Beware The Hallmark Christmas Movie

Director Plans Anti-Hallmark Christmas Movie Send-Up; Hallmark Plans 53 More Christmas Movies

Los Angeles (AP). It's that time of year again. Christmas. Which means the Hallmark Channel is broadcasting endless movies with the same cheesy formula: big city executive girl returns home to hometown for Christmas to meet family, meets handsome but bland working guy who wears flannel shirts, falls in love over mistletoe and hot chocolate. With pretty much the same rotating cast members. 

Which begs the question: why does a greeting card company have a channel? And why do they curse the world with more of these damnably cheesy movies?

But this reporter digresses. For those who utterly despise the cookie cutter paint by numbers sort of formula Hallmark employs for their 'movies', there is a bit of respite coming. David Zucker, the American director and writer with a history of parodying various genres in films such as The Naked Gun, has the cure for what ails you.

Reporters gathered at Paramount Studios this week for an announcement, and Zucker was brought on stage, greeting the crowd, ignoring the entertainment reporters, and generally treating real reporters with consideration. "Thanks for coming out, folks. I know it's a busy time of year for many of you, and it's a busy time of year for me too."

He carried on. "You know, something that's been showing up more and more on the television these days, aside from entire seasons of a series dropped all at once for streaming, is these annoying Hallmark movies. Especially Christmas movies, especially now. I mean, what on earth are they thinking? Why's a card company involved in movie making? And really, do you want to call the dreck they make a movie? Because it's not."

This reporter was pleased that Zucker appeared to have a common opinion with him in regards to Hallmark. "It's sentimental nonsense, cheese in the lowest form of cheesy. It's the same formula film over and over and over again with the same actors playing pretty much the same character type over again. Good looking but totally bland. The sort of people who you'd forget five minutes after meeting them. That's how much personalities these people project on the screen."

Zucker carried on. "I hate those films. Hate, hate, hate, hate 'em. Can't overemphasize how much I hate 'em. And it seems like they're everywhere, and not just on the Hallmark Channel. I've got family, friends, who watch this crap and dissolve into tears on command by the end of it. And I'm there looking at them like, 'what? Are you serious?' So I was thinking about it, and you know, I've had enough. But out of that came inspiration."

He paused a moment before continuing on. "My brother Jerry and our good friend Jim Abrahams have been known for parodying films. Usually films in good genres, but that's beside the point. I thought about it. And thought some more. And I decided I could make a film that skewers and parodies and ridicules the entire Hallmark Christmas movie genre. Zucker style."

The room broke out into sustained applause and a standing ovation that lasted ten minutes.

Zucker spoke up when the applause died down. "We all know what it's about. Hallmark brings in the same few former soap actors and washed up prime time actors and let's face it, they're soap actors and washed up for a reason. Because they're not good actors. And they're desperate. And they do this paint by numbers script that is endless variations on the same thing. And some people just can't get enough of that crap. But what I want is something that messes around with that formula."

Pausing, he continued. "First things first. I start with actors who can play bland but are actually gifted comedians. I've worked with a lot of actors down through the years who really know their stuff with this, and I've already got some ideas on who to cast for various parts. It's just a shame that Leslie Nielsen's dead. He'd have been perfect for the town drunk Santa."

Zucker carried on. "So what do we tend to see in the actual Hallmark films? The big city executive woman who's going home to her small town for Christmas. She's tired, cynical, jaded, all that. Her family's endearing but nosy about her love life. There's a six year old kid who sounds like a fifteen year old kid. Usually a girl. Or there's a dog. And there's inevitably the guy. He might be a carpenter, a police officer, the town Santa, or a hockey player. He wears flannel shirts. They have a meet-cute moment where there's some friction. Incidentally, the term meet-cute is kind of obnoxious." This reporter had to agree. 

"But here's where our paths part," Zucker promised. "Because first of all, this is going to be a parody, and I'm going to be skewering the genre from the get-go. First off, I can tell you that the term Hallmark won't be uttered one time during the film. After all, they have lawyers, or they might send assassins after me. But that doesn't mean I can't have fun. So my main characters are going to be Holly Marcus and Mark Hall."

This reporter had to admit: that's a nice way of getting around lawsuits.

