BLACK CHRISTMAS (1974)

Although Christmas is just around the corner, Halloween first deserves its due. Before we settle in for Yuletide viewings of It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) and Miracle on 34th Street (1947), the season for horror films reigns supreme. And what better way to start off the season than with a terrifying slasher movie? Black Christmas is an intelligent, criminally under-seen film, one that helped define the whole sub-genre.

Black Christmas features what would become the archetypal slasher plot. Every night, a sorority house receives obscene phone calls. The voice on the other end of the line sounds utterly deranged, promising to harm the young college women in unspeakably evil ways. As a Christmas party gets underway, we come to suspect that a psychotic killer lurks nearby… somewhere very close to home…

Why it’s one of the most influential horror movies of all time remains relatively unknown. A seminal slasher film, it has clearly inspired genre stalwarts such as Halloween (1978) and Scream (1996), both of which are arguably the two most famous franchises of the genre. Besides the fact that it is a hugely influential work, it’s also genuinely frightening, making Black Christmas a little-known entry into the slasher canon that any true horror aficionado must watch.

While Black Christmas has retroactively enjoyed critical acclaim, it was not immediately met with excessive plaudits. In fact, like many horror films that were ahead of their time, the response to director Bob Clark’s work was initially quite tepid; critics were unsure what to make of it. In this respect, Black Christmas actually has a lot in common with two of the slasher genre’s earliest entries: Michael Powell’s Peeping Tom (1960) and Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960).

That both of these films emerged in 1960 is a fascinating coincidence, but what was not so surprising was the outraged public response to these films; audiences simply weren’t ready for such graphic displays of murderous perversion or psychotic mental disorders. While critics were at least mixed in their reviews of Hitchcock’s classic—the height of the furore saw critic C.A Lejeune walking out of the screening and resigning from her tenured position as film reviewer in disgust—the reception to Powell’s ground-breaking movie was utterly damning.

In fact, it was so bad that it ruined the great director’s reputation, and consequently, his career. One critic likened Powell to Marquis de Sade, while Lejeune (only a few months before her retirement) referred to it as a “beastly film.” Needless to say, such looks at disturbed psyches tend to elicit strong responses from people. Although Dario Argento’s giallo films—a genre of colourful, vibrant murder mystery movies in Italian cinema—were well-received upon release, the slasher genre traditionally has sparked outcry and controversy for its lurid content.

Although Peeping Tom and Psycho can both be recognised as the antecedents of the slasher, they lacked many of the attributes which would eventually be associated with the genre. In stark contrast, and without being hyperbolic, Black Christmas plainly incorporates many of the traits that would come to define the American slasher film; the rules for these horrifying stories are being written before our very eyes.

Firstly, Black Christmas has a prominent red herring. While screenwriter Roy Moore certainly didn’t create this narrative device in murder mystery fiction (nor does he employ this trope as imaginatively as literary icon Agatha Christie once did), he ably introduces doubt and suspicion into the audience’s mind. Moore doesn’t make a gimmick out of this device (much like Scream and its numerous sequels did) and our one suspect remains a convincing one up until the very end.

Secondly, we have the horror trope that has since become humorously frustrating: people walking off on their own. Perhaps it’s because it is now painfully predictable, and has even been endlessly lampooned in the aforementioned Scream series, but these moments unfairly feel like poor writing in modern viewings; as soon as a character wanders away from a party, you can be fairly sure you won’t be seeing them again.

However, what Clark does with these moments (and what many slasher films for some reason still haven’t learned) is make them impressively suspenseful. Whether it’s the agonisingly slow approach to that wardrobe, or the deliberately steady ascent to the attic, these sequences drip with tension. While we can be sure how they will end, it does nothing to assuage our nerves.

In this respect, it seems as though Clark was drawing from more than just Hitchcock’s Psycho; these scenes of laboured advances towards an obvious threat are pure Hitchcock. Specifically, Mrs MacHenry’s (Marian Waldman) venture into the attic felt like a direct homage to Tippi Hedren’s anxious walk up the staircase in The Birds (1963). Evidently, though we know well what the attic, wardrobe, or room upstairs will contain, these sequences will hold us in suspense all the same.

Much like Hitchcock with his late-career gems, Bob Clark’s intent on making a truly shocking film, and he succeeds. What’s more, he very clearly establishes the visual iconography of the modern slasher film in the process. You’re sure to recognise them: a man’s body pressed up against an opaque pane of glass, concealing his face, but revealing the physique of our murderer. Menacing silhouettes linger in the background, though we can’t be sure if it’s just a random shadow. And finally, the uncommonly creepy shot of a frantic eye through a keyhole, which will send shivers down your spine.

