Promise me. The moment you’re done reading this, make a
mad dash for the movie theater. Skip the
crowds of hackey sack-playing Darth Vaders and loitering Yodas, avoid the wisps
of Wookie dander in the air, and buy a ticket to Krampus. Spend the next ninety
minutes remembering to be good this Christmas – or Krampus will get you.
Krampus
is that rare treat – a Christmas horror movie –joining other holiday hallmarks like
Christmas Evil, Santa’s Slay, and Silent
Night, Deadly Night One, Two and Four as well as the seminal Santa Claws – the 2000 film about a
psychotic Santa who kills people with his mangled hands. Those with Teutonic tendencies are familiar
with the mythological duality of Krampus and St. Nicolas, how Krampus is the Jing
to St. Nick’s Jang, a goat-like, bell-wearing horned monster with a long
tongue, anger issues and no patience for ingrates. Krampus hunts down children who’ve abandoned
their love of Christmas and its spirit of giving, and he delivers not gifts but
rather a one-way trip to the Underworld where sullen brats contemplate their
misdeeds for eternity while the good kids awake to freshly wrapped presents and
warm breakfast stollen from Krampus’s much more agreeable cousin Nick.
Our main character Max is the cause
for all this ruckus. His belief in Santa
is tested by a creature almost as hideous as Krampus himself – the teenage
sister - as well as by his oafish cousins, their terrible parents and his mom
and dad who’re too busy with the trappings of the holiday to remember the
reason for the season. Max makes a bad
decision that summons Krampus and his kinetic gang of giggling monster elves,
along with angry gingerbread men, flesh-eating teddy bears and a very toothy baby
angel doll. Max’s German grandmother,
Omi, is hip to Krampus’s jive and tries her best to warn the extended family
that the goat hooves on the roof are not friendly goat hooves, but they only
listen after kids go missing and the Christmas tree’s gone up in flames. Sadly, it’s Krampushnacht, and things go from
cynical to violent in minutes. The ensuing
mayhem in the film’s second half is infinitely worse than any eggnog hangover
you’ve suffered through and makes the Christmas you spent with that weird
cousin who smelled like a hamster cage and lectured everyone about how “Jesus
was such a sellout” a veritable paradise compared to what Max and his family
must endure.
This
film is so good I expect the word “Krampus” to take on a cultural meaning far
beyond the film’s title. In twenty
years, the term “Krampus” will be used in many ways. “Remember President Trump’s second term? That gives me Krampus just thinking about it!”
“An hour into Black Friday and my hamstrings seized up due to terrible
Krampus.” Or simply, “This relationship
is over – you gave me Krampus.” On
Christmas, families will serve Krampus ‘n Cheese Yule loaves, partygoers will
yell things like, “Hey bartender! Two
shots of Krampus and a martini for the lady,” and doomed, snow-bound travelers
will whisper final phrases like, “Leave me here – I can’t make it. I’ve got the Krampus. Tell my family I love them.”
