Black Christmas, a grueling art-piece of male aggression & female power

Editor’s Note: The following essay contains massive spoilers for the 1974 horror flick, Black Christmas.

Black Christmas is as subtle in its themes as a fresh batch of frothy eggnog. Within the first 15 minutes, the viewer is immersed in a seductively tragic world of micro-aggression and suffocating levels of toxic machismo. In rewatching the Canadian cult classic a few weeks ago, I was once again struck with how gruesome and uncomfortable Bob Clark’s 1974 film really is. It’s stunningly visceral and innovative as a slasher prototype, whose smartly drawn examinations of femininity, the Final Girl template and an attacker’s temperament for loathing women would later be perfected with the beautifully-constructed psycho-thriller known as John Carpenter’s Halloween.

However, Black Christmas was truly ahead of its time, offering up progressive concepts of a woman’s claim over her body and a man’s malicious intentions, and remains the unceremonious God Father of the slasher craze of the 1980s. Its granular, POV framework splinters the onscreen perspective between that of the viscously-provocative villain, only known as “The Moaner” to our house of heroines, and that of a close-knit group of sorority girls, who were coming of age only a decade after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 (and just a year after Roe v Wade). It’s a raw and unnerving juxtaposition of one white man’s rage set against a backdrop of women’s continuing struggle to break free of the patriarchy and come to understand and revel in their burgeoning sexuality.

In one of her early roles, Margot Kidder embodies a snarky, salacious extrovert with a proclivity for fellatio jokes and wine. Though she meets a grisly end in the third act, a particularly frightening murder sequence, Kidder’s lionhearted, witty and hard-boiled Barb reminds the audience that a woman’s role is not to fulfill some absurdly passive sexual thrill of the male fantasy. Instead, Barb exhibits the kind of fierce, showy garishness and strong, determined will that we’ve come only to expect from her male counterparts (at least in slasher popcorn flicks). And it’s a role Kidder plays to great effect, allowing her performance to ebb between flashy exuberance and subtle character work. Largely, the film analyzes a woman’s agency over her body, her actions and her mind through the lens of a whodunnit fright night.

The cast of characters⏤ which includes Andrea Martin (as Phyl), Lynn Griffin (Clare Harrison) and Marian Waldman (as the boozy, hilariously brazen house mother Mrs. Mac) ⏤ settles in for a celebratory send-off before the holiday break. Booze and warm tidings abound, drawing the audience into their world of gleeful celebrations and sisterhood, while just outside the front door, someone’s shaky first-person perspective stumbles across the front lawn, down the snow-capped sidewalk, up the frozen latticework and into the open attic window. The first obscene (and onscreen) phone call happens before we even hit the 10-minute mark and instantly pricks the nerves to cast intoxicating dread. “Billy” grunts and squeals into the phone, and the camera pans across the girl’s faces to further tighten the film’s screws on tension and discomfort. Knowing the calls have been taking place over several days makes the skin crawl even more…

Billy’s crass ramblings quickly escalate into sleazy, mud-slung filth. “You pig cunt. Let me lick it. Lick it. Let me lick your pretty piggy cunt. Suck my juicy cock. I’ll come over, and you can suck it,” he spits, his words extending virulent male oppression of and claim over women. Barb snaps. “You fucking creep,” she snarls back at the caller. The dastardly facade falls away, and Billy says in a crisp, clear whisper: “I’m going to kill you.” Clink. A chill runs down Barb’s spine, but she quickly recovers. “Well, super tongue strikes again!” exclaims Phyl. Barb replies, flicking her tongue with playful snideness, “Fastest tongue in the west!”

Hussey’s Jess, a timid but courageous lead, also carries much of the empowered woman thesis both in the overarching story and the more personally-wrought subplot. As the main thread line of mayhem unravels, Jess is faced with an unwanted pregnancy, and she must decide what to do next ⏤ wrestling with her unavoidable reality, a decision to terminate the pregnancy and what her future could possibly hold.

