All I Wanted for Christmas

Last night, I was in the mood for some '70s horror. Me being in the mood for some '70s anything is nothing new of course, but I'm very particular about the types of horror movies I watch. Generally, I don't go for the gratuitous slasher vibe and when I come to think of it, the last modern horror film that genuinely frighten me was The Blair Witch Project, and if I remember correctly I was on a date at the time with someone who was even more frightening.

But I digress.

It's been one of those weeks, really, when the shitstorm barometer of work, life and a combination of the two has hit an all-time low. So when the seminal Canadian horror classic Black Christmas came up in the queue, naturally I thought, let's have some god damn jolly times and watch good girls in bad clothes dodge a creepy stalker in a sorority house. Plus, I had been wanting to see it for years and could never manage to get my eyes on it.

Let's rewind before we move forward: I first heard abut Black Christmas when I was 14 years old while sitting in homeroom during my freshman year of high school. My desk was located kitty corner from my teacher, Mr. Jaglin, and while I don't remember the context in which it came up, he said if I liked scary movies from the '70s then I should check a film called Black Christmas, which he said, in his signature deadpan delivery, "is really frickin' creepy."

Years went by and his movie reco stuck with me—although I was never able to find on VHS and when technology changed to DVD, the movie didn't get reprinted on that either. Later I found out the film was made in 1974, a time when the country was shrouded in a palpable layer of gloom, simultaneously hungover from the chaos of the '60s and reeling from the Watergate scandal playing out before their eyes on national TV. The Exorcist was inarguably the scariest film released to date (and inarguably still is), premiering in U.S. theaters the day after Christmas in 1973. But up in north Canada, a little known director named Bob Clark decided to actually make Christmas the centerpiece of psychological terror and executes it with chilling '70s nuances.

The film opens on an undisclosed college campus at a sorority house that is buzzing with holiday party activity. There's a young Margot Kidder sporting a great periwinkle blouse and choker necklace, slurring away around the house with a glass of neat whiskey in her hand and a young Olivia Hussey fielding prank phone calls from someone they joking call The Moaner. The girls razz him a bit while he hurls some pretty chilling obscenities into the phone before the one the house's more prim and proper ladies suggests it's not a good a idea provoke someone like that before heading upstairs to pack before she leaves on break (cue first victim music here).

What ensues next is a series of murders committed by a mysterious man we never actually see. This was the first film of its kind, in fact, that filmed the slaying of its victims through the camera POV of the killer. The technique was particularly impactful on a young director named John Carpenter, who, upon seeing the film, was so inspired he began another little film project called Halloween, which in turn became the most seminal horror movie of all time. (Christmas ... Halloween ... hey, we're all here to party).

Unlike the gratuitous gory slasher flicks of the '80s, this film is the genre in its infancy, relying on creepy camera work, shadow play and the idea that what you don't see is actually scarier than what you do. I found myself emotionally invested in the leading sorority sisters—Kidder struggling with her penchant for alcohol excess and Hussey contemplating an abortion while fending off her older musician-composer boyfriend Patrick (Michael Rapport). With his tight, ribbed turtlenecks, hallowed face and mangy hair, I found him the creepiest character of all in the film. At times, we're led to believe he's the killer ... but is he? Maybe that's what I like best of all about this film: the ambiguous ending.

Unlike the cliche that classic slasher movies would become, this one stays true to the psychology of terror, with Clark choosing not to gift wrap the resolution but instead leave us with a chilling camera fade and unresolved ending that alludes to the notion that evil will always be lurking amid the dated glow of christmas lights and silver tinsel and haunting of chants of carolers that unexpectedly arrive on our front doorsteps.

Sometimes, it only takes a film being made in the mid-'70s to be creepy to me. The murkiness of the time, the dark interior designs and bedrooms decorated with plaid on plaid on plaid. There is an innate sadness to the era and sometimes I imagine the way the echoey rooms must have smelled—smoky, stale, concrete. There's a draftiness I can feel from the other side of the screen, a chill that extends beyond Christmas.

I felt at home on this holiday. This one was worth the wait.