Almost all great stories (Christmas or otherwise) have that one terrible moment when all seems lost, when you’re sure things won’t work out, the bad guys will win, the cavalry won’t arrive in time, and they (and we) won’t be saved. John Ford’s Christmas Western, The Three Godfathers, has a moment like that. So does The Miracle of Morgan’s Creek, and Miracle on 34th Street, which I consider to be The Best Christmas Movie Ever.
I know, I know, It’s a Wonderful Life is supposed to be The Best Christmas Movie Ever, with ten million showings and accompanying merchandising. (I saw an It’s a Wonderful Life mouse pad this last Christmas.) And I’m not denying that there are some great scenes in it (see my story “Miracle” on this subject), but the movie has real problems. For one thing, the villainous Mr. Potter is still loose and unpunished at the end of the movie, something no good fairy tale ever permits. The dreadful little psychologist in Miracle on 34th Street is summarily, and very appropriately, fired, and the DA, who after all was only doing his job, repents.
But in It’s a Wonderful Life, not only is Mr. Potter free, with his villainy undetected, but he has already proved to be a vindictive and malicious villain. Since this didn’t work, he’ll obviously try something else. And poor George is still faced with embezzlement charges, which the last time I looked don’t disappear just because you pay back the money, even if the cop is smiling in the last scene.
But the worst problem seems to me to be that the ending depends on the goodness of the people of Bedford Falls, something that (especially in light of previous events) seems like a dicey proposition.
Miracle on 34th Street, on the other hand, relies on no such thing. The irony of the miracle (and let’s face it, maybe what really galls my soul is that It’s a Wonderful Life is a work completely without irony) is that the miracle happens not because of people’s behavior, but in spite of it.
Christmas is supposed to be based on selflessness and innocence, but until the very end of Miracle on 34th Street, virtually no one except Kris Kringle exhibits these qualities. Quite the opposite. Everyone, even the hero and heroine, acts from a cynical, very modern self-interest. Macy’s Santa goes on a binge right before Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, Doris hires Kris to get herself out of a jam and save her job, John Payne invites the little girl Susan to watch the parade as a way to meet the mother.
And in spite of Kris Kringle’s determined efforts to restore the true spirit of Christmas to the city, it continues. Macy’s and then Gimbel’s go along with the gag of recommending other stores, not because they believe in it, but because it means more money. The judge in Kris’s sanity case makes favorable rulings only because he wants to get re-elected. Even the postal workers who provide the denouement just want to get rid of stuff piling up in the dead-letter office.
But in spite of this (actually, in a delicious irony, because of it) and with only very faint glimmerings of humanity from the principals, and in spite of how hopeless it all seems, the miracle of Christmas occurs, right on schedule. Just as it does every year.
It’s this layer of symbolism that makes Miracle on 34th Street such a satisfying movie. Also its script (by George Seaton) and perfect casting (especially Natalie Wood and Thelma Ritter) and any number of delightful moments (Santa’s singing a Dutch carol to the little Dutch orphan and the disastrous bubble-gum episode and Natalie Wood’s disgusted expression when she’s told she has to have faith even when things don’t work out). Plus, of course, the fact that Edmund Gwenn could make anyone believe in Santa Claus. All combine to make it The Best Christmas Movie Ever Made.
Not, however, the best story. That honor belongs to Dickens and his deathless “A Christmas Carol.” The rumor that Dickens invented Christmas is not true, and neither, probably, is the story that when he died, a poor costermonger’s little girl sobbed, “Dickens dead? Why, then, is Christmas dead, too?” But they should be.
Because Dickens did the impossible—not only did he write a masterpiece that captures the essence of Christmas, but one that was good enough to survive its own fame. There have been a million, mostly awful TV, movie, and musical versions and variations, with Scrooge played by everybody from Basil Rathbone to the Fonz, but even the worst of them haven’t managed to damage the wonderful story of Scrooge and Tiny Tim.
