
You’ve heard of Christmas cheer. What about Christmas sleaze? It virtually oozes off the display in 1984 slasher Don’t Open Till Christmas, directed by Edmund Purdom—who additionally stars as a detective attempting to determine who’s been slaughtering folks dressed as Santa Claus. Ho-ho, oh-no!
There’s nothing heat and comfy about this vacation story, which enthusiastically commits to its theme of maximum seediness from the opening scene; the primary Santa to die onscreen—although we quickly study he’s not the primary sufferer—is stabbed whereas making out with a girl within the backseat of his automotive. (She’s additionally stabbed to dying, after all—whereas the assassin largely targets you-know-who, Don’t Open Till Christmas wouldn’t dream of passing up a chance for violence.) The central picture within the opening credit is an affordable Santa toy that’s been set on fireplace; it burns away to disclose a knife poking out of its heart. The sequence is a nod to Halloween (and Halloween II, which opens with a flaming jack o’ lantern), however it additionally primes you for what’s to come back: an immolation of your complete idea of all issues merry and festive, with mid-Eighties tackiness and a few very darkish humor in addition.
The Santas killed in Don’t Open Till Christmas are usually seen out of context. At least one is employed taking pictures with youngsters in a division retailer, and one will get offed acting at a fancy dress get together. But these red-suited targets are removed from healthful; we largely see them stumbling round darkish alleys, however different backdrops embody grubby bogs, a torture museum, a creepy carnival, and one notably memorable peep-show sales space.
The soundtrack all through options acquainted Christmas songs like “Jingle Bells,” however the renditions sound barely off-key—only one ingredient of the manufacturing design right here that spreads copious unease. Another is the abundance of handheld shaky-cam, usually coupled with heavy respiration so we all know it’s the killer’s POV. Overall, Don’t Open Till Christmas goals for a mix of repulsive and titillating that isn’t so unusual in low-budget crime motion pictures from this period, however the Santa Claus angle provides that further little jingle-bell sparkle.
The characters in Don’t Open Till Christmas are woefully underdeveloped, however there’s simply sufficient bizarre aptitude scattered round to make them attention-grabbing. After prim Kate (Belinda Mayne) witnesses the dying of her Santa-suited father, she’s drawn into the case by New Scotland Yard’s Chief Inspector Harris (performed by director Purdom) and Detective Sergeant Powell (Mark Jones)—and finally turns sleuth herself. The film tosses out some potential suspects, together with Kate’s mulleted boyfriend Cliff (Gerry Sundcliffe), who’s fairly clearly sponging off her wealth, has some obvious homophobia points, is finest mates with a porn-y photographer who tries to strain a disgusted Kate into posing, and who earns his residing by tootling his flute within the subway. Cliff is probably not the assassin, however you’ll be able to’t assist however suppose he’s in all probability responsible of one thing.
Despite Scotland Yard’s dedication—we hear rather a lot concerning the cops’ impatient boss, although we by no means really see him—there’s seemingly no stopping Don’t Open Till Christmas’ killer, whose potential to evade seize is sort of as spectacular as all of the totally different strategies he makes use of to annihilate his prey. (At one level, the cops actually say to one another, “Do you think we might have a psychopath on our hands?” Guys… sure! Yes, you do.) Their grand plan entails having cops go undercover dressed as Santa, a tactic which will have labored for Popeye Doyle in The French Connection however is dealt with with a lot much less nuance right here—particularly since this film has greater than established that anytime we see a Santa on-screen, the killer will abruptly materialize.
Rather than following an precise plot, Don’t Open Till Christmas is far more fascinated with cramming as many grotesque dying scenes into its 86-minute working time as doable. Along with some pretty commonplace stabbings and stranglings, there’s a Santa who meets his finish due to a knife hid within the toe of a boot (used to kick him the crotch) and a studded glove (used to mangle his face); a Santa shoved headfirst right into a grill of roasting chestnuts; and a Santa who makes his grand entrance onstage… as a corpse… at a live performance that includes sequin-clad singer-actress Caroline Munro (a cameo, however she’s nonetheless the largest title within the solid). We see eyeballs poked out, knives plunged into skulls and rising from mouths, a spectacular electrocution, and—in possibly the movie’s most infamous scene—a most unlucky Santa separated from his Little St. Nick whereas he’s mid-stream on the urinal.
With imagery like this, issues just like the killer’s id (fairly darn apparent as quickly because the character’s launched) and Grinch-y motive (shoehorned into the film’s previous couple of minutes) change into secondary issues. Proudly nasty and completely unafraid to beat its Santa gimmick into the bottom, Don’t Open Till Christmas will not heat your coronary heart—except you’re a cult film fan and/or a bloodthirsty gorehound, during which case it should delight your coal-black soul. I watch it yearly!
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