Zucker continued. "And from there we'll keep messing around with things. Instead of being adorable and cute and helping the couple get together, the dog's misbehaving. Humping legs, biting Santa, chewing Holly's luggage. That sort of thing. The little girl who talks like a fifteen year old? She's talking like she needs an exorcist. The family Holly came back to see? They're not so endearing but more overbearing. The sort of people you move thousands of miles away to avoid. With all sorts of bad habits."

He paused, and carried on. "And the small town she came from? In the actual Hallmark films they're always this sort of It's A Wonderful Life sort of small town where everyone knows each other and there's fresh baking and Mom's apple pie and decorations everywhere. Well, let's just say we can turn that whole convention on its ear with people who bicker constantly and are always in each other's business and, well, the sort of place you'd avoid going back to for your high school reunion. Because honestly... who goes back for a high school reunion even if they liked their home town?"

Zucker took a moment and carried on. "But of course the heart of all those Hallmark films is the couple, the idea of getting past whatever differences they have and getting together with a happy ending, with two totally bland people who look pretty much the same like every other bland couple in the genre." 

He smirked. "Happy endings? No, not in the sort of film I envision."

Zucker explained, "No, what I envision is two people who appear to fit the part, have that meet-cute moment, but then spend the rest of the film getting to hate each other as they get to know each other. Sure, there'll be a sex scene- something you don't get in a Hallmark film- but it'll be with my own warped sense of humour intact. And there'll be the inevitable morning after 'what have I done' sort of moment. Because my aim is to have these two characters totally hate each other before it's all said and done."

This reporter had the impression that this is a film he can get behind.

"Now some will say that's cynical," Zucker noted.  "Taking a genre that some people love and giving it the middle finger. To which I say two things: good, and why do people love this genre? Don't they see how dumb and cheesy and tedious it is? Most people with a grasp of reality can see that. Apparently they can't. But here's the point. I've spent a good part of my career skewering genres in film. It's my sense of humour. It's what I know. It's what I do. And I'm not doing this just for me. I'm doing it for all those people out there who hate Hallmark Christmas movies as much as I do."

Another round of applause broke out. "Thank you," Zucker said. "It's a pleasure to know that so many people out there feel the same way as I do. I can only hope that I'm up to the task in making your days a little brighter. In giving some hope of salvation from cheesy awful movies by messing around with the formula. And if some Hallmark Christmas fans get offended by what I do... well, good. It's about time you people wake up and smell the coffee."

With that, Zucker brought the press conference to an end, taking his leave of the crowd, leaving a group of reporters who felt, well, pretty good. Someone in the world of Hollywood has some sense about things. This reporter was looking forward to the prospect of seeing this film and wondering if he should speak with the newspaper's film reviewers about sitting in on their screening. 

As for Hallmark? Aubrey Meriwether, the Vice President of Programming Development for the company, was irate, after saying the company was already in pre-production for 53 new Christmas movies for 2022. "This is not funny!" she told this reporter in a call. "Hallmark Christmas films are a beloved Christmas tradition, cherished by billions of people! They are not something to be ridiculed or made fun of! Oh, they'll pay. They will pay for this outrage. We'll be sending an army of Karens to protest every single day of shooting!"

A Day In The Life Of A Mountie

It is time for the point of view of a certain legendary Mountie, the fiercely cranky Inspector Lars Ulrich, who should never be mistaken for the drummer from Metallica.

7:32 AM. Walking into my detachment. Didn’t sleep well last night. Dreamed of being surrounded by entertainment journalists demanding to know why I wasn’t on tour with Metallica. And for some odd reason, I couldn’t hit any of them. Needless to say, this leaves me feeling cranky.

7:46 AM. Morning briefing with the constables and sergeants about our duties. I’m due in court today in Calgary. Another one of those pre-trial hearings involving that deranged serial killer I arrested. For some reason she doesn’t like me. Well, that’s fine. I’m not that fond of psychotic grandmas who serve tea to their next victim.

8:03 AM. On the phone with the lawyer of that bank robber we arrested yesterday. He’s complaining about his client being kept in solitary pending a bail hearing. Oh, come on. Your client asked for solitary. Can’t say I blame him. Other detainees finding out what the guy’s name is? They’d want to throttle a guy who actually goes through life with the name Justin Bieber.

