Scrooged
(1988)
If attaching one’s name to classic properties can be a sign of star power on the wane
(both for directors and actors), a proclivity for appearing in Christmas movies
most definitely is. Just look at Vince Vaughn’s career. So was Bill Murray
running on empty a mere 25 years ago? He’d gone to ground following the
rejection of his straight-playing The
Razor’s Edge by audiences and critics alike, meaning this was his first
comedy lead since Ghostbusters four
years earlier. Perhaps he thought he needed a sure-fire hit (with ghosts) to
confirm he was still a marquee name. Perhaps his agent persuaded him. Either
way, Scrooged was a success. Murray remained
a star. But he looked like sell-out, sacrificing his comedy soul for a box
office bonanza. He’d seem even more calculating seven months later when tired
sequel Ghostbusters II emerged. Scrooged is guilty of exactly the kind
of over-sized, commercially cynical production this modern retelling of A Christmas Carol (only partially
successfully) takes pot shots at during the first act.
If The Muppet
Christmas Carol displays its self-awareness by having Charles Dickens
(Gonzo) narrate the tale, Scrooged
exists in a world where Bill Murray’s TV exec (Frank Cross) is charged with
hosting an all-singing all-dancing live Christmas Eve production of the classic
tale. That might suggest more than enough material for astute social commentary
and an abundance of self-reflexivity. Unfortunately, Scrooged continually soft soaps the satire, with only the
occasional gem to render it distinct.
Credited writers Michael O’Donoghue (a SNL veteran) and Mitch Glazer set the scene promisingly; a trailer
for The Night the Reindeer Died,
featuring Lee Majors at the South Pole saving Santa Claus; another for Bob Goulet’s Old Fashioned Cajun Christmas.
But the bad taste rehearsals for the live broadcast aren’t nearly bad taste
enough; they just look like standard shitty TV, with a has-been lead (Buddy
Hackett) playing Scrooge and a few lines about seeing the nipples on the
dancing girls. Everything hinges on Bill Murray bringing the dark heart, but
the material continually fails him. The best he gets is acute remorselessness
over a viewer who died watching his apocalyptic Christmas trailer. That, and his
instruction to staple antlers to the “reindeer” mice. Robert Mitchum is cast as
Murray’s even less scrupulous boss, identified as losing the plot because he
believes cats and dogs will become valued TV viewers over the next 20 years.
Not helping matters is Bobcat Goldthwait as a well-meaning
underling fired by Frank (Rick Moranis must have been busy). Much of
Goldthwait’s screen time consists of laboured comedic attempts to live the life
of a wino; only in the final third, when he pursues Frank with a shotgun, does
his casting vaguely pay off.
The saving grace on the TV studio side is John
Glover’s enormously upbeat fellow exec, vying for Frank’s job. Alfre Woodard’s
Grace shares the Bob Cratchit-equivalent role with Goldthwait. Hers is an
especially thankless role; she’s even lumbered with a Tiny Tim-like son
(Calvin) who doesn’t speak (as if to telegraph that this is Tiny Tim, at one point Calvin is shown watching Tiny Tim in the
Alastair Sim Scrooge). You know he’s
just waiting for that Bill Murray-induced Christmas miracle.
This unmeasured sentimental side makes the whole pudding
particularly difficult to digest. Perhaps it’s a consequence of director
Richard Donner’s unsuitedness to the comedy genre. He should have been deterred
by his first foray, Richard Pryor bomb The
Toy, but unfortunately he subsequently had a big success with The Goonies (not an actively bad film,
but a noisy and indulgent mess nevertheless; its considerable following is more
reflective of a generation’s nostalgia than any intrinsic merits). Donner can
eke the laughs from an essentially dramatic movie effectively enough (Lethal Weapon) but even then he has a
tendency not to know when to reel it in (the sequels). On the plus side he
doesn’t shoot Scrooged like it’s a
typical Hollywood comedy (ie, indifferently) but neither does he have much a
sense of comic timing. Nor a feel for what plays and what doesn’t. Maybe this was
partly a reflection of a more general ‘80s comedy malaise, but you can’t help
wish someone with a less fettered sensibility (John Landis) or keener satirical
faculty (Joe Dante) had been let loose on the material.
