When Sophia Takals Black Christmas remake announced a shift from R to PG-13, the internet as per brand flew into an overreactive tirade equating horror quality to R designations. My response? Ratings do not maketh the movies. Any film, MPAA ruling aside, depends on its cinematic makeup to deliver a worthwhile theatergoing (or home watching) experience. Black Christmas isnt one of the years most disappointing horror films because its PG-13 rated. Its because quickie edits around mature R content are noticeable, or unbalanced ADR doubles decibel levels, or characters are helplessly underwritten and uncharismatically presented.

Horror movies arent bad *because* theyre approved below R. Horror movies, as with Black Christmas, are bad because, well, theyre just poorly constructed and bafflingly ineffective.

In Takals iteration, co-written by April Wolfe, sorority sisters find themselves prey for hooded killers on the eve of winter vacation. Imogen Poots stars as Riley, whos retreated into her personal shell after a fraternal encounter turns into assault. Years later, women are still going unbelieved as Rileys crew starts receiving stalkerish texts from Hawthorne Colleges famed founder Calvin Hawthorne. Riley and others are threats, after all, given how Kris (Aleyse Shannon) petitions loudly to denounce Hawthorne of deceased Calvins bigoted pro-male agenda. Do you need me to confirm Rileys in store for anything but a silent night?

Erase any connections to Bob Clarks Black Christmas, as this is a reinvention between Clarks home invasion masterpiece and 2006s remade slaughter-slasher meatgrinder. Takals vision apes Youre Next on sorority row (for a spell), as masked attackers break into Rileys dormitory (Hawthornes Greek housing is all stone-built mansions). Its never as dreadfully tense as Clarks vulgar phone calls though nor kill-happy ambitious as Glen Morgans jaundiced ho-ho-horror. What exists as an introduction for teenage girls into horror falls victim to careless death sequences only ever ending with a quick cutaway after yet another isolated mark is about to be snatched by Hawthornes hooded assailants. Rinse, repeat, yawn.

Enter the films pro-feminist message, screamed through a neon pink megaphone placed three centimeters from your ear. There is, hear me clearly, *no qualm* with such a fiery focus on females turning the tides against male abusers. Black Christmas has *always* been about womens fears and words being ignored by men (re: 70s abortion talk), and 2019s reboot supports the need for updating with thematically enraged essentialism. At its most basic, in conceptualization, Takal and Wolfe justify their lesser remake with modernized outcries.

Follies all reside in execution, which fumbles tonality and becomes an unfortunate parody of itself by leaning into thematic empowerment like a sledgehammer to the face. Takals problem? Posturing what feels like a gender-bashing exploitation leap-of-faith with the somber cadance of Steven Spielbergs Lincoln. Every scene has a #MeToo or #NotAllMen or Your body, your choice line peppered in, skewering the patriarchy like beating a corpse into a bloody pulp (except no grotesqueries are shown, e.g. PG-13). What should be a searing fraternal takedown loses weight, nor does Rileys emotional burden culminate with deserved catharsis. Black Christmas gets lost in its desires, which is a shame because experience-based horror sticks (keys as defense weapons, walking home alone, etc.).

Infinitely worse, 2019s remake is a mess of continuity (greek letters), cult explanations, and useless character development. Post-production voiceover work stands out like two different co-eds are talking in the same scene despite there only being one student, talking to herself, over a camera angle shift. Theres such little care paid to the technical bits, thinking of how rapid edit techniques are jarring momentum killers just as were about to glimpse something wicked (obvious manipulation of R to PG-13). Production design stages some bright holiday light-work for cinematography to capture, only thats one twinkling ornament on a tree otherwise full of rusted duds.

You hate to see it, but choice sequences suggest all the makings of a studio ordered hack-and-slice recut. Thinking of Jesses (Brittany OGrady) corpse-in-the-attic callback to Clarks original, where cameras flip away from certain doom and upon discovering the body minutes later (again, honoring Clarks iconic scene), viewers only get a blink-quick, back-to-front turn before capturing too much of a sharp object stabbed into her face. Something, assumedly, we would have seen in the R version. The ill-paced, short-duration detracts from the reverence being paid and encapsulates recurring issues throughout the assembly of Black Christmas.

