The Perfect Holiday is one of the most cliché, dopey,
predictable, and cheaply-made Christmas movies ever released in American
theatres, but it’s also strangely one of the most likable. The picture
functions as a comfort in much the same way that a Hallmark Channel
Holiday Special does, so ordinary in its indulgence in the Christmas
Spirit that it somehow becomes identifiable in the process. As
filmgoers, we may not be able to relate to movies that transport us to
the North Pole and there try to woo us with red and green imagery, but
we are certainly able to sympathize with the everyday (if cartoonishly-constructed)
characters found in The Perfect Holiday. From Gabrielle Union’s
lonely divorcee to her three children in need of a real father-figure
(their Daddy’s a hack of a rapper who only sees them when he needs them
to appear in a television interview with him) to the shopping-mall-Santa
(Morris Chestnut) who wishes to fit that bill, all of the personalities
in the movie certainly gain the viewer’s emotional investment. The
film’s sometimes-poor acting and shoddy production-values only work to
make it more warmly and agreeably inconsequential. Still, one could
probably turn on the aforementioned Hallmark Channel and find something
just as good as The Perfect Holiday playing; there isn’t anything
to distinguish it from the rest of the pact. But when the movie makes it
to cable itself, I’m sure that it will do just the trick to pleasantly
waste two hours (including commercials, that is) of your time.
In my five years as a
critic, I have learned that the best films seek deep into one’s
conscience, witling away at one’s senses long after one has seen them.
It is, in part, my job to come to terms with this: to try to explain the
unexplainable, to put said films’ accomplishments into words. With No
Country for Old Men, I am unable to do this. Not since 2003’s
Lost in Translation has a motion picture left me so speechless, so
eager to cling onto the way that it made me feel rather than to
dissect it into wordy pieces. In fact, I can’t really say what it is
about this film that allows me to respond to it in the way that I do.
Sure, I could narrow my admiration for its many accomplishments down to
a few surface descriptors: Javier Bardem gives a miraculous performance
as Anton Chigurh, quite possibly the most chilling film villain since
Hannibal Lecter; the Coen Brothers return to form in the director’s
chair, scrapping a musical score and relying on long,
masterfully-constructed takes to create atmosphere instead; and
cinematographer Roger Deakins gives the whole picture an eerie,
dimly-lit vibe that allows it to slowly work its way into the viewer’s
mind. But even after realizing what I admire most about No Country
for Old Men, I still can’t put my finger on what exactly allows it
to come together in the stunningly affecting way that it does. Maybe
it’s source-author Cormac McCarthy’s command of the American
Southwestern setting. Perhaps it’s the Coen Brother’s adaptation of
McCarthy’s challenging language. It could even be Josh Brolin’s quietly
commanding presence in the lead role of hunted-down-hunter Llewelyn
Moss. Even if I’m not sure of the reason, I do know that No Country
for Old Men is a masterpiece. I’ve already seen it twice and all I
want to do is see it again.