8:10 AM. Out the door and on my way. I instruct Constable Mackenzie to keep an eye out for lingering entertainment journalists. For whatever reason, they seem to be drawn to me and this place like moths to a flame.

9:21 AM. Have arrived in Calgary and the provincial courthouse. Routine hearing today, even if the accused is anything but routine. Imagine spending decades of your life writing murder mysteries and interfering in police investigations, all the while acting out on your darkest impulses and murdering left and right. Such is the life of Jessica Fletcher. Or was, until I arrested her.

9:27 AM. Conferring with the Crown Attorney on today’s proceedings. Fletcher is en route from the detainment facility where she’s been held without bail. The usual security measures are in place. Which means she’s in tight restraints with a mouth guard to prevent her from biting. Kind of like Hannibal Lecter. Only she’s more dangerous.

9:51 AM. Heading into court. Passing by a group of reporters. One of them blurts out that he’s with Entertainment Tonight, asking why I’m not on tour with the band. I snarl at him, tell him I’m not that Lars Ulrich, and deck him.

10:04 AM. Waiting in court. Fletcher’s attorney is objecting to the fact that her client is so tightly restrained. Fletcher’s muttering something or another, no doubt wishing she could turn around and yell at me face to face.

10:05 AM. The judge orders Fletcher’s restraints removed, despite the objections of the Crown Attorney. I’m on my guard. She seems fixated on me. Not that I’m worried about myself, I mean, she’s past ninety, and I’m in the prime of my life. Even so, she could take a hostage, and we cannot allow ourselves to underestimate her rage.

10:49 AM. Watching the hearing. Mostly routine legal matters. The defense demands that all charges be dropped against her client. The Crown strenuously objects and points out the severity of the charges and suspicions about thousands of murders being committed by her client. The defense rolls her eyes and asks why the Crown likes to exaggerate. It’s not exaggeration when you’ve read the diaries of the suspect, Miss Mitchell. I should ask the defense sometimes if people ask her what it’s like going through life with the name Joni Mitchell.

11:36 AM. Arguments complete. Judge denying the demands of the defense, as expected. Fletcher continues to be remanded to custody. The judge ends the hearing, and as if on cue, Fletcher lunges out of her chair and charges at me. “Your head on a pike, Ulrich!” she screams as three court officers restrain her. “Your head on a pike!” the old woman hollers, glaring at me. I smirk, wave, and watch her being dragged out of the room.

11:37 AM. I ask the defense attorney when she’s going to give up on her deranged serial killer client. Joni Mitchell just glares at me with that dagger eye expression. Oh, please. I patented that look when dealing with dimwitted reporters, you know…

12:20 PM. Lunch at a restaurant with a couple of my RCMP colleagues working here in the city. Steak with maple syrup for me. All washed down with a proper cup of Canadian coffee. None of that Yankee swill they serve at a Starbucks.

12:43 PM. Lunch just wrapping up when one of my colleagues gets a call. Distant screams and a roar that sounds like a primate. Turns out that King Kong just turned up in Calgary and is rampaging his way through the Stampede grounds.

1:01 PM. Along with my colleagues, I have arrived at the Stampede grounds. Fortunately, the Stampede isn’t running this time of year. Instead we’ve got a human stampede of people running away from a really oversized ape. And there’s Kong himself, throwing cars around and yelling. Let’s see… me versus a giant cranky monster. This isn’t even fair. For the monster.

1:02 PM. Yelling to get Kong’s attention. The beast looks my way… and recognizes me.

1:06 PM. Have single-handedly prevented Kong from fleeing- it seems he remembers the last time I kicked his ass- and have knocked him into a state of unconsciousness. My colleagues come up to where I’m standing beside the fallen monster. Okay, first things first. Who keeps letting him off Skull Island? And second, who’s going to bring him back there?

1:43 PM. Watching a courier company at work trying to figure out how to move an unconscious giant ape halfway around the world. Hey, don’t look at me. You guys said you could move anything, any place.

2:11 PM. On my way out of the scene. The press approach. I sigh in dismay. They start asking questions. One of them is louder than the other. “Lars! Lars! Skip Riley, Access Hollywood! I just have two questions! First, why aren’t you on tour with the rest of Metallica? And second, will fighting giant monsters be a drawback for your career as a heavy metal drummer?”

The rest of the reporters back up, knowing what’s coming. I inform Skip Riley that I am not that Lars Ulrich. All the while clenching my fists.