Thus bringing us to the killers themselves, who eh, sorry kids. Lets approach spoiler territory because Ive got some feelings about everything that transpires. Those wanting to go in fresh as St. Nick before a night of delivering presents works up his holly-jolly funk? Skip to after the stars. Whats in between will spill the beans to speak.

*****

Remember how you wondered if the trailers revealed all the secrets of Black Christmas? Nail on the head, but *weirder* somehow. Kris forcing of Calvin Hawthornes bust to be removed from central lobby placement ends up meaning the statue now lives with the schools vilest frat. Were talking prep-boy slicked hair, blatant misogyny as a hobby, women as servents mentalities the perfect targets for Calvins possession takeover.

Yes, the boys of Delta What Evera discover Calvins bust oozes black sludge that injects the headmasters spirit into militant pledges, who are inhabited by his insatiable hatred towards women. Either to be domesticated or murdered for disobedience. Theres no grey area, as even nice guys are tainted by their male affliction when migraines turn out to be their true alpha being coaxed out by Calvins words. Even the nicest guys harbor a darkness hidden deep inside based on chromosomes alone; a subplot thats never explored with even half the needed commentary.

This is where Black Christmas unravels (further) because the cult has no identity beyond capes and engraved paddles (led by creeper-sophisticate Cary Elwes). Its stated that Rileys friends are being hunted because Professor Gelsons (Elwes) minions hold one personal item per victim, but the why escapes us (maybe a commentary on how men are dogs, needing something to sniff before hunting like any trained canine would do). Hawthornes juicy bust is discovered because someone reads incantations on the statue, yet he never once leaked while on public display? Whos signing up for this ritual? Whats with the killing of other men who arent part of the plan? Wheres any ounce of subtle recognition? Toxic masculinity is combated with a united, girl-power front, but in a way that never permits storytelling to provoke the feelings of maniac exploitation required. Cue sorority warriors with crossbows battling supernatural fratbags powered by Hawthornes spirit while flames engulf all around which should be WAY more entertaining than offered.

*****

Getting back to basics, frustrations are hammered over and over throughout the films duration. Theres never a desire to misguide audiences, as evens 2006 debacle hooked more red herrings. Mediocrity on-screen is deemed acceptable due to the importance of addressing mans villainous role in society. It all feels like a heavy-handed PSA that forgets what made Bob Clarks original one of the first slashers a blueprint that couldnt be replicated, so Halloween became the franchise formula to imitate (even here via Frans demise). Takal and Wolfe take a mighty home-run hitters swing at granting new generations, forgotten demographics, their Christmas Horror classic. Although, dare I say even Into The Darks done a better job at that?

Oh, and performances wait, this review is *how* long already? Well, Ill glance by Imogen Poots and her spunky supporting cast being failed by two constant modes: college-chick perkiness or at-odds collegiate drama. Theres no in-between. Its either laughs shared over schmaltzy sisterhood buildup (ants are important, somehow) or screechy fighting that escalates without natural regard (again, clashing tones). Characters who backpedal on what little development exists to basely further plotting. That, and average dudes who are paid even less attention and planted as buffoonish devices (not the frat monsters, mind you).

Black Christmas (2019) will not be remembered as a seasonal gift to genre audiences. Sophia Takals latest Blumhouse collaboration doesnt add to her impressive previous catalog that includes Always Shine and New Year, New You. Takals holiday slasher fails to keep a hot streak from freezing over, and might even feel out of her hands at times, but nevertheless. No matter the reasoning, what results will leave horror fans of all ages, genders, and preferences scratching their heads. A few vocal moments of women CANNOT be broken wrapped-up in the sloppiest, most slapped-together decorative disaster.

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Black Christmas Review - We Got This Covered