One reason it’s such a great story is that Dickens loved Christmas. (And no wonder. His childhood was Oliver Twist’s and Little Dorrit’s combined, and no kindly grandfather or Arthur Clennam in sight. His whole adult life must have seemed like Christmas.) I think you have to love Christmas to write about it.
For another, he knew a lot about human nature. Remembering the past, truly seeing the present, imagining the consequences of our actions are the ways we actually grow and change. Dickens knew this years before Freud.
He also knew a lot about writing. The plot’s terrific, the dialogue’s great, and the opening line—“Marley was dead: to begin with”—is second only to “Call me Ishmael” as one of the great opening lines of literature. He knew how to end stories, too, and that Christmas stories were supposed to have happy endings.
Finally, the story touches us because we want to believe people can change. They don’t. We’ve all learned from bitter experience (though probably not as bitter as Dickens’s) that the world is full of money-grubbers and curtain-ring stealers, that Scrooge stays Scrooge to the bitter end, and nobody will lift a finger to help Tiny Tim.
But Christmas is about someone who believed, in spite of overwhelming evidence, that humanity is capable of change and worth redeeming. And Dickens’s Christmas story is in fact The Christmas Story. And the hardened heart that cracks open at the end of it is our own.
If I sound passionate (and sometimes curmudgeonly) about Christmas stories, I am. I love Christmas, in all its complexity and irony, and I love Christmas stories.
So much so that I’ve been writing them for years. Here they are—an assortment of stories about church choirs and Christmas presents and pod people from outer space, about wishes that come true in ways you don’t expect and wishes that don’t come true and wishes you didn’t know you had, about stars and shepherds, wise men and Santa Claus, mistletoe and It’s a Wonderful Life and Christmas cards on recycled paper. There’s even a murder. And a story about Christmas Yet to Come.
I hope you like them. And I hope you have a very merry Christmas!
—Connie Willis
MIRACLE
There was a Christmas tree in the lobby when Lauren got to work, and the receptionist was sitting with her chin in her hand, watching the security monitor. Lauren set her shopping bag down and looked curiously at the screen. On it, Jimmy Stewart was dancing the Charleston with Donna Reed.
“The Personnel Morale Special Committee had cable piped in for Christmas,” the receptionist explained, handing Lauren her messages. “I love It’s a Wonderful Life, don’t you?”
Lauren stuck her messages in the top of her shopping bag and went up to her department. Red and green crepe paper hung in streamers from the ceiling, and there was a big red crepe-paper bow tied around Lauren’s desk.
“The Personnel Morale Special Committee did it,” Evie said, coming over with the catalog she’d been reading. “They’re decorating the whole building, and they want us and Document Control to go caroling this afternoon. Don’t you think PMS is getting out of hand with this Christmas spirit thing? I mean, who wants to spend Christmas Eve at an office party?”
“I do,” Lauren said. She set her shopping bag down on the desk, sat down, and began taking off her boots.
“Can I borrow your stapler?” Evie asked. “I’ve lost mine again. I’m ordering my mother the Water of the Month, and I need to staple my check to the order form.”
“The Water of the Month?” Lauren said, opening her desk drawer and taking out her stapler.
“You know, they send you bottles of a different one every month. Perrier, Evian, Calistoga.” She peered into Lauren’s shopping bag. “Do you have Christmas presents in ther
e? I hate people who have their shopping done four weeks before Christmas.”
“It’s four days till Christmas,” Lauren said, “and I don’t have it all done. I still don’t have anything for my sister. But I’ve got all my friends, including you, done.” She reached into the shopping bag and pulled out her pumps. “And I found a dress for the office party.”
“Did you buy it?”
“No.” She put on one of her shoes. “I’m going to try it on during my lunch hour.”
“If it’s still there,” Evie said gloomily. “I had this echidna toothpick holder all picked out for my brother, and when I went back to buy it, they were all gone.”
“I asked them to hold the dress for me,” Lauren said. She put on her other shoe. “It’s gorgeous. Black, off-the-shoulder. Sequined.”
