Just in time for Christmas, a caution

“isn’t it sweet? the children still believe in santa claus.”

Thanksgiving Day, while stuffing crumbs still littered the table, and turkey bones were cooling on their serving platter, a family member declared that “it’s time to watch Miracle on 34th Street”. He quickly rethought that idea — aided, no doubt, by the bullet through the record player that abruptly ended a performance of The King’s College’s Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols — but some of you may be similarly tempted. If so, here’s some advice from Tom Jackson:

Why the original is the only 'Miracle on 34th Street' worth your time

With Thanksgiving in the rearview mirror and Black Friday in full jingle-bell mode, the time has arrived to decide what sort of Christmas streaming will decorate our big screens.

Regarding one selection, there can be no debate, no matter what the interwebs might lead you to believe: Between the two Miracle on 34th Street movies, only the original deserves your precious yuletide time.

There is much to dissect about John Hughes’ 1994 remake, from its overarching heaviness and drear to its melodramatic take on retailer rivalries, to its depiction of spurious Santa Clauses as drunken reprobates, and the generally leaden performances by an otherwise superb cast.

The upsides are few. It looks great. And Bruce Broughton’s score enhances the viewer’s experience without intruding. Otherwise, Hughes should have embraced the hint provided by Macy’s, which enthusiastically declined to participate; he could have avoided subjecting audiences to two hours of discovering why masterpieces should be left well enough alone.

But this site focuses on politics, and that purpose must be served.

The central reason to avoid the 1994 version is — spoiler alert — Hughes’ reliance on judicial activism to release Kris Kringle from his legal snare.

You know the story: Kris Kringle, a nice old man with whiskers hired by a department store to play Santa Claus, claims to be the real deal.

In the original, seemingly betrayed by those in whom he’d placed his trust, Kringle tanks his psychological exam at Bellevue. Commitment papers are drawn up, and John Payne’s Fred Gailey, a lawyer who befriended Kringle and took him in as a roommate, vows to beat the wrap.

Wonderfully, in the original, Kringle’s counsel must earn every point that produces the desired verdict. Critical to the success of the final third of the film: The entire hearing unfolds against the political backdrop of a district attorney and judge wishing the cup had never been passed their way, all the while committing to do right by their oaths.

Maybe audiences in 1947 were smarter, or, at least, better informed about the role of the judiciary. If Gailey hadn’t applied a winning blend of legal skills and common sense to win his fantastical case, it’s doubtful Americans with fresh memories of World War II — waged, at least in part, to prevent dictators from governing by whim — would have bought in.