Murray’s characterisation is all over the place, so he
yo-yos between caustic wit and likability depending on the demands of the
scene. The one area the picture scores over other recent adaptations is with
the Ghosts who at least ensure there is a consistently heightened tone once the
fantasy plot line takes hold. John Forsythe is the rotting cadaver of Frank’s
old boss (the Marley figure, who appropriately appeared to have died on the
golf course). David Johansen is a break from the norm as a leeringly
unsentimental Ghost of Christmas Past. But Murray goes and gets all teary-eyed
from the off, ruining a nice moment when his brother Brian Doyle-Murray, as
Frank’s dad, brings his four-year old son five pounds of veal from Christmas
rather than a choo-choo train. The scenes with the adorable Karen Allen are
continually misjudged. It’s only Allen’s milk-of-human-kindness performance
that clings to the unlikeliness of their coupling.
The highlight of Scrooged
is the Ghost of Christmas Present sequence. Carol Kane is hilarious as an
insane, hyperactive and physically abusive fairy. She’s the only performer in
the movie able to steal scenes from Murray wholesale, and she does so repeatedly
(to be fair to him, he’s game). Whether she’s punching him in the face, blowing
raspberries on his belly or attacking him with kitchenware (“The bitch hit me with a toaster!”),
Kane’s a whirling dervish of energy and the movie misses her when she exits. Another
Murray brother, John, plays Frank’s brother James; it’s a cute sign of the age
of the picture that the best present he could receive is a Pioneer video
recorder. Less cute is the surfeit of product placement throughout. That’s
definitely a manifestation of the dark side of Frank Cross, or Paramount at any
rate.
The Ghost of Christmas Future is same-old, same-old on the
surface but beneath its cowls lurk the kind of ghastly prosthetics that only
Hollywood megabucks can buy (leading Frank to utter the very meta, “Did our people do that? We’re going to get
phone calls”) All but acknowledging the loss of Kane, the future sequence
struggles for impact (and thus is unable to seal the deal on Frank’s
salvation). The writers settle on a highly unlikely moral about-turn for
Allen’s Claire, such that Frank’s heartless has infected her (and little Calvin
has been put in a padded cell; there’s only room for overkill here).
If that’s a misjudgement, it’s as nothing compared to the
awful, awful, finale Donner, Murray, and the co-writers have cooked up. Staged
as Frank’s impromptu live TV confessional, Murray appears completely at a loss.
The resulting sequence is car crash viewing. It has the appearance of
improvisation, but this isn’t clever witty improvisation. It’s well-established
dry wit Bill Murray attempting to gush heartfelt sincerity while all about him
there is stunned silence. If you look closely, you can see the tumbleweeds roll
by as the crew turn away in embarrassment at the mess their star has made. “What are you doing watching TV on Christmas
Eve” Frank has the cheek to ask his audience, before exhorting everyone to
go out and do some good. Because, “You’ve
got to have a miracle”. Murray’s dying up there on that sound stage,
attempting to approximate the enthusiasm of a born again true believer, so its
inevitable that little Calvin only goes and speaks. Would you believe it? By
the time the credits roll, there won’t be a dry pair of shoes in the house. They’ll
be adorned with your vomit.
Maybe Murray was well aware that his ending was inept. He
got a second crack at the “life lessons” movie six years later in Groundhog Day. If that gets one thing
wrong that Scrooged gets right (the
female lead), in every other respect it is a vastly superior piece of work.
Crucially, it didn’t encourage its star to attempt an unbelievable character
makeover. Murray without an edge just isn’t Murray; Murray speaking from the
heart, oozing fake sincerity, is downright horrific. It may be rather defeating
the point of the tale, but if you turn of Scrooged
15 minutes before the end, it’s a significantly more enjoyable movie.