When given the news that she wants an abortion, her boyfriend Peter (played by Keir Dullea) takes twisted and manipulative tone. “You can’t make a decision like that. You haven’t even asked me,” he says to her, waxing a sweet and gentle, yet calculated, air. To which Jess responds, “I wasn’t even going to tell you…” Peter takes a second to chew over her words before turning on her and condemning her as selfish, “Don’t you ever consider anyone but yourself?”

Peter’s hotheaded demonization of pro-choice works in tandem with his devolution into literal madness, a red herring to the murderous, post-modern tale. He spirals outward just as “The Moaner” ramps up his violent pleasures. A crudely-drawn archetype of the angry white man, Peter comes to the sorority house to talk Jess out of her decision. When it’s clear Peter’s immaturity is showing, Jess doesn’t have time for such foolishness. “Peter, what kind of game are you playing? I thought you wanted to talk? So, why don’t you quit attacking me, and we’ll try to have a rational, adult conversation…”

Peter then goes on to express his distaste for university living and his plan to leave the conservatory for good. He presumes they’ll get married soon after, a bold assumption which takes Jess back a moment. Her resolve is riddled on her face, and she realizes what she must do next. “I told you about some of the things I wanted to do. I still want to do those things. You can’t ask me to drop everything I’ve been working for and give up all my ambitions because your plans have changed. Be realistic. I can’t marry you.” He’s vexed by her audacity and lashes out, exposing a bruised ego and venomous masculinity. “You selfish bitch. You’re talking of killing a baby as though you were having a wart removed…what the hell are you trying to do to me?” he hisses. “What are you doing to yourself?” Jess tosses back. He leaves in a huff but not before threatening her: “You’re gonna be very sorry.”

Later on, Peter phones her after a few too many beers and weeps crocodile tears to invalidate her feelings, as well as to exploit her deep adoration for him. “Don’t kill the baby,” he blubbers into the phone. His accusatory temperament is unwittingly the catalyst which propels Jess  into the third act and also further confirms her fears of him, that he could perform such ungodly acts on her sisters. It’s especially frightening when it is uncovered that the obscene phone calls are coming from inside the house ⏤ a startling revelation of sheer horror and a plot device later famously retooled for the opening scene of 1979’s Carol Kane-starring When a Stranger Calls.

The set pieces all in places ⏤ from the boyfriend’s inane, vengeful and drunken invectives to a high, practically-bloodless body count ⏤ Jess rises to the occasion to escape the grasp of a hate-mongering, female-despising killer hellbent on destruction. Olivia Hussey’s performance is plainspoken but rich and grounded in texture. In just over 90 minutes, she blossoms from the sweet girl-next-door type into one of the most fiercely independent and brave heroines in all of the slasher pantheon. She’s a victim of circumstance in almost every way. Even in turning down her boyfriend’s flippantly forward marriage proposal and going head-to-head with “Billy,” she musters up an inner strength and skill to fight for her life. Jess not only survives the night, but she reclaims her own distinct identity in one last act of defiance and survival by ⏤ surprise! ⏤ killing her psychotic boyfriend with a fireplace poker.

As it turns out, of course, “Billy” is still very much alive as revealed in the film’s final few frames. Even the presentation of the killer, who remains nameless and faceless onscreen, skewers the wide-sweeping, deeply-rooted misogyny in our culture ⏤ the viewer is left unable to properly pin down and access his damage in any conceivably healthy way. That. is. terrifying. That said, Jess’ transformation is a vision of storytelling, thanks in large part to screenwriter Roy Moore, who manages to infuse a sense of potent vulnerability into his sketch of Jess, as well as vibrant portraits of Phyl and Barb, especially. All three women emit variations of womanhood and self-sustainability, and they elevate the material through discerning, affecting and complex performances.

When the credits were rolling, I couldn’t help but wonder how such a progressively confident thriller could have been made more than 40 years ago. Here we are in 2018, amidst the #MeToo movement, which has struck a sour chord with a wide swath of the angry white male population, and we still have much work to do. Such a groundbreaking film as Black Christmas feels as vital to the story of women today as it ever has.

Thank you, Bob Clark and Roy Moore, for your gifts of story. And thank you, Olivia Hussey, for portraying one of the most important characters in film history.

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