Feature 15 – Krampus: the Christmas Devil (2013)

or “May Krampus Never Cramp Us”


Featuring: A.J. “The Four” Leslie , Bill “Abraham Lincoln vs. Zombies” Oberst Jr. , Richard “Professional uncredited movie extra” Goteri

Director & Writer: Jason “Chasing Darkness” Hull

Origin: USA


Time is short, and the naughties must be PUNISHED!”

 Well, I’m sorry to tell everybody this, but January and February are apparently canceled for 2014. I bought myself a Marvel Heroes calender at the Emporium of Savings for $1, and opened it up to discover that 2014 actually starts with March. Though this means Spring will be early, it also means that we won’t be celebrating Washington and Lincoln’s birthdays with discounted mattresses, nor will we be forced to buy our significant others’ senseless idols of emotional intent for Valentine’s Day, nor will we need to respect the African-American community for Black History Month. Then again, maybe my calender was just defaced by a heartbroken white supremacist with a hatred for elected officials? Or, maybe I’m being punished for my misdeeds of the last year. What misdeeds? Well, for starters, this review was supposed to be done in time for Cthulhumas! Oh well, for anybody who didn’t get what they wanted for the holidays, here’s your chance to live through the disappointment of the season all over again! Maybe this disappointment is courtesy of the original holiday disciplinarian, Krampus!

I learned of today’s movie during my review for Saint Nick in episode 11. Much like Cthulhu before him, the holiday hellbeast myth of Krampus has been getting a lot more mainstream exposure in recent years, being the subject of various TV show Christmas specials like “The Venture Bros.”, “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, “Suburgatory” and just last month on “Grimm” and “American Dad”. Given that various sinister shapes of Santa Claus have been given the movie treatment this millennium, I thought for sure that someone had to have given the penance fiend and child abuse factory known as Krampus a creature feature! Though I found references on the internet base of movie datas for a few shorts focused on ol’ Special K, the only long-in-the-dong running time entry I could exhume was this independent flick filmed in the wilds of East Bumfuck, Pennsyltucky. So hyped was I for such a find (and because it’s so obscure that I couldn’t find it on any of the torrent sites…), I immediately made my way to the movie’s website, slapped down my $15 for a copy, and awaited what would either be an amazing triumph of the human will, or the mad creation of a bloodthirsty despot-to-be like Triumph of the Will… or could very feasibly fall anywhere in between these two extreme (or, if this were the ’90s, “x-treme”) extremes of extreme extremism… EXTREEEEEEEEEEEEME! Anyway, after sitting on it for almost a month and missing my Cthulhumas review deadline with the “couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a bazooka” scheduling accuracy I’m well known for, the time has arrived. Now, let us all share our collective punishment for being bad boys and girls by watching Krampus: the Christmas Devil… and to all you bad girls out there, I’ll be doling out your mandatory spankings after the show. I suggest warming your butts ahead of time, cuz 50 lashes on cold asses sting like a beard of butthurt bees… hurtin’ your butt… cuz they’re bees… you get the idea.

If you’re unfamiliar with the legend of Krampus, I’m not a tutor. Not anymore. Certain “allegations” of “misconduct” and “abuses of power” got my “license” “revoked” for the foreseeable “century”. Now, just imagine me dressed like Chris Farley’s Bennett Brauer character while tossing up air quotes for those parentheticals and that last line might be funny. You know what would’ve been funny? An SNL movie where Chris Farley dual roled as Bennett Brauer and Matt Foley. Even if it somehow turned out worse than Beverly Hills Ninjas, it still would’ve been a few hundred times funnier than Jack and Jill or Norbit… sidetracks about NOTHING RELATED aside, if you need an intro/refresher on the patron saint of ass lashing, just wiki dat shit right here.

