“Where do you think you’re going? Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny f-----g Kay. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of a------s this side of the nuthouse.”
- Clark W. Griswold, National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation
“Christmas dinner was no longer only about the turkey, but was a focus of many traditions, drawing together commodities and cash transactions, good and services, and using them as a way to express family connection and love. Families frequently find they have, through a process of repetition and ritual use, imbued commercial, purchased goods with emotion. The ‘good’ dishes, used only on this day, might be no more expensive than the ones in use daily, but they are good because they were once grandmother’s. The ornaments for the Christmas tree might be cheap mass-produced ones, but they are given meaning when parents annually reminisce about buying the ugly neon Santa on their honeymoon as they watch their child hang it up. The order of events, too – presents on Christmas Eve or Day? Before or after Church? Turkey or beef, lunch or dinner? – all these decisions, once repeated, turn cash purchases into emotion. Even watching the same film on television every year becomes part of the ritual…”
- Judith Flanders, Christmas: A Biography
The trouble with a book like Christmas: A Biography is that it has a tendency to consume its subject. It’s like the scene in Star Wars Episode One: A Phantom Menace, when Qui-Gon Jinn reduce the cool mysticism of the Force to some dreary biochemical process involving midichlorians. Christmas exists, at least for me, as a not-entirely-rational mélange of memories and nostalgia and emotional triggers. To explain what it means is to explain a magic trick. It can be done, but you destroy the magic while you’re doing it.
In the spirit of generosity that imbues the season, I will allow that Judith Flanders’ history of the Christmas holiday is just fine. It is totally okay. I read it while sitting on the couch by our Christmas tree, sipping various concoctions spiked with bottom-shelf Irish crème. In such a mood, I’m not really here to trash an inoffensive 244-page survey of my favorite time of the year.
Yet, if I’m being honest (and one of the many things I’ve been taught by Christmas movies is the importance of honesty), this wasn’t all that great. That is, it absolutely failed to capture any of the animating spirit that makes Christmas meaningful. Instead, it traffics in factoids, most of them already well-known by anyone who has walked this Earth while even half-conscious. (Of course, if you think that Jesus was literally born on December 25, this book will explode upon your consciousness as revelation itself).
Christmas: A Biography is structured as a timeline. The first two pages are devoted to Jesus (non-Christians looking for an understanding of the day should look elsewhere), the third page segues to the winter solstice, and within six pages we are reading about the Icelandic bard Snorri Sturluson and drinking Yule at a midwinter festival. It is a string of facts, draped across the page like lights adorning a Christmas tree (which, according to Flanders, first appeared decorated inside a private home in Strasbourg in 1605).
Don’t get me wrong: facts are great. They are, at almost all times, better than lies.
(And it should be said that this is finely researched. Or at least, it seems to be. Christmas: A Biography, unfortunately, does not include any endnotes. If I want those, I have to go to a website, which I refuse to do, out of principle. As a reference work, this is made even more useless by the fact that there is not even an index).
But a book needs more than facts. It needs some sort of narrative thrust or organizing principle. Here, the structure is nonexistent; rather, it can best be described as hopping madly from one thing to the next, like a greed-addled child tearing through a stack of presents. (Even something as simple as naming – rather than numbering – the chapters might have provided at least a loose framework. That is not done here). Flanders’ material never coalesces around a theme, and she never digs deeply into any one topic, in an attempt to derive something meaningful about it. Christmas in the midst of American slavery, for instance, is given just a few sentences.
(While this purports to take an international view, at a certain point, it felt like Flanders was spending most of her time bouncing between England and America. If different traditions interest you, I would recommend pouring yourself some braced nog and watching Rick Steves’ European Christmas).
If Flanders has any thesis statement she wishes to make, it is that there has always been a wide gulf between the secular and the religious components of Christmas. More specifically, she believes that the religious has always taken a backseat (or truthfully, the way, way back seat, in the optional third row seating) to the secular. However, she never develops this stance as an argument. Rather, she makes it in a series of asides, scattered throughout the book like Kevin McCallister’s Micro Machines in Home Alone. Accordingly, these mentions feel more like snide potshots than accumulated wisdom.
There is also, of course, a lot of hand-wringing about commercialism, which is odd, since Flanders acknowledges that the commercial aspects of Christmas has existed for centuries. This is an incredibly tired subject, and there is little interesting to be said about it.
There are occasional flashes of wit and humor in these pages, though a lot more was needed. (The first hundred pages really drag). Mostly, instead of wit or humor or insight, there are tepid observations and the repetition of old chestnuts. (Such as the intellectual property lapse that allowed It’s a Wonderful Life to become a television fixture).
The biggest flaw in Christmas: A Biography is that it neglects to propound a reason why it matters at all.
In America, at least, Christmas has achieved a kind of ubiquity. Certain extremists still like to pretend there is a “War on Christmas” (a book by that name was published in 2005, the same year of a bloody insurgency in Iraq, where an actual war was being fought). If there was a war, Christmas won, and if there’s anything more to be said about it, it’s that Christmas can also be kind of a bully, pounding you into submission with a cotton-candy bludgeon. There is a backwards creep, as the celebration starts earlier and earlier every year, taking over radio and television stations before the leaves have fallen. It can be exhausting, even for those (like myself) who believe that a proper Christmas season begins on Halloween, with a Gremlins/Black Christmas double-header.
In deconstructing Christmas, Flanders has mostly stripped it of its – for lack of a better word – true meaning.
That true meaning, of course, is memory. As the years pile on, the past starts to blur. Childhood becomes like a dream that you dreamt in another life. But those Christmas memories stand out. This is a difficult quality to capture in a nonfiction book; indeed, the nonfiction treatment ends up sapping Christmas of the thing that makes it worth studying in the first place.
The other night, I returned home from work on a chilly December evening. As soon as I walked in the door, my four year-old daughter Grace ran up to me in a state of high excitement. She wanted to show me the tree, which she had decorated with Grandma. I followed her into the living room, where the Douglas fir glittered beautifully, if at a slight leftward tilt. It suddenly occurred to me that I would remember this moment forever.
Someday, I am sure, in twelve years or so, Grace will stumble home at two in the morning, after sneaking out of her bedroom window, and there will be a scene, and she will scream at me to go elf myself, or perhaps shove a candy cane up my... stocking. Even then, I will still have that image of her at four years old, dancing happily in front of the tree. Christmas had taken an ordinary Tuesday and transformed it into something indelible and perfect.
That - and not the accumulated minutiae found in Christmas: A Biography - is what makes Christmas eternal for those who celebrate it.