My husband and I disagree about very few things, but one of them is the relative merits of A Christmas Story.
Maybe it’s a “guy thing,” but I can’t fathom the affection so many people have for this movie.
Yes, I realize it is nostalgic without being sentimental, which is an almost impossible feat to pull off.
The trouble is, the mother and father in the film push all my buttons. (See, “therapy,” above.)
I spent the first 20 year of my life trapped in a tiny apartment with a bellicose stepfather whose idees fixes were always broken, and a too-nice mother who wouldn’t or couldn’t tell him off.
So I certainly can’t spare another 90 more minutes being cajoled into agreeing that that situation is somehow hilarious and heartwarming and “Christmas-y.”
I might as well just glue plastic holly around my TV and put on Hostel.
I actually have an adverse physical reaction to A Christmas Story, including rapid heartbeat and shortness of breath (and temper).
It should come with a warning label: May cause you to WANT to poke your eyes out.
A Christmas Story was filmed partly in Canada, but so is pretty much every other movie. I like to keep it really patriotic by rewatching the Trailer Park Boys Christmas special instead, the title of which I can’t write here.
[Language and content WARNING:]