The version of Krampy in today’s movie is portrayed as not merely the unholy antithesis of Saint Nicholas, but as the jolly red meat sack’s twisted monstrous brother! Sadly, there’s no origin story to explain who these brothers are, how they came to be, or why Kramps sports cloven hooves and a face that looks like a big animal skull-turned-underground art piece, because that would’ve been a way better focus for the movie given the big guy’s name is the friggin’ title. As our opening narration, uhm, narrates, Krampus travels the world every December kidnapping bad children and murdering them for their misdeeds. I don’t mean kids who don’t wash their hands after they use the toilet or who swipe from the cookie jar (though putting your hands in the cookie jar after having not washed your hands after using the crapper is a killable offense), but the REALLY fucked up little punks whose obituary bullet-points will be about how they killed their parents and burned down retirement homes in their spare time.

Krampus has to complete his appointed terror tasks by 11:59pm on Christmas Eve though, cuz once those clock hands cross, he’s back on unemployment till next December. Union rules. One such candidate for comeupance in the bygone year of 1900 and 83 was little Jeremy Duffin, whom Krampy ‘napped while the boy waited for his school bus. Wrapped in a sack, dumped in a frozen pond, and left to drown, Jer managed to squirm free and wander through the woods back to his house before turning into a hypothermia flavored kid-sicle. He would grow up to be a healthy, sane, perfectly adjusted adult male with a family who love him. End of story.

Okay, the “adult male with a family who love him” part is the only truth to that statement. Jer (A.J. Leslie) actually ended up becoming a PTSD ravaged police detective obsessed with hunting down the murderous monster that nearly denied him the tortured life he would grow into. Cuz, who wouldn’t want to spend every night after work drinking yourself ugly and having single player games of Russian Rhoulette? Not because it’s depressing and life threatening, but because it’s so fucking cliché! Besides, the hard boiled types that end up with a scotch on the rocks in one hand and a single-rounded handgun in the other don’t have nice things like a loving family. Everyone they know is either dead or left them because of their insane depression (i.e. alcoholism) and self-destructive ways. Don’t worry though, as this sure as shit isn’t the only time writer/director Jason Hull (who also credits himself as both a Producer AND Executive Producer…) decides to needlessly shoehorn one of his favorite “monkey see, monkey do” story elements into his own production… and I use that term much in the same way that a stool sample is a “production”, in that it’s something that’s been produced… by your butt.

Okay, so operating on the idea that Kramps is real (and they are, just ask my WIFE! ZING!), then at what age do kids no longer need to fear him? I mean, he obviously doesn’t drown evil adults, otherwise overcrowded prisons wouldn’t be an issue. Just lock the fuckers up till December, send the guards home till January, then come back and start over again for next year. Easy peasy titty squeezy! Who decided that the 18 and older crowd are well enough off that we can just govern each other, but our kids require discipline from a hairy hellbeast with a tongue that would give Venom a run for the Gene Simmons King of Lickers Award?! Speaking of, who makes a Having a Krampus of our own to weed out the shitbags would definitely make life easier on the law abiding. Anyway, let us continue down this road paved with complaints.

It’s been 30 years since Jeremy escaped the frozen ebon clutches of yours truly, and the yuletide has taken a grim turn for a few families in the Podunk Eden of East Bumblefuck, Pennsyltucky. Or, as our hero and the rest of its citizens call it, Caimbridge. A new rash of missing children have sprung up, and while it means a very un-merry Christmas for some, it means a chance at violent, final vengeance for Det. Duffin!… okay, I need to break now for another aside: my biggest problem with small budget movies isn’t the lack of money. I can deal with the chinsy “made with common household items” special effects and actors who were never in a high school drama club let alone professional acting institutions and shitty generic garage metal soundtracks and opening credits sequences that look like the kind of half-assed self made DVD menus I used to whip up on Roxio Creator. What I can’t deal with are overreaching concepts. If the best locale you can afford to shoot your shit show in is a little town in the middle of nowhere, then go with a story that could take place in such a place – serial killer, escaped mental patient(s), shellshocked war vet drifter pushed too far by bloated asshole sheriff, crashed alien ship, marauding biker gang, top secret government science experiment gone wrong, cave of flesh eating evolutionary off-shoots stumbled upon by spelunking friends, haunted bed & breakfast, clandestine devil worshipers trying to summon their hoary horrorist master from within the walls of their black lodge, or just go with the classic standby – local Sasquatch. Hell, just watch a few episodes of Scooby-Doo and see if anything percolates! Fuck, if it’s an episode of “The Scooby-Doo Movies”, provided the special guest is still alive, they might even appear in your shitty knock-off for a plane ticket and a month’s prescription of painkillers! The point is, Krampus is sure to tell us that these cases of missing children show up every December all over the world. If Krampy’s a globetrotting terrorizer of youth, why would he EVER stop over in a dump like Caimbridge, where there aren’t enough people to warrant one owning a horse by which to call it a “one horse town”?!

