Everything Wrong with "Elf"
Don't watch this with your children.
I’m on my fourth Manhattan and I need to vent. My daughter decided to use her last Christmas movie ticket tonight, one of three she is given for the season. We let her pick whatever she wants, although there are a few nonstarters (Home Alone, A Christmas Story, and, of course, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer). The system has worked for us, and her last pick is always The Polar Express, which toes the line with the train transportation stuff but is for the most part benign.
Tonight—curveball—she requests Elf. It’s Will Ferrell, so I’m immediately on guard. I think and think and think trying to remember its plot but all my primate brain can remember is Zooey Deschanel in the shower and the humiliation of Miles Finch (we’ll get to both of those). I express concern to my wife and she pleads with me to loosen up. She even tells me “don’t ruin Christmas” which she knows I fucking hate. I don’t want to a fight so I agree thinking why not, how bad can it be? As it turns out, Birth of a Nation bad.
I’m fucked up so I’m doing bullet points:
Snowball fight scene — Even funny-guy Ferrell need remind us of American military might. This one is boiling with that distinct flavor of militant American nationalism post 9/11, the very same mania for justice that brought Baghdad to its knees. The transmutation of snow ball into machine gun fights the same ideological battle as McClane and McCallister: that which integrates Christmas with a justified, lustful violence, distorting it from a day to be enjoyed into a way of life that must be defended. That Michael was attacked first, and that Buddy, in response, strafes the streets of New York City with disproportionate and indiscriminate firepower to the laughter of the crowd, testifies to the same civic derangement that would shrug off the War on Terror and defend the War on Drugs
The “Special Someone Gag.” Gross. I’m not talking about the thought of Walter strutting about in some seasonal lingerie, but the crude heteronormativity of it all. Doing so can actually be quite erotic, even earth-shatteringly-so. That’s not to suggest that I’ve tried it, of course—I’ve simply taken numerous gender studies courses. The offense here is that Buddy tried to express connection to his father through a genuine gesture—one free from the constraints of debilitating American sexual mores—and was instead met with mockery, as those who go against the grain always are. It teaches my daughter a dangerous lesson, too: men don’t wear lingerie. So who does? Women.
Miles Finch scene. Just the lowest-hanging of fruit. A creative genius reduced his stature, character development—not to mention humanity—denied in the name of a slapstick gag. Discourse that descends needlessly into violence, all because an intransigent zealot who puts chocolate sauce on his spaghetti can’t admit that he’s the one living in fantasyland and not the other way around. Dinklage played Tyrion Lannister with such conviction for a reason.
Jovie — The moment I saw her placing the star atop the tree I knew her clothes were coming off. Admittedly, as above-mentioned, I hadn’t exactly forgotten the scene, but its existence speaks to the dominance of the male gaze. Even in a Christmas movie, even during Christmas, a beautiful blond with penetrating blue eyes and the sultriest of voices—you gotta give the boys something. Let’s compound this offense by having Buddy barge in on her, stay sing the Date Rape Anthem, and remain there when she expresses shock, discomfort, and fear. Don’t be fooled by the stunningly tender harmony—there is nothing consensual about this encounter.
After Buddy commits battery on the previous Santa, the mall’s manager, proving devotion and loyalty to the store and its owners who sustain him, takes up the mantle of Claus. His portrayal is surprisingly convincing, yet this is played for a joke. Why?
Buddy gets hammered in the mail room, perpetuating both underage drinking (Buddy is child coded) and working class stereotypes
The Rockefeller Tree and the ice skating. One of the most appalling of all our Christmas images, brought to you by Hollywood. This image perhaps more than anything else has come to symbolize the quintessential holiday romance: gloved hands intertwined, gliding across a plaza built with oil money, beneath the decaying bark of a once grand tree marched through the city streets as a slain beast, brought to you by Hallmark and Kay Jewelers. Buddy enacts this ritual of manufactured intimacy by kissing Jovie on the ice, completing the union of spectacle and joy. That Buddy is a creep, a fool, a fundamentalist, and a virgin makes no difference to Jovie any longer. Enchanted, entranced, she sleepwalks into her own submission.
Yet the severity of Elf lies not in just its sexism, racism, or ableism, but in the very ethos that underlies its entire animation. Even Elf must instill ideology. How does it end?
The Big Man crashes in central park. His engine that runs on Christmas spirit has fallen off, devoid of fuel. The Central Park Rangers, the very foot-soldiers of state-power and regulation Claus so deeply despises, are in pursuit. And who comes along but Buddy, the outcast, who could never be a true elf. Does he help his former employer? Or does he leave him there to cuffs around his fat wrists?
It can’t get more obvious: He literally finds the engine. Buddy reattaches it, hops on top of the sleigh, and the reindeer begun running, the horsemen still at their heels. Yet the sleigh trundles along, still out of fuel. Buddy’s individual affirmation to the system satisfies us narratively—but for the sleigh to fly—for the the season to be saved—the whole world must profess their faith. Yet how does one convince the world?
Jovie stands up, clothed, and begins to sing:
You better watch out, you better not cry
You better not pout, I’m telling you why
Santa Claus is coming to town
And these New Yorkers gathered in Central Park—the beating heart of the country, if not the world—sing too. First just the mom, then Michael, then the crowd, then the guys down at the post office, the authors at the publishing house, the little girl in her pajamas, laying in bed. They sing not a carol but a creed, not to each other but to a god and the way of life that he—by watching us, judging us, and rewarding us—sustains. We are your slaves, they shout into the night, and the engine roars to life.
Don’t watch this with your kids.