He looks at me in the usual confused way of those of his profession, and asks, “are you sure?”

2:12 PM. Have broken Skip Riley’s nose and sent him falling into a nearby chuck wagon. He struggles up to his feet just in time to see me coming, and, despite being a dimwitted entertainment reporter, decides to be smart enough to run for his life. Not that it’ll help.

7:48 PM. Back home. Skip Riley is presently residing in a hospital in a body cast, whimpering. King Kong is en route somewhere over the mountains, on the first leg of a journey back to his South Pacific home, heavily sedated. Jessica Fletcher is grinding her teeth in maximum security custody, still apparently vowing revenge, my brutally drawn out death by drawing and quartering and flaying alive, and the shedding of every bit of blood my body contains. Is there some reason that should frighten me?

Tedious Drivel Masquerading As A Game

It's the Super Bowl weekend. I would much rather crawl naked through a mile of broken glass chased by hyenas and flying monkeys than watch this nonsense (I mean honestly, what is it about football that seems to entrance Americans? It's mind-numbingly boring!), but it's fun to make fun of it.

Super Bowl Returns; Fans Salivating At Chance For Team Glory; Everyone Else Bored

Houston (AP) Super Bowl fever has hit this Texas city as the game lands here for the third time. NRG Stadium, named after an energy company as part of that ongoing wave of tackiness called naming rights, hosts the game, which promises to have hours and hours and hours of pointless and boring play passing itself off as a sport, interrupted by an over the top halftime show, pricy commercials, endless spectacle and hype, and hopefully something that spoils the entire night and ends up with egg on the face of the NFL (editor: stop turning this into an excuse to vent about football!)

This reporter, doomed and damned to cover nonsense he dislikes simply because his cranky editor despises him (editor: hey! Shut up!) is on the ground in Houston, having had spent the days leading up to the Super Bowl in a tedious daze of listening to and watching fans of the New England Patriots and Atlanta Falcons spew support for their teams and get into drinking contests. And this reporter, who finds the sport a boring waste of time, also spent last year condemned by the aforementioned irritable editor (editor: you bloody well know why I hate you! Oh, do I hate you!) to cover the annual endless yawnfest that is the championship of American professional football.

While we’re at it, why is it even called football? The ball only touches the foot of a couple of guys on the field- the rest of the time it’s thrown or carried around. I mean, honestly, the rest of the world at least gets it right- what’s called soccer here is properly football, even if it’s more boring than American style football (editor: hey! Stop knocking soccer! I love soccer!).

Regardless, this reporter, doomed by a cranky editor who hates him for some reason (editor: you are dead to me! You hear me? Dead! Dead dead dead!), has been in Houston in recent days covering the lead up to the game and wishing he was anywhere else. Like a beach in the Caribbean, sipping a margarita brought by a lovely waitress named Margarita... (editor: keep it up and your next assignment is going to be in the Sahara)

The game is the conclusion of a season of NFL games, which tend to be under twenty games total for a team and take place once, maybe twice in a week. I mean, come on! At least baseball and hockey players are out there most days and nights playing the game. These lazy asses can’t bring themselves to keep up that kind of schedule. The Patriots are favoured by most to win, led by Tom “Deflategate” Brady, the scandal ridden quarterback (editor: hey! Don’t insult Tom Brady! It was a frame up, I tell you! He’s a great guy! Total integrity all the way!). The Falcons are trying to win their first Super Bowl.

The game, billed as Super Bowl LI, once again returning to the Roman numerals for whatever reason, will no doubt draw many viewers. Some will come for the game, which will go on and on seemingly forever. Others will come for high priced commercials, most of which will have been leaked online early anyway, leaving a rational mind to wonder what the point is to paying steep prices for commercials (editor: hey! Shut up! They’re very entertaining!). And others will come for the entertainment, resenting the whole notion of having to put up with a game in between the national anthem, the half time show, and some post game fireworks. This reporter will resent having to be here altogether, and wonder if he can manage to get his rotten editor to retire early (editor: shut up! I said shut up! Stop insulting me!)

Brady himself has been the center of much attention from the press in recent days while he and his team were out on the field practicing. “Stop bringing up Deflategate!” he snapped at one point, clearly annoyed. “I’m innocent! Innocent, I tell you! Nothing happened, and if you keep asking about it, I’m gonna have my daddy beat the crap out of you. Oh, yeah, and Roger Goodell can go **** himself.”