In short (which, as you can see, I never adhere to), if all you can afford to shoot in is a minor village, don’t try to make it a major hub of the fucking global community.

Oh yeah, and when your movie’s antagonist is a worldwide threat, stop making the only person who can hope to defeat it a denizen of said small town! I get that it’s supposed to feel empowering to the Joe Six Packs in the audience to relate to the average shlub and inspire them to think they can do great things in their own lives (which Joe believes more so after the ingestion of a few of his namesake), but it’s so damn common anymore that it actually makes me pine, PINE, for the ’50s glory days when every cinematic Armageddon (or “cinemageddon”) left entire militaries impotent and could only be stopped by ruggedly handsome scientists declaring martial law and killing the threat with whatever box the writer hit with a dart on his Periodic Table of the Elements. You know what Krampus’s only weakness is? It’s… one sec… shit, missed it entirely… okay, it’s… *thunk*… Cobalt. Krampus will die if you stuff Cobalt up his butt in the light of a full moon. There. There’s your movie.

Jeremy (who spoke in class today *rimshot*) is convinced that Krampus has targeted Caimbridge for 2013, and is determined to put an end to the monster. I’m hoping Kramps is back to finish Jer off as punishment for the stupid douche bag soul patch he’s chosen to grow as a sign to those around him that he really has just given up on life. You know, in case the Russian Roulette and alcoholism weren’t sign enough. He has the support of his Captain (Richard Goteri) to put together a small task force to scour the woods around the local lake and hunt the beast down in the hopes of saving the missing brats. Cap either believes Duff (not to be confused with “Düff, from Sweden…”), or just goes along with the loony’s tale because he was close buddies with Jer’s old man (who was also a cop before his own untimely death), so he tells our tormented hero to get his team together and go kill a mythical creature!… worst police captain ever. Jer’s dynamic backup duo in this Destiny’s Child of destruction are Bob Norris (former Hell’s Angel and author Jay Dobyns) and John Walker (played by Jeremy Sidun and, sadly, not just a big debonaire bottle of Scotch Whiskey with a fake beard glued to it). John is the fat, bald, bearded Michelle Williams of the trio – completely forgettable and destined to die cold and alone. As for Bob, he’s the Kelly Rowland to Jer’s Beyonce Knowles, also shares his partners’ penchant for head shaving and facial hair, and knows that, despite the vast wealth our hero has sitting in the bank (inherited from his dad, who inherited it from Grandpa Duffin), Jer chose to be a cop to help people and isn’t “in it for the money”… well NO SHIT! The only time you become a cop for the cash is when your goal is to be one of those big city crooked cops in the back pocket of organized crime! Small town cops are in it for the free drugs and beer seized from high school keggers, and the occasional bj from the toothless strippers who work street corners on weeknights hooking for rent and baby formula. But, again, Jason Hull feels the need to shoehorn all of his favorite characters (*cough*caricatures*cough*) into his movie, so not only is Jeremy the tortured, hard-boiled, suicide case, not only does he have a lifelong vendetta to accomplish, and not only is he following in his father’s dead cop footsteps, but he’s ALSO the secret rich guy whose heart is just as golden as his bank account, and thus chooses to risk his life to make the world a better place for everyone else rather than sit around doing rich guy until he dies of a cocaine overdose in bed with half a dozen Maxim cover girls! If we get anymore scenes of needless protagonist background padding, we’ll discover that Jeremy’s also been stalking Caimbridge’s deviant criminal underworld in his off-hours as the mysterious masked vigilante known only as THE NEIGHBORHOOD WATCHMAN! Jeezus Kryst riding naked on a giant fiberglass banana…

