Skip to main content

My Gay Christmas II

 Another staple of my Christmas is a re-re-re-viewing of one of the worst films ever made, "The Family Stone." I can't get enough of this one.


In "The Family Stone," everyone is upset because film icon Sara Jessica Parker clears her throat too much. She is about to marry into a particular family, but the throat-clearing is just a bridge too far. Also, she doesn't want to share a premarital bed with her fiance, and her bohemian in-laws-to-be respond by making fun of her. Finally, she doesn't know--or doesn't recall--that her "guy" has an allergy to mushrooms.

Because of her various missteps, SJP finds herself relentlessly bullied. Oscar winner Diane Keaton actually rolls her eyes at SJP--several times--although Diane Keaton is, by various indicators, an adult. Oscar nominee Rachel McAdams speaks to SJP in grunts. McAdams also has a tantrum when SJP seems to point toward a Black man--unconsciously--while trying to play charades (her little prompt card says, "The Bride Wore Black").

Instead of fleeing from these lunatics, SJP makes the odd choice of inviting her own sister to join the party. But her sister has one short conversation with a married man--I think they talk about totem poles--and then they instantly fall in love, and this causes a new problem for everyone. Also, SJP says something innocuous about gay people, and Diane Keaton becomes enraged and asks if SJP is morphing into Pat Buchanan.

All of this happens at Christmas.

I think this film is amazingly bad, and in recent years, I've looked forward to repeat viewings. I know I've seen it at least three times. I think the worst feature is a deaf-gay-angel-baby--Diane Keaton's youngest son--because I believe the writers meant this character to be a bold, progressive, literary flourish....and, instead, he is just a deaf-gay-angel-baby.

In terms of holiday films, I'm pretty sure this one is truly worse than "Love Actually"--and I invite you to agree or disagree.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...