I hated Christmas before the 21st century. It was lovey and dovey and about spreading joy and peace, and making nice.
Then, in December 2002, everything changed. It began with the premiere of the Lord of the Rings: the Shorties with the big feet, the Ugly Dwarf, and the Human who badly needs a shave and shower but still gets to make out with Liv Tyler.
That’s when you started to have the whole concept of war and violence and dealing pain and suffering, which is incidentally my life aim: to inflict as much pain upon this world as I possibly can.
Of course, the trend caught on. Except movie directors took it a step further, and began to have children playing at adults, like that oh so exciting C.S. Lewis show, The Chronicles of Narhia: The Lian, The Bitch and The Wardrobe (which looks like Cruella de Ville’s closet, incidentally).
I thought I was nasty enough for enjoying watching grown-ups stab each other all for the sake of a little piece of jewellery (which might seem a little petty, but believe me, if it was a Frank Muller, I’d be the one doing the damage), but having innocents stab at each other and kill things and get stabbed at? That’s something I could get to like: corrupting the innocent.
But still, I prefer to watch shows where the characters know what’s going on, and actually plot to kill someone. That just brings warm and fuzzy feelings to my heart. What’s with all these kids trying to act grown-up and clever when they really have absolutely no idea what the heck is going on? Obviously, they get paid less, probably cheaper than employing Adam Brody to play a 16 year old guy who gets to swing a sword, and more convincing than he is.
Or Mr. Harry Potty, who really doesn’t look like he’s whatever age he’s supposed to be, maybe because he’s awkward, or maybe because he’s a geek. Although I have to admit that the special effects are fantastic, even if they are slightly boring. Two people pointing sticks at each other and the kid wins? By accident? It’s like Star Wars all over again, only without the cutting off of arms or heads. Where’s the fun in pointing things at each other unless some body parts start to fly?
Of course, there are the other shows I like out during the Christmas season. Perhaps Love? You, dear reader, might be inclined to think that it’s a sweet beautiful story about star-crossed lovers that love to sing, kind of a Moulin Rouge/Romeo & Juliet cross, but it’s not. This show is really about a guilt trip.
Double-crossing and triple-crossing. Emotional blackmail. Pretend suicide. It’s a fantastic show that really contrasts the purity that Christmas is supposed to stand for with the blackness of the human heart that we have. Or the remake of Pride & Prejudice. If you watched the show, but never read the book, go read it. It’s the money Elizabeth Bennet wants, not the love. That’s just an incidental bonus.
Which is really not important. Oh, and the scriptwriter? I wonder how long it took to produce the script. Two hours? If there was ever an incident of ripping off a dead woman, this was it. A little adjustment here, and there, and walla, script is out. And the excuse for keeping the words identical to the book? Authenticity, my dear. It would not do justice to the beloved Miss Austen if I took words out of context and made my own script.
At any rate, this Christmas was demonstrably bleak and awful, at least in the cinema theatres. I can only hope that next year’s shows will continue in the same quality of movies, and continue to bring a smile to my face.
P.S. The opinions expressed in this article are purely that of the author’s, and no one else’s.