While our threesome of bald headed, chin furred law enforcement officials lay asleep in their beds, resting off the night’s boozing before their big Kramp hunt, their prey gets a visit from brother Claus, who came all the way to Pennsyltucky from the friggin’ North Pole just to tell goat legs about adjustments to this year’s Naughty List. I’ll get this out of the way now – this rendition of Santa is less a “right jolly old elf”, and more like the President of the Santas of Anarchy motorcycle club. He’s got long white hair and a beard, sure, but both are “serious business” straight, not cottony fluffs of merriment. He’s got the red outfit, and though it’s not a leather jacket and chaps, it’s still not the velvety ensemble of the Christopher Kringle we’ve been told of since childhood. Also, whereas traditional Santa smokes a tobacco pipe with which he wreathes his head in smoke and fills his bulbous torso with cookies and milk, Krampus’s bro looks like his pipe’s full of meth and his gut’s full of cheap beer and various pickled food stuffs like eggs and tube meat. To go with the biker look, he’s also a total hard-ass PSYCHO! He’s fucking crazy! He acts like Scarface, or Toecutter, or Jack Nicholson… I was gonna say Jack Nicholson’s character in The Departed, but I think old Jack himself is just as good a description.

Anyway, since mythical creatures like Santa and Krampus are devoid of a more convenient method of communication like cell phones, Nick traversed a good 3500-4000 MILES for a 30 second face-to-face about who gets highest whacking priority. For me, Aubrey Plaza currently has highest whacking priority, hands down… then up… then back down again… repeating until climax. Hubba hubba!

Okay, got another detour in the road here for ya, folks. Now, Santa and Krampus are supposed to be brothers. Fine. They’re both immortals who never age. Fine again. We can assume that Santa has some kind of mystical powers, given that he’ll travel half way across the Northern Hemisphere for a half-minute conversation, let alone that whole “presents to every good kid that celebrates his holiday in one night” thing. We can also assume he’s got some kinda polar voodoo powers that allow him to pull his invisible man act and avoid all form of surveillance, AND keep track of the karma for every child on the planet, or at least, again, the ones who celebrate his holiday. In light of all of this, how is it that Krampy got the shortest of all possible short ends on the whole “super powers” stick?! He has no connection to the collective spiritual realm of the populace (since Santa has to play manager and pop down to update the Naughty List FOR him), he can’t turn invisible (since he’s seen by EVERYBODY he comes across), and instead of turning into smoke or a swarm of spiders or some such coolness so he can slip into kids’ houses and snatch them from their beds, Krampy has to wait until they’re outdoors and alone before tossing a potato sack over them and absconding like a bank robber in a striped shirt and bandit mask holding one of those fucking bags with the dollar sign drawn on it! Then he has to dump the kids into the nearest body of water to drown them. If the water’s frozen over? I doubt he can melt it with firebreath or even hot charcoal briquet oral projectiles like Megalon. He probably has a rusty pickax or an old spade with a busted handle wrapped in duct tape that he has to use to manually break up the ice enough to stuff the kid through. And if someone catches the creature in-the-act? Krampy knocks them out with his length of rusty chain… this really is a horror movie made by and for bikers. He’s not completely devoid of magical powers though. He does have the abilities to move fast and to shoot little electrical impulses from his fingers that cause a sensation in his victims not unlike giving them Ecstasy… because the guy responsible for PUNISHING the bad kids should have the ability to instill EUPHORIA?! My eyes are starting to cross…