“Still trying to get Scott Buckley to notice you, huh? I don’t do things like that anymore. Nineties women don’t use sexist tricks to attract men. Besides, I decided he was too cute to ever notice somebody like me.” She sat down on the edge of Lauren’s desk and started leafing through the catalog. “Here’s something your sister might like. The Vegetable of the Month. February’s okra.”
“She lives in southern California,” Lauren said, shoving her boots under the desk.
“Oh. How about the Sunscreen of the Month?”
“No,” Lauren said. “She’s into New Age stuff. Channeling. Aromatherapy. Last year she sent me a crystal pyramid mate selector for Christmas.”
“The Eastern Philosophy of the month,” Evie said. “Zen, Sufism, tai chi—”
“I’d like to get her something she’d really like,” Lauren mused. “I always have a terrible time figuring out what to get people for Christmas. So this year, I decided things were going to be different. I wasn’t going to be tearing around the mall the day before Christmas, buying things no one would want and wondering what on earth I was going to wear to the office party. I started doing my shopping in September, I wrapped my presents as soon as I bought them, I have all my Christmas cards done and ready to mail—”
“You’re disgusting,” Evie said. “Oh, here, I almost forgot.” She pulled a folded slip of paper out of her catalog and handed it to Lauren. “It’s your name for the Secret Santa gift exchange. PMS says you’re supposed to bring your present for it by Friday so it won’t interfere with the presents Santa Claus hands out at the office party.”
Lauren unfolded the paper, and Evie leaned over to read it. “Who’d you get? Wait, don’t tell me. Scott Buckley.”
“No. Fred Hatch. And I know just what to get him.”
“Fred? The fat guy in Documentation? What is it, the Diet of the Month?”
“This is supposed to be the season of love and charity, not the season when you make mean remarks about someone just because he’s overweight,” Lauren said sternly. “I’m going to get him a videotape of Miracle on 34th Street.”
Evie looked uncomprehending.
“It’s Fred’s favorite movie. We had a wonderful talk about it at the office party last year.” “I never heard of it.”
“It’s about Macy’s Santa Claus. He starts telling people they can get their kids’ toys cheaper at Gimbel’s, and then the store psychiatrist decides he’s crazy—”
“Why don’t you get him It’s a Wonderful Life? That’s my favorite Christmas movie.”
“Yours and everybody else’s. I think Fred and I are the only two people in the world who like Miracle on 34th Street better. See, Edmund Gwenn, he’s Santa Claus, gets committed to Bellevue because he thinks he’s Santa Claus, and since there isn’t any Santa Claus, he has to be crazy, but he is Santa Claus, and Fred Gailey, that’s John Payne, he’s a lawyer in the movie, he decides to have a court hearing to prove it, and—”
“I watch It’s a Wonderful Life every Christmas. I love the part where Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed fall into the swimming pool,” Evie said. “What happened to the stapler?”
They had the dress and it fit, but there was an enormous jam-up at the cash register, and then they couldn’t find a hanging bag for it.
“Just put it in a shopping bag,” Lauren said, looking anxiously at her watch.
“It’ll wrinkle,” the clerk said ominously and continued to search for a hanging bag. By the time Lauren convinced her a shopping bag would work, it was already 12:15. She had hoped she’d have a chance to look for a present for her sister, but there wasn’t going to be time. She still had to run the dress home and mail the Christmas cards.
I can pick up Fred’s video, she thought, fighting her way onto the escalator. That wouldn’t take much time, since she knew what she wanted, and maybe they’d have something with Shirley MacLaine in it she could get her sister. Ten minutes to buy the video, she thought, tops.
It took her nearly half an hour. There was only one copy, which the clerk couldn’t find.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have It’s a Wonderful Life?” she asked Lauren. “It’s my favorite movie.”
“I want Miracle on 34th Street,” Lauren said patiently. “With Edmund Gwenn and Natalie Wood.”
The clerk picked up a copy of It’s a Wonderful Life from a huge display. “See, Jimmy Stewart’s in trouble and he wishes he’d never been born, and this angel grants him his wish—”
“I know,” Lauren said. “I don’t care. I want Miracle on 34th Street.”
