I was recently informed that, for the first time in 6 years, I would not be videotaping the family Christmas party. I see my family two or three times a year and I always look forward to Christmas. And it's not just because I get to enjoy my family (on a refreshingly limited basis) and load up on free loot. I thoroughly enjoy exercising my eye behind the camera as the chronicler of the family gathering. I map these videos out to the second with story boards and, when I have the spare time, compose soundtracks. I consider them labors of love and works of art. Homages to the filmmakers who have influenced me most.

But there was some dissent among the relatives about the "bizarre" style of the last few Christmas videos. My Aunt Katie didn't quite understand what I was going for, I guess, and called a secret meeting of the Kotex Mafia (grandma, mom, and Katie), my families equivalent to the Illuminati.

I imagine there wasn't much debate as to what was going to happen. The lines were quickly drawn and Grandma was on my side. (This is the woman who still dresses like it's 1958 but, bless her heart, loves me unconditionally.) Unfortunately, I was ousted by a 2 to 1 vote after Aunt Katie said that she wanted to see more of the nieces and nephews opening presents and less Peckinpah. While my so-called "mom" was inside conspiring against me, my dad was left outside to watch the chimney. When the smoke changed color, he phoned me with the bad news.

After a cursory review of the last 5 years of videos, I must say that I don't see what the big deal is about. These videos are quite possibly the greatest recordings of family events ever. My favorite among these being 1995's Herzog-themed spectacular, Every Man for Himself and Santa Against All (Jeder Fòr Sich Und Kris Kringle Gegen Alle). The video climaxes with my grandfather opening his yearly bottle of Canoe, shot as the final scene in Aguirre: Wrath of God. I had to give my nieces and nephews 5 bucks each to dance like monkeys around my grandpa in his La-Z-Boy while I circled his chair, camcorder rolling. It worked flawlessly and it only took 5 takes.

The one disturbing part of these family portraits is that I don't actually appear in any of them. I guess you could consider me the ghost of Christmas Never. I only appear as the narrator occasionally barking orders or cursing as my meticulously planned tracking shot is ruined when I step on an errant Weeble. The disembodied voice throughout does kind of lend an eerie Rankin/Bass meets Pasolini air to the whole yuletide experience. Highly disturbing and highly effective. It's as if my voice came home for the holidays, but my body was elsewhere - soaking up the sun in St. John or taking a welding class at a local community college, perhaps.

I always thought that my Christmas family snapshots helped erase the gap between art and life and I'm not about to think differently. I could be wrong but I doubt it. It's more likely that Katie is just pissed off that she was portrayed as an aging, self-absorbed, man collector in 1996's "Christmas Boulevard" and is out to get even. "Tough." I say. I don't make the art. I'm just there to get it down on tape. And if I can't use the Panasonic VHS, I'll use my Canon 35mm. No matter the medium it's art just the same. And Katie had better watch herself this Christmas because it may not be eggnog she's drinking. It could just be my tip of the hat to Serrano.

jack@smug.com

in the junk drawer:

September 1997
August 1997
July 1997
June 1997
May 1997
April 1997
March 1997
February 1997
January 1997