Surviving Christmas

Ah, they killed them with self-confidence and poisoned them with words. Now that Mr. Affleck has joined the same glittering cinematic constellation as Steve Guttenberg and OJ Simpson in the popularity stakes, it’s a bit unseemly to be kicking the crap out of his latest screen role. And yet we must. It’s not that I’m stuck on the lapdancing scandals, the hairpiece rumours or the two-headed tabloid monster he and his former bride-to-be what’s-her-name became. No, my problems with the Benster are entirely rooted in his innate twisted radar for foul excruciating scripts. Surviving Christmas – though lacking the sheer beastliness of Jersey Girl and Gigli – conforms very much to type.
Playing yet another smarmy executive or some such, the gangly Butthead doppelganger – for reasons that aren’t entirely clear – fixes upon an old-fashioned family Christmas replete with fluffy jumpers, over-sized tree and a vomit tide of green and red accessories. Being sans famille himself, he hires James Gandolfini’s brood for the festivities and forced bonding. For reasons even less clear than Affleck’s yuletide conversion, he grows on his hosts in the manner of an intimate yeast infection, but not before driving them to the brink of insanity.
Not all of the scattershot non-sequiturs that pass for plot in Surviving Christmas are entirely dreadful (damn, and I was hoping for something bile-worthy) and the sheer magnitude of Gandolfini’s gruffness is dependably entertaining. But while the big man can pull his weight in this wannabe Meet The Parents, Ben Affleck is no Ben Stiller and the screenplay (ominously penned by a small army of hacks) is so lame one keeps expecting canned laughter to erupt on the soundtrack.
A badly wrapped perfunctory gift of a film, they really shouldn’t have troubled themselves on our account. Hell, even jingle bells socks and a seasonal tag reading ‘fuck you’ would have been more thoughtful.