The Man in the Santa Claus Suit

Pure. Christmas. Treacle.

Everyone has at least one guilty pleasure. No matter how much we feign well-bred, impeccable tastes, each of us has a dark secret—a fondness for something others regard as pure excrement, perhaps even something we ourselves know is sheer crap—which nonetheless holds an inexplicable, visceral appeal. The hipster wakes up, sweating and shuddering, from the nightmare of having his Glen Campbell 8-track collection exposed to his peers. The film critic dares not admit to his colleagues that he actually got a kick out of Highlander 2: The Quickening. The professional chef, in the dead of night, nervously nukes water to make the flavor she's secretly craved all week—a Chicken Cup Noodle. Don't even get me started on Martha Stewart and her secret relationship with hot pink.

The Christmas season in particular seems to be a real haven for all sorts of guilty pleasures. Maybe it's a factor of nostalgia—we developed a taste for tinseltrash early on, and now partaking helps us recall a more innocent time. Perhaps it has more to do with tradition—it isn't really Christmas yet without the Christmas-crap. In any case, whether it's cheesy TV specials, horrifying Muzak or carbon-dated fruitcake, there's a place for your particular guilty Christmas pleasure.

Speaking of which, here's mine: The Man in the Santa Claus Suit, a 1979 made-for-TV movie produced by the apparently immortal King of Guilty Musical Pleasures himself, Dick Clark. Screenwriters Leonard Gershe and George Kirgo seem to have adhered to the Grapeshot School of TV Philosophy (spray out storylines in all directions; one of 'em is bound to hit something) so popular in '70s TV shows—"Love, American Style," "Fantasy Island," "Love Boat," etc. The whole mess was directed by Corey Allen.

As with all philosophies, the Grapeshot School has its peculiar orthodoxies, to wit:

1. There shall be three storylines, no more, no less. Three shalt thou count, and the number of the counting shall be three.
2. All storylines shall be loosely connected by time, location, and the omnipresent appearance of a benign, mysterious, quasi-magical figure.
3. Comedy and tragedy shall be balanced in equal parts. If one ending is somber, it must needs be that all the others be giddy.
4. Casting shall be limited to actors of the B-list or aging stars of the silver screen. Wist ye not that underemployed actors work cheap?

The Man in the Santa Claus Suit, unstintingly orthodox in its adherence to these rules, is a typical example of the Grapeshot School. All three stories take place in New York City on Christmas Eve, as three very disparate figures enter a costume shop to rent a Santa Claus suit for the evening. The proprietor (Fred Astaire) coaxes out a bit of motivation from each character: Bob (Gary Burghoff, in perhaps his only role outside "M*A*S*H"), a high school math teacher trying to get the nerve to propose to the fashion model next door; Gil (Bert Convy), a high-powered political advisor who, on the advice of his chauffeur, has penciled in his wife and son for the evening; and Stan (John Byner), a literate, drunken bum who found a pistol in a dumpster, and who's trying to hide from the crime bosses who want the weapon back.

From this point on we get snippets of story woven together like a loose and messy braid. It's like the weather in Colorado—if you don't like it, wait five minutes. There's a little drama, a little comedy, a little heartache, a little Vaudeville song-and-dance act (no, really!). Things to look for: two homeless men skip down the street singing "Deck the Halls" at the top of their lungs, an estranged couple has a knock-down drag-out screaming fight where stuff gets thrown and broken, Gary Burghoff gets major lip-lock action, some incredibly bad Italian mafia stereotypes get propagated, and a couple of spoiled brats get their Christmas presents anyway (bah). Through it all, Fred Astaire keeps popping up EVERYWHERE. The man who danced on the ceiling in Royal Wedding doesn't even cha-cha in this movie, probably because he was kept too busy running all over town to pop up in the next scene.

The comic acting is poor. The serious acting is worse. The child actors are past annoying, and most of the adults aren't much better. The fashions can only be described as a late-'70s time capsule. "Star Trek" diva Majel Barrett makes an appearance.

So, if this movie is clearly crap, why do I like it?

Well, I could justify my fondness for it to some extent—I could point to the hysterical performances of Nanette Fabray and Harold Gould as a couple of wealthy eccentrics, or admit that I'd probably even watch Fred Astaire clip his toenails—but these are pretty scant rationalizations. The point is, I first saw this movie on TV when I was ten years old and it wasn't commercially available for years after that. By the time I got the chance to see it again and the scales fell from my eyes, it was already too late—the film had become firmly entrenched in my Guilty Pleasure Center.

And I don't have a problem with that, it being Christmas and all.

All material displayed on this website is © 2001-2009 by S. B. Houghton, writing under the alias "The Pirate King." All rights reserved.
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