Goodell, the NFL’s cranky commissioner, who spends his time trying to avoid any retired player with a concussion or brain damage problem, not to mention persistent allegations of rampant spousal abuse among NFL players, was relieved to hear the quote when reporters spoke with him. “Just between you and me, I hope Brady gets his ass kicked this time.  I despise that lying sack of ****. Hey, wait, did I say that out loud? Don’t quote me on that. You hear me? Don’t quote me on that.”

Die-hard fans at the game will attend pre-game tailgate parties in the hours leading up to the game. At home, fanatics will spend hours and hours on end in pre-game coverage and endless analysis from commentators and sports reporters. The game, scheduled to get underway at 6:30 PM, will start much later, no doubt. Country singer Luke Bryan, who this reporter has never heard of (editor: that’s because you have horrible taste in music!) will sing the national anthem. Hopefully not with a banjo. The game will go on, and on, and on some more. And that doesn’t even take in the half time show, which is scheduled to feature the return of Lady Gaga in yet another over the top spectacle.

As is the tradition in all halftime shows, this one will try to outdo the last one, which also featured the decidedly eccentric singer whose fandom will be off doing other things. Honestly, who picks these acts? One hardly thinks that the ideal Lady Gaga audience will be a bunch of drunken football loving hooligans screaming for the Patriots and Falcons to tear each other to shreds. Though this reporter might enjoy watching those fans tear each other to shreds.

The singer herself, who in person doesn’t dress in the outlandish way she does on stage, and comes across as unexpectedly articulate, shrugged when asked why she returned for the game. “Well, they wouldn’t let me do the show I wanted to do. I mean, what’s wrong with a giant extravaganza of penguins chasing Frosty the Snowman through the desert while ribbons float about in a Zen-like state, giant dragonflies chase the spectators, and interpretive dancers in nude body stockings do an interpretation of the nightmare I had last week? Doesn’t that fit the occasion?” This reporter shrugged in reply, wondering why he’d noted that Lady Gaga was articulate.

Regardless, the game will go on. The last ten minutes will be delayed time and time again to stretch out for an hour. It might be morning before it’s all said and done- at least that’s how it’ll feel to this reporter, being stuck covering this waste of time (editor: I’m feeding you to a boa constrictor).

The last word belongs to a former legend of the game and convict, serving the last of his sentence at a prison in Nevada for numerous felonies, including armed robbery and kidnapping. O.J. Simpson, the fallen from grace ex-player and two bit actor, threatened this reporter last year during a visit to his jail. The Juice, as his fans would describe him, dodged a conviction for the murders of his ex-wife Nicole and her friend Ronald Goldman, but bungled his way into conviction years later on the Las Vegas robbery debacle in 2007, and has been in jail since being found guilty. Simpson contacted this reporter by phone, still awaiting his release, scheduled for sometime this year.

“First off, they should be fielding the Juice to go out there and play. I mean, I’ve still got what it takes,” Simpson claimed. This reporter rolled his eyes, doubting that an over the hill, overweight, nearly seventy year old convict had anything near to what it would take. “Second, don’t you think for one second that I haven’t forgot you quotin’ me threatenin’ to kill you last year, you hear me, mother****er? I never said that! I wouldn’t say that, and if you go around sayin’ I was threatenin’ to kill you, I’ll kill you! You hear me???? I’ll kill you! You’re dead! I’m gonna kill you, mother****er!”

This reporter heard what sounded like guards pulling the notorious Simpson away from the phone. Fortunately this reporter made a point of recording every single conversation he ever has, but just in case, if anything bad should happen to him this year, the authorities should be looking at one of two suspects: a sixty nine year old out of shape ex-football player with a temper or a cranky editor who can’t take a (editor: I’m going to carve your heart out with a rusty knife and feed it to my dog)

Well then. Probably the cranky editor is the more likely suspect.

He Is The Very Model Of Mental Stability

Some links before I get started today. Have a peek at Maria's post on stage names. Parsnip writes about life in a border state. The Whisk is up to baking cake. And Hilary writes about a James Taylor concert.

Today I have one of those mixed bag of images blogs. Enjoy!