And of course, there’s the kitchen knife, the most famous weapon of the slasher genre. However, an intriguing spin on this trope can be found in Black Christmas: the real weapon utilised by our homicidal maniac is not a knife, but a phone. In a terrific twist, the phone is representative of how purely spoken violence is enough to shatter feelings of comfort and safety. This is a thematic device that would be mimicked in increasingly uncreative ways throughout the Scream franchise. In this, one can find the first traces of feminist criticism in Black Christmas; despite the obscenely graphic phone calls, the police do nothing to aid the young women. How can a phone call be that serious, after all?

There’s also social commentary to this narrative device. Though the prevalence of social media has weakened the symbolic connection, the home used to be associated with a sense of insularity. It served as a physical integument between a homeowner and the chaotic forces of the outside world. Therefore, when our lunatic tortures young, vulnerable women through a landline, one man’s violation of a sorority becomes symbolic of an overarching, all-enveloping patriarchy; the outside world does little to help women in need. If a woman’s supposedly inviolable sacred space—the home, or the body—is so easily violated, what does that suggest about the world we live in?

As pensive as Clark’s film was, it was almost immediately overshadowed by The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974). Despite the fact that Tobe Hooper’s film was infinitely more successful than Clark’s (both financially and in terms of garnering iconic pop-culture status), it was Black Christmas that would influence the slasher horror format more. Evidence of this can be seen in the very opening shot: as a Christmas party takes place inside the house, a shaky camera provides the voyeuristic perspective of our primary antagonist.

You’ll probably think that sounds familiar. That’s because, whether as an homage or as a direct rip-off, John Carpenter recreated it for his wildly profitable replica of Black Christmas in the now world-famous Halloween. Perhaps Carpenter’s version is more frequently referenced because the shot itself is more elaborate. However, it soon becomes clear which POV is more frightening; whenever we are shown Billy’s perspective, it feels genuinely disturbing.

While the film could have become rather tedious by devolving into a series of brutal and grisly slayings (an avenue many subsequent slasher directors have taken), Bob Clark keeps things interesting. Principally, he does this by incorporating feminist critique of the rampant misogyny that surrounds our primary characters. This can be seen best in our main protagonist Jess (Olivia Hussey), who has become somewhat of an iconic figure in terms of slasher heroes.

Jess informs her boyfriend Peter (Keir Dullea) that she is pregnant, but that she intends to have an abortion. As Roe vs. Wade had only just been introduced the year prior, this was a rather remarkable plot line for the time. And, unsurprisingly, Peter’s response is plainly sexist: “But you haven’t even asked me.”

That a woman’s body should be controlled by a man’s desires mirrors the central plot of our sexually deranged killer; the emphasis on female physiology is paramount. In addition to this, Jess is no damsel in distress; she demonstrates bravery and agency, attempting to save her college co-eds and ignoring Peter’s demands that she keep the baby. Jess becomes a Final Girl worth championing.

I’m not sure why Christmas and Halloween are so often married together cinematically. Perhaps it’s because they are the two biggest holidays in the latter half of the year, or perhaps it’s the strangely apt juxtaposition of the disturbingly horrifying with the saccharinely sweet. Regardless, they make some great pairings. The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993) and Black Christmas both demonstrate how this electric combination can result in some bizarrely lovable works.

The film is expertly made. The pacing is unusually patient for the genre and does not descend into a fast-paced spiral of tasteless shocks. The cinematography is enthralling, with the POV shots particularly unsettling and hugely influential. Perhaps the best example of this is the final shot of the film: it’s deeply unnerving to be placed in this static shot, as Clark essentially lends us the voyeuristic gaze of a madman.

Performances convince and terrify, with Nick Mancuso’s uncredited work as the voice behind the demonic Billy being disturbing 50 years later. Olivia Hussey’s portrayal of the intelligent and independent young student is refreshingly different from the depictions of college kids as being stupid, sex-crazed, and half-drunk goons.

That being said, Margot Kidder’s rendition of the drunken student did feel a touch too realistic. And John Saxon, who coincidentally starred in The Girl Who Knew Too Much (1963), a movie often considered the first giallo film, turns in another reliable performance as law enforcement, which would eventually lead to him being typecast.

At the end of the film, the phone rings. It is a rather perfect ending to the film. Why? Firstly, it establishes the potential for a franchise in a skilful way (not that it needed one, nor that the sequels were any good). Secondly, and more to the point, it suggests that evil is still lurking behind the corner or, in this case, above your head. So this Halloween, if you’re going to watch a horror movie to celebrate the holiday, give this underseen gem a watch. And remember: if the phone rings—don’t answer.

CANADA | 1974 | 98 MINUTES | 1.85:1 | COLOUR | ENGLISH • LATIN

Cast & Crew

director: Bob Clark.
writer: Roy Moore.
starring: Olivia Hussey, Keir Dullea, Margot Kidder, John Saxon, Marian Waldman, Andrea Martin, James Edmond, Douglas McGrath, Art Hindle, Lynne Griffin, Michael Rapport, Les Carlson & Martha Gibson.