I’ll address the latter of these two magical gifts later, but for now, allow me to explain why Kramp’s other power is of note – it’s fucking HILARIOUS to see in action. You know that cool little jumpy-jerky “teleportation” visual effect a lot of movies have these days that show the monster/ghost/alien kinda shifting through reality in quick steps? I’m pretty sure that’s what Hull wanted Krampy to have here. I can get behind that. I love that effect. It was one of the standout points of the House on Haunted Hill remake watching evil ghost Jeffrey Combs doing it. I’m guessing they didn’t have the tech and/or know how to make that visual a reality for this little project, so instead they just put these scenes of Krampus into fast forward… and it just looks like he escaped a fucking Benny Hill chase sequence, minus the wacky music and women in their underwear… ARGH! I just put a lit cigar out on my left testicle to keep from flipping my desk, lighting my computer on fire, and just walking away from this bullshit right now! Don’t worry, ladies. If any of you still want to carry my jackal headed offspring, I’ve got 20 plastic gallon milk jugs brimming with my semen in a refrigerated storage locker in the basement of the University of Dubuque in case of movies like this where severe genital mutilation are always a risk. However, all pups spawned from the unholy gestation of my seed in your cursed wombs must be named “Abobo Bowen” as part of the contract. Don’t ask why. It’s a lot of red tape involving cosmic prophecies and the end of man. Nothing you’d be interested in… JUST ACCEPT MY SPERM!

Wow, almost 4,000 words in and I’m not even halfway through the review. Shit. This is gonna be a marathoner. Hope you stretched before we started. Well, back to the grindstone.

Armed with tactical automatic rifles and decked out in arctic camouflage (the purpose of which is kinda defeated when you wear black pants, black hats, and black flak jackets OVER THE CAMO), the trio sets out the next morning on their hunt, doing all those military hand gestures and sticking way too close to each other to effectively comb an area the size of which they’re investigating. I see three guys who play way too much Call of Duty… It’s not long before they see somebody in a long black robe that they assume to be Krampus, but that assumption is enough proof for them to bypass police protocol like telling him to freeze or identify himself first, so they just open fire on the guy with a few dozen rounds! To further sandpaper my nipples, the gunfire is completely muted and instead replaced with a few seconds of generic metal music… if they had to use paintball guns or silence the rifles so as not to startle unsuspecting neighbors while shooting the scene, they could’ve at least used actual gunfire sound effects over the muting. Hell, they do it later on when someone’s pretending to fire an uzi, so why not do so here?! WHY THE METAL MUSIC?! ARGGGGH!… well great, there goes my other testicle…. sheesh.

Because I haven’t had enough metaphorical salt poured into my metaphorical eyes or metaphorical toothpicks jammed under my metaphorical toenails (metaphorically speaking), when the shadowy figure escapes the hail of bullets, the trio don’t immediately pursue like you’d imagine they should. I’ll have to slap your hand with The Disciplinarian now (a wooden ruler with thumbtacks taped to its surface) as punishment for your flagrant use of common sense. Instead, the guys hang out for a minute or two talking about what just happened, reload their guns (because, much like the old Resident Evil games, they apparently can’t reload or shoot while moving), then casually pursue as is convenient for them… NOW they opt to split up, allowing Krampy to take them each out with his magical beatin’ chain. He takes Bob and Jeremy back to his nearby lair (funny how a bunch of kids go missing in the area and nobody thinks to search the local transient cave…), but stomps Johnny’s big fat head in with his hoof, because he probably didn’t wanna risk his scoliosis dragging SuperChunk around the woods. Back at the cave, Kramps tears out Bobby’s heart (he dragged him all the way back just to kill him anyway!?), which looks like a bright red rubber children’s toy upon removal, then oozes out of his fist like that pink slime garbage they put in the ground beef for school lunches when he “crushes” it. I guess Hull missed that day in biology where they taught you that the heart is a large organ made of very densely fibrous muscle and not just a cheap stress ball full of strawberry Jell-O.

