Reviewed by Tim Wong

HOW they got children cast in this film, I'll never know. Driven by self-gratification of the green-backed variety, parental ambition, it seems, considers nothing sacred anymore – not even an offensive, alcoholic, self-defecating version of that most beloved childhood institution: Father Christmas. As Bad Santa, Billy Bob Thornton not only does the unthinkable in shattering the myth of global chimney-hopping for every kid that bypasses his urinated lap, but swears at them. Profusely. Frankly, I had thought the "F" word was an overused, spent force in the movies, considering it's deployed with such nonchalance these days. That was until now.


Still, given that certain parents were brave (or stupid) enough to let their bright young things share a scene or two with Father XXXmas, and assume that they wouldn't come away scarred for life, the film at least deserves status in a genre all of its own. Precisely, the "F**k You" genre, defined by the ultimate in shameless, vulgar, anarchic subversion – comparable to the porn industry's X-rated spin on respectable Tom Hanks movies like Forest Gump, Toy Story or Saving Private Ryan. In fact, Bad Santa puts a festive spin on everything – from a trash-talking black midget elf, to department store sodomy, to an obese child protagonist, to adult violence on a minor, to one half of the Gilmore Girls in a yuletide sexual fantasy.

Despite an obvious lack of intellectual engagement, the film in a profound sort of way manages to lift the lid on the real meaning of Christmas. Here, the jovial interiors and snow-lined exteriors of December are replaced by shopping mall mezzanines and dilapidated suburban sprawl, all bathed in an unwavering coastal sunshine. No wonder Terry Zwigoff feels at home, reveling in the same Ghost World of consumer-stricken society, where outsiders aren't just estranged, but stick out like a sore thumb. When not in costume, Willie T. Soke isn't too dissimilar from Zwigoff's transitional teens Enid and Rebecca. He too, is stuck at a junction, hesitant whether to test drive the pre-packaged servitude of so-called "life", or continue to rebel against it through drunken degradation via a Santa Claus suit – really just a front for his lucrative safe-cracking skills.

Initially, Willie may not come across as a man at any sort of "junction"; the foul language, squalor and preoccupation with sex and crime seems impenetrable like most of society's bottom draw. Yet, as if not to disturb the holy spirit of Frank Capra himself, the film kneels, and gives him an arc. A redeeming arc. And although there's great irony in Bad Santa's climactic final images – where Willie, once a nefarious taker/receiver, is caught in the act of giving – the seasonal correctiveness is probably the most tasteless thing in the entire film. Hence, what was up until this point a wicked, unapologetic gift without the wrapping, just got covered in a whole lot of ribbons, bows and holiday fairy dust.

And the inevitability fails to end there: Mr. Claus lives happily ever after, his chubby kid friend gets revenge on his bullies, and poor Cloris Leachman is subjected to yet another senile old woman role. Strangely, it's that most inevitable component of any bad-turns-good narrative – the love interest, played in familiar Mother-I'd-Like-too... strides by Lauren Graham – that proves to be the film's only moment of conviction, as she's the only God-forsaken soul who knows what she wants (sex with Santa), and gets it. Of course, for a film with an unprecedented nasty streak that almost sticks to its guns, it's assured of at least one thing: that bad has never tasted quite this good.