Besides pure heart-warming entertainment value and some of the biggest laughs of any Christmas film, what makes A Christmas Story exceptional is that never before or since has there been another film like it. The offbeat, nostalgic, just shy of plumb story of Ralphie (a brilliant Peter Billingsly), a young boy determined to prevail in his Christmas quest for a BB gun, is a stand alone original. Others have tried, including a ill-conceived sequel, but none comes close. A Christmas Story is lightening in a bottle. A nostalgic look back at childhood perfectly pitched ten-degrees off center that manages to be, at the same time, all things wistful, absurd, abstract, and unforgettable.

Jean Shepard, the film’s warm wonderful narrator, is also responsible for the collection of short stories upon which the movie’s based.  In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash is a series of anecdotes told from the perspective of an adult Ralphie going back to his hometown and reminiscing with people he hasn’t seen in decades. The cobbling together of a script from these stories to create the solid narrative of the film is quite a feat in itself, but it’s Shepard’s unique voice that drives the book and it was director Bob Clark’s genius to capture that voice both literally and figuratively on film.

It’s all about tone, and A Christmas Story is perfectly tuned. (more…)

These days, big-city philistines posing as cultural elites call it “flyover country.” From the comfort of a private jet, it looks like a vast ocean of emptiness. And yet, every election day, media newsrooms find themselves grudgingly painting that part of the map red — blood red.

To them, the American hinterland is part Deliverance, part Raising Arizona. Toothless gas-station attendants. Frumpy diner waitresses. Motor-home brothels hedging the highways. In the Heat of the Night racist police officers on the prowl, yee-haw! Ignorant picnicking churchgoers spewing toxic barbecue fumes into the pristine blue sky. Country-music lovin’ high school students destined to grow up into unwashed, uncouth, uneducated truckers.

Coast-bound libs fancy the South as kinda like Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, but with Wal-Marts. Flyover country. A nightmare realm.

Well, back in the summer of 1977, flyover country was pissed. The nation they loved was being run into the ground by the jet-setters. Skyrocketing inflation. Rampant unemployment. Plummeting GDP. Crushing misery index. Multiple oil crises. Vanishing trade surpluses. A wretched President. Ordinary people were scared and angry, looking for — what’s the word? — oh yeah, “change.” Spare or otherwise. (more…)