“Okay!” the clerk said, and wandered off to look for it, muttering, “Some people don’t have any Christmas spirit.”
She finally found it, in the M’s, of all places, and then insisted on giftwrapping it.
By the time Lauren made it back to her apartment, it was a quarter to one. She would have to forget lunch and mailing the Christmas cards, but she could at least take them with her, buy the stamps, and put the stamps on at work.
She took the video out of the shopping bag and set it on the coffee table next to her purse, picked up the bag, and started for the bedroom.
Someone knocked on the door.
“I don’t have time for this,” she muttered, and opened the door, still holding the shopping bag.
It was a young man wearing a “Save the Whales” T-shirt and khaki pants. He had shoulder-length blond hair and a vague expression that made her think of southern California.
“Yes? What is it?” she asked.
“I’m here to give you a Christmas present,” he said.
“Thank you, I’m not interested in whatever you’re selling,” she said, and shut the door.
He knocked again immediately. “I’m not selling anything,” he said through the door. “Really.”
I don’t have time for this, she thought, but she opened the door again.
“I’m not a salesguy,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the Maharishi Ram Das?” A religious nut.
“I don’t have time to talk to you.” She started to say, “I’m late for work,” and then remembered you weren’t supposed to tell strangers your apartment was going to be empty. “I’m very busy,” she said and shut the door, more firmly this time.
The knocking commenced again, but she ignored it. She started into the bedroom with the shopping bag, came back and pushed the deadbolt across and put the chain on, and then went in to hang up her dress. By the time she’d extricated it from the tissue paper and found a hanger, the knocking had stopped. She hung up the dress, which looked just as deadly now that she had it home, and went back into the living room.
The young man was sitting on the couch, messing with her TV remote. “So, what do you want for Christmas? A yacht? A pony?” He punched buttons on the remote, frowning. “A new TV?”
“How did you get in here?” Lauren said squeakily. She looked at the door. The deadbolt and chain were both still on.
“I’m a spirit,” he said, putting the remote down. The TV suddenly blared on. “The Spirit of Christmas Present.”
“Oh,” Lauren said, edging toward the phone. “Like in A Christmas Carol.”
“No,” he said,
flipping through the channels. She looked at the remote. It was still on the coffee table. “Not Christmas Present. Christmas Present. You know, Barbie dolls, ugly ties, cheese logs, the stuff people give you for Christmas.”
“Oh, Christmas Present. I see,” Lauren said, carefully picking up the phone.
“People always get me confused with him, which is really insulting. I mean, the guy obviously has a really high cholesterol level. Anyway, I’m the Spirit of Christmas Present, and your sister sent me to—”
Lauren had dialed nine one. She stopped, her finger poised over the second one. “My sister?”
“Yeah,” he said, staring at the TV. Jimmy Stewart was sitting in the guard’s room, wrapped in a blanket. “Oh, wow! It’s a Wonderful Life.”
My sister sent you, Lauren thought. It explained everything. He was not a Moonie or a serial killer. He was this year’s version of the crystal pyramid mate selector. “How do you know my sister?”
“She channeled me,” he said, leaning back against the sofa. “The Maharishi Ram Das was instructing her in trance-meditation, and she accidentally channeled my spirit out of the astral plane.” He pointed at the screen. “I love this part where the angel is trying to convince Jimmy Stewart he’s dead.”
“I’m not dead, am I?”
“No. I’m not an angel. I’m a spirit. The Spirit of Christmas Present. You can call me Chris for short. Your sister sent me to give you what you really want for Christmas. You know, your heart’s desire. So what is it?”
For my sister not to send me any more presents, she thought. “Look, I’m really in a hurry right now. Why don’t you come back tomorrow and we can talk about it then?”
“I hope it’s not a fur coat,” he said as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’m opposed to the killing of endangered species.” He picked up Fred’s present. “What’s this?”
Miracle and Other Christmas Stories Page 2