Since Krampus couldn’t be bothered to actually restrain Duffin in any way, the hero regains consciousness and escapes. Rather than give chase, the villain’s too busy raping a topless blond woman he has chained up in his drifter den. Yep, you read that right. Go back and read it again if you need to. Now, just who this unlucky lady is is never made clear. She’s just there. She screams and writhes and struggles, so I’m assuming she’s not the type of freaky dame into that weird ass kink like the kind I usually entertain in the Tomb’s own sex dungeon every other Thursday. I’m not sure if she’s there for Krampus to punish with this rape, but if she is, the punishment’s pretty shitty since he zaps her eyeballs with his previously mentioned Spanish Fly powers and turns her on like a vibrating fleshlight. If she’s going to enjoy the rape, it’s hardly punishment, right? I mean, women do have the capacity to enjoy sex, right? I’ve been with the Evil Dead Bride for almost a decade and a half, so I hope she hasn’t just been faking it all this time.

This leads us to detour #37 on our journey – who exactly is Krampus supposed to exact righteous vengeance on? In the opening (and pretty much every myth about the monster), it says that Krampus punishes bad children. Let’s just go by the legal definition here in the US that anyone under the age of 18 is not an adult, so we’ll include teens and infants in this whole “children” argument. Now, killing two of the men who attacked him first, I can understand Krampus getting away with that on either a “self defense” plea, or because their escape would mean others finding out about him and his hobo habitat. Fine. But, unless the roofied rape victim chained to his wall is supposed to be underage (in which case I may have to dispose of this disc before it can be used against me in a court of law), this scene would mean that Krampus is also responsible for the punishment of bad adults… which would make no sense, as I discussed earlier! On top of all that (no sexual assault pun intended there, honest), once he’s done with the girl, Brother Claus shows up again release the dame back into the wild (complete with an “And have a merry Christmas!” send off) to chastise Krampy, not for raping the girl, but because “play time was 2 days ago”… meaning that this rape is his extra-curricular activity?! Is Krampus drowning boys and raping girls, drowning all children and raping teens, or has he upgraded to adults and is raping them now too!? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO ME, JASON HULL!? You’re shitting on continuity harder than fucking Jason TODD!… a completely wasted joke unless you read DC Comics around 2005 and saw that whole “Superboy-Prime throws a fit and punches reality’s butt” bullshit from Infinite Crisis that single handedly gave Marvel Comics the win in the “I don’t read DC Comics because they’re retarded” argument. Gwen Stacey having Norman Osborn’s statutory rape babies? Nothing compared to “Superbody-Prime FISTED REALITY”.

Okay, keep it together Anubis. You’ve survived Demonicus. Keep repeating, “It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie…” Alright, so Jeremy escapes back to his truck and drives to the police station, where the Captain takes his badge and gun. Not because he thinks our hero’s lost his mind and is a danger to the public, but just because. I thought that this was going to be an obvious setup for someone to steal both and frame Duffin for all the child murders (possibly even the Captain himself for some nefarious reasoning), but no, NOTHING HAPPENS to the badge and gun. Cap just tells him to go take a shower, cool off at the local bar, and they’ll investigate Kramp’s murder hole… maybe later? I mean, two of this guy’s men were just killed, but rather than mobilizing more officers to go out and investigate the murdered cops, he sends Jer off to clean up and go to the bar for a few drinks?! HOW MANY ANEURISMS MUST ONE MAN-DOG SUFFER BEFORE HE CAN ENJOY DEATH’S SWEET EMBRACE?!… oh… right…………. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!

