The moment that best encapsulates the tone of Violent Night, the smirking and sadistic new action comedy directed by Tommy Wirkola, occurs when a seven-year-old named Trudy (Leah Brady) has an earnest conversation over walkie-talkie with Santa Claus—not a mall employee impersonating Santa Claus, mind you, but the real mythological deal, complete with white beard, reindeer sleigh, and craving for homemade cookies. Strategizing about how to overpower the gang of psychopaths who have taken her and her family hostage, Trudy suggests a plan: “Shove coal right up their assholes!” Santa winces. “We don’t want you ending up on the naughty list,” he cautions, and so Trudy modifies her scheme: “Shove it up their anuses!”
Santa’s approving smile in response to Trudy’s revision would seem to carry some bizarre ethical implications—vigilantism is commendable, vulgarity is deplorable—but let’s ignore that. As a matter of humor, the joke here is that cherubic children saying dirty words is inherently funny. This isn’t necessarily wrong—comedy is often found at the intersection of the holy and the profane—but it speaks to the obnoxious complacency with which Wirkola and his writers, Pat Casey and Josh Miller, have approached their material. Forget about smart dialogue or inventive choreography; the real fun, this movie insists, lies in scatology and brutality.
Again, I don’t object to this conceit in a vacuum. I appreciate a good fart joke as much as the next snooty critic, and I certainly admire a great many bloody actioners. The problem with Violent Night is that it fails to execute its premise with any wit or style, even as it clothes itself in a knitted sweater of self-congratulatory smugness. It fancies itself hip, droll, and exciting, when in reality it’s awkward, tired, and dull.
Perhaps the weirdest thing about the movie—which, on the whole, isn’t nearly weird enough—is the zeal it takes in befouling society’s “Christmas spirit,” as though resentment toward the holidays hasn’t already served as the scaffold for countless productions. In the opening scene, Santa (played with lumbering energy by David Harbour) chugs pints at a pub, lamenting humankind’s collective selfishness, before exiting through the roof; as the barkeep rushes after him, she sees a herd of reindeer flying off into the night, but her astonishment turns to horror as an airborne Santa barfs all over her face. At the risk of deconstructing a vomit joke, I suspect the idea here is to merge childlike awe with adult disgust. Fine, but is it funny? I suppose it’s more amusing than the scene a short time later, when the film’s chief villain (an off-key John Leguizamo) murders some poor schmuck at a yuletide party by stomping on his neck and shouting, “Bah humbug, motherfucker!” Ho ho ho.
That villain goes by the moniker Mr. Scrooge, and he harbors a severe grudge against Christmas, for reasons too convoluted and asinine to explain here. For more pecuniary reasons, Scrooge and his band of deranged mercenaries have stormed a Connecticut mansion, where Trudy and her estranged parents (Alexis Louder and Alex Hassell) are celebrating a tense December holiday with their family. Also present are some imbecilic relatives (including one played by an overqualified Edi Patterson), along with an imperious matriarch (a flat Beverly D’Angelo) whom everyone else is desperate to impress. There is some pointless domestic melodrama burbling, but the real function of these characters is to serve as Scrooge’s hostages, though his dastardly plan didn’t account for a certain jolly old saint sliding down the chimney. And wouldn’t you know: The kidnappers are all on Santa’s naughty list.
Conceptually, then, Violent Night plays as a supernaturally tinged cross between Die Hard and Home Alone, with Santa as John McClane and the sharp-eyed Trudy fulfilling the role of Kevin McCallister. (Lest the latter parallel be missed, Trudy explicitly cites Kevin as a source of inspiration.) As hooks go, this one isn’t bad, and it’s possible to imagine a version of the movie that delivers propulsive action sequences while also supplying clever comic hijinks.
But that isn’t the version we have. Instead, Violent Night is leaden and lumpy, with perfunctory set pieces and feeble jokes. To be fair, Wirkola’s staging of the combat scenes at least borders on competent, and it’s vaguely satisfying to watch a screen presence like Harbour swing a giant sledgehammer called Skullcrusher. But there’s no real momentum to the mayhem, which never exhibits true innovation and instead just bombards viewers with frequent splatters of gore.
If Santa’s slayings possess a glimmer of verve—though certainly not when they integrate his ludicrous backstory as a Viking warrior—the same can’t be said for the film’s putative comedy, which vacillates between stale and shrill. There are silly names and goofy threats and constant assurances that Santa Claus can’t possibly be real (but he is!), and not a laugh is stirring all through the indifferently decorated house. (Only Trudy’s ad hoc booby traps carry any spark of wit, and even those quickly grow repetitive.) As our demented master of ceremonies, Leguizamo channels a bizarre belligerence, while the supporting cast seems uncertain of how to calibrate their performances to match the movie’s ostensibly playful-but-vicious tone.
And that tone is what really rankles, more so than the sluggish beatings and limp insults. Similar to spoof pictures, Violent Night is designed to insulate itself against criticism—to insist that any complaint leveled against its formal sloppiness and verbal stupidity is simply a result of uptight viewers taking it too seriously. It’s a movie about a hammer-wielding alcoholic Santa! Don’t be a grinch, just relax and have fun with it!
Believe me, I’d love to. But there’s no joy to be found in Violent Night—just pockets of dead air, and sadism masquerading as irreverence. At one point, while dispatching a handful of hapless goons, Santa slips a live grenade where the sun don’t shine and starts sprinting away, only to pause and smile to himself. “I have to watch,” he says, before turning around to admire his explosive handiwork. To which I would respond: You really don’t.
Grade: C-
Jeremy Beck is the editor-in-chief of MovieManifesto. He watches more movies and television than he probably should.