fighting for his sanity and identity. Through the course of the film, all the humbugs and doubting parents in his wake gradually get taken in by the "christmas spirit" and are cajoled into "believing" in him, for the sake of, we are told, "a lie that draws a smile, rather than a truth that draws a tear." Yes, turn away from Truth. Truth is bad. Better to delude yourself that Mercury in retrograde is the cause of your money lost on astrology speculations, rather than facing the truth that you are a DIMWITTED MORON STEERING YOUR SPECIES INTO EVOLUTIONARY OBLIVION.

Sir Attenborough makes for a perfect visual representation of the mythical, peeping-tom, child-watcher, Klaus (render as much Nazi inflection as you see fit), ably supported by intentionally-retarded performances by Elizabeth Perkins, Dylan McDermott, James Remar, Robert Prosky and young Mara Wilson, playing her usual seven-going-on-forty, precocious, mouthy brat. (Why "intentionally-retarded"? Well, refer to the point above: the longest one would ever have to wait to establish identity of any man claiming to be Kris Kringle is 364 days. In this movie, a wait of only a few days sees the filmmakers conveniently avoid the issue, by neglecting to tell viewers whether any presents mysteriously appeared under trees.)

The fact that this movie astoundingly retains as its central theme the conundrum that any semi-intelligent dolphin could decipher as unutterably imbecilic, illustrates perfectly the reason why mercy killings exist. This movie almost cries out for humanity to abjure its idiotic stanque and beat it over the head to put it out of its misery.

Santa - in his naïve goodheartedness - starts advising Coles patrons of better bargains at other stores. Immediately, Coles management jumps on the marketing ploy: "If we don't have it, we'll find it for you." Now, as altruistic as this may sound, the service is reverse-psychology to garner more business! Profit is the key word, the bottom line in any corporation, yet public consensus paints Coles as altruistic, a fact which their rival department store (conveniently located across the street and managed by a game Joss Ackland, playing the same evil overlord he perfected in Lethal Weapon 2 and Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey) knows will spell their doom, unless they discredit the person whom they feel (in their corporate wisdom) was responsible for instigating the campaign - no, not the Coles marketing department - the Coles Santa Claus.

Idiocy soars.

As evidenced when Perkins, recanting on her brain, poses the question to the Coles board of directors, "What do we care about? Profit?" Well - YES, you jackass! What are you working here for? Charity?

Claus tells Perkins, "If you can't accept anything on faith, then you're doomed for a life dominated by doubt." HOGWASH! If you use the scientific method of observation, skepticism, theory, experiment, amassing evidence, replacing outmoded knowledge with updated facts, a cohesive picture of what you doubted will come into focus. Accepting anything on "faith" is simply asking for ignorance to run rampant. Sadly and scarily, ignorance is running rampant: With this amorphous crap being exposed to children, we wonder why 2000's America bows down to a megalomaniac who cannot separate church from state (at a base level, this means he cannot separate fact from fiction - exactly this movie's problem!); we wonder why science is taking a backseat to pseudoscience; we wonder why it is so easy to sell people an ab-roller that "takes pounds off" their fugly gunts without any effort expended on their part, yet who cannot be convinced that proteins, carbohydrates, fats and sugars in correct amounts can winnow away that same fat.

The miracle is that, for all its vaunted intelligence, the human race has degenerated to this credulous, gullible, mongoloid state.

Treat others with respect. Be humane. Be courteous. Love. Let live. These are universal truths, built into our genetic framework, in order to perpetuate procreation of our species. There are those syrup-mongers who would maintain that the movie's aspirations to goodheartedness and the "spirit of christmas" should not be belittled. They are right - the SENTIMENTS should be upheld. But why couch these truths in the filth of mysticism and hypocrisy, in the framework of paradoxical fictions that insult the truly inspiring, knowledge-seeking mind?

Claus affirms, "I'm a symbol to suppress the hateful tendencies that rule a major part of our lives." Firstly, if "hateful tendencies," as you so pessimistically put it, Klaus, "ruled our lives," the homo sapiens species would have been excised from the pathway of evolution eons ago. Our adherence to social structure and reciprocal altruism is what has kept us alive. That being said, if modern day humans are so braindead that they require an effigy to represent faux-spirituality and faux-goodness (whether it be Santa, Jesus, Thor, Buddha, or Tom Cruise), we've put ourselves on the pathway out of evolutionary selection. Give it fifty-thousand years. The roaches would thank us - if we were not already below their contempt.

The grandest malarkey of all is that the case for or against Kris Kringle - a phantasm to begin with - is decided on the grounds of another phantasm. Dylan McDermott, playing Klaus' attorney, highlights the fact that American money is inscribed with the words, "In God We Trust." On the strength of this vague indeterminacy, the hearing judge rationalizes that one fiction is as good as another and rules that Santa Claus does, in fact, exist.

Piling insult upon insult on the viewer, Klaus then tells the prosecuting attorney (J.T. Walsh), "I hope you removed that antenna because I tore my pants on it last year." This must mean that Klaus left anonymous presents at Walsh's house. Evidence! So the only reason Walsh refutes Santa's existence must be - Plot Convenience.

Not content to leave us gagging in disbelief at the level of insanity the movie attains in its last ten minutes, McDermott and Perkins suddenly wed at movie's end for no reason other than to comply to Happy Ending Protocol; the syruping attaining painful proportions as the couple are advised of work bonuses, take possession of a mansion mysteriously bequeathed to them, with Perkins also fingering a fat ring from McDermott and - if the obsessive puling of Mara Wilson for a baby brother is any indication - a bun up the duff as well.

As they say in South Park, "I've learned something today…" I learned that being happy comes from having lots and lots of money, and surrounding yourself with riches that resemble Norman Rockwell paintings; I learned that the best-looking people with perfect coiffures and manicures are the most loving and sincere of all humans, and that being absolutely resolute in your belief in any fiction at all will provide all of the above.

I need some insulin.


END