You know what would’ve been great? If, while recuping at the bar, Jeremy looked over to a bottle of Johnny Walker, put on his best/worst Anakin, and just screamed “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” to the heavens. But my job isn’t to write movies and make them better, my job is to sit here and watch garbage that other people have no place making and write about them after the fact, because I apparently kicked old ladies off of cliffs in my past life. Fuck. Anyway, as he’s throwing back shots to numb the pain of his dead friends from the Hairless Club for Men (WHO HE’S NOT OUT TRYING TO AVENGE!), our hero gets a call from his angry wife who found out about Jer’s fatal hunting trip not from him, but from the world’s shittiest newscast. Seriously, that fucking report made even the crappiest episode of “Action News for Kids” look like the best produced episode of “Dateline”. That shows you how much Jer gives a crap about his family when he ends up at the verge of death from some mythical goat man demon, and the first person he wants to see after showering his friends’ gore of his face is… his bartender. Uggh. Still hanging out at the bar rather than going home to his family, Detective Duff is approached by a trio of fellow cops who aren’t too happy about him getting Norris and Walker (Get it? Chuck NORRIS was WALKER, Texas Ranger. At least, I hope this was Hull showing some kinda creativity.) corpsed. These must be the kind of cops who are just in it for the money though, otherwise they’d be going out to the FUCKING LAKE TO KILL FUCKING KRAMPUS! Is Caimbridge the only hicksville burg in the country where drunken posses aren’t a thing that happens every time a heinous crime is committed?! The only real justice is mob justice! No, instead these dipshits would rather dog pile on Duffin, threaten to force their hot dogs in both his AND his wife’s chocolate starfish, and engage in the WORST BAR FIGHT EVER FILMED! How “worst”? Not an ounce of hyperbole there. Take the crappiest round of William Shatner fisticuffs ever seen on an episode of “Star Trek”, and it would look like the greatest brawl ballet of the most perfectly made Jackie Chan “beat up thirty guys with everything in the room” choreography after watching the bar fight from Krampus

I’m running out of hate for this movie. There’s just so much of it, and my rageahol is actually starting to run dry here. I feel my agner sputtering to a miserable halt and… I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do for the rest of this review! There’s still SO MUCH blood that needs to be spilled on this trash carnival… 5000 words in, and it’s STILL not enough bitching and moaning and self-abuse to get across ALL of the incompitent, stupid, HORRIBLY written, toe-sucking SHIT on display here… it’s an ineptitude event horizon creating an stupidiocy vaccuum – a black hole of cinemasochism that’s inhaled every ounce of tolerance I can muster… Even going into the movie with a love for Krampus and incredibly low expectations… even forgiving it ahead of time for what was sure to be a poor effort… all of these caveates that I put forward, and Jason Hull STILL manages to vomit up a repugnant script the likes of which has left a stain on my soul I will never be able to remove. Weep for me, children. Weep long into the darkness of night for the heart that was broken and scarred here today…

Alright, taking the shortcuts for the rest of this fecal field trip to Grandma Suck’s house. Nearly publicly butt humped by his disgruntled co-workers in the fight, Jer’s saved by the Captain, who arrives just in time to send Duffin home while he and the bartender (a former beat cop himself) beat the rape happy officer with a baseball bat… and kill him and his two cohorts if the end credits epilogue is to be believed… because police captains are all about mafia justice, killing insubordinates, disposing of the bodies, then just hiring new cops and giving public service announcements to anyone who asks questions about how unhealthy it is for people to ask questions.

While this whole stupid bar scene was happening, the Duffin house was being home invaded by a trio of ne’er-do-wells (lots of people in groups of three in this movie…) – two nameless rednecks and their leader: a bank robber/kidnapper/rapist/jaywalker named Brian Hatt (Bill Oberst Jr.) who’s out of prison thanks to his blanket “scumbag lawyer” on one of those nebulous “technicalities” that movies like to use but never explain, because that would require dipping into the budget for a law consultant… or doing a quick internet search…

You can’t just have Hatt terrorize Jer’s wife Rebecca and their daughter Heather though, because Jason Hull has seen Real Killers or Last House on the Left or any of those other movies where the murderous gang picks the wrong family to terrorize, and decided to make Heather (who could be anything from 16 to 26, I’m not good with guessing ages… thank Osiris for state issued photo id cards!) a secret serial killer who seduces one of the thugs and stabs him to death… and don’t jump up my ass about spoilers on that little twist, because not 10 minutes before it happens, HULL RUINS THE TWIST HIMSELF BY HAVING SANTA FLAT OUT TELL KRAMPUS THAT HEATHER DUFFIN IS A SERIAL KILLER! Sure, seasoned vets of horror flicks like myself (and I’m sure many of you reading this) probably wouldn’t have been all that shocked by a surprise like that, but Hull doesn’t even give us the chance! It’s like he knows it’s a stupid idea and wanted to avoid people being able to say “Oh yeah, I saw that coming a mile away!”, so he just went scorched earth all over the fucking thing and ruined the surprise ahead of time himself rather than rewrite it.

Home stretch now, folks. Kramps and Jer show up at the house at the same time – K to claim Heather and J to makes sure his daughter (who he doesn’t know has been murdering people in her spare time) is at least safe until midnight. Hatt winds up Kramp’d (after trying to shoot skull face with his uzi), Hatt’s remaining redneck partner ends up getting third-eye blinded by Jer’s gun (didn’t the Captain take that from him earlier?), and our hero ends up bonked on his coconut for the second time today by K-Fed’s chain. When we comes to he finds Heather missing… and Rebecca strangled to death by a length of chain?! What the fuck did she do now!? You know what? Fuck it. I’m done here. I’m not adding to my blood pressure anymore, nor to my count of gruesome burn scars below the belt. Even ignoring all of the amateur camera work, poor cinematography, crap-ass musica generica, miserable acting, and dollar store special effects work, Hull’s writing is such a gods damned shartnado that there’s nothing left to excuse! The only saving grace is that pretty much no one will ever see Krampus: the Christmas Devil. It will smolder in obscurity, its final fading embers doused in a golden shower of its creator’s own incompetence, forever extinguished and never heard from again. Sorry Krampy. Maybe someday someone will do your legend justice. Jason Hull just is not that person… and you should probably hit him with a chain.

The Moral of the Story:
“There’s nothing that any of us can ever do to bring those dead babies back!”
(PS – Krampus doesn’t kill babies. Babies don’t do anything bad to deserve punishment. They just mindlessly scream and cry and shit themselves. They’re not evil, they’re chaotic neutral.)

Are they a movie studio or a snowmobile detailing shop? Maybe both.

Oh sure, they make Krampus put on clothes around children now, but Porky Pig is still running around with his asshole hanging out!

“I know they say sex dreams aren’t about being turned on by the person, but all these George Wendt fantasies I’ve been having must mean something!”

“As you can see, I’ve drawn what looks to be a booby on the map. Boop. Boop. Booooooop. Come on, touch it! It’s fun!”

I hope they’re done shooting his scenes early. He’s got auditions at the “Grimm” sound stage to try out for Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Humpty Dumpty.

I know it’s incredibly blurry, but do you think that’s enough for Mark Zuckerberg to sue and have this movie legally blocked from ever getting a distribution deal!?

“So the lady at the CVS was like, ‘Sir, I don’t think Just For Beards has a whitening option.’ So I told her to go fuck herself, bought a can of aerosol snow, and made my own magic! What do you think?”

Dooo it… Dooo it….. Dooo it…….. DOOO IT!……. DOOOO IIIIIIIIIIT!

Okay, (1) – those missing posters are all duplicated! (2) – one of those missing “children” has a beard!

“I don’t like this Naziopoly game grandpa gave us. I can’t pronounce any of the properties, and the railroads don’t even have different names. They’re all just labeled ‘Holocaust Trains’. And why are the Electric Company and Water Works replaced with Oven Works and Gas Showers!? This is worse than that Cambodian Candyland knock-off, ‘Pol Pot’s Killing Fields’.”

I hate guys who treat their paintball games like it’s fucking SEAL Team training… at least that’s what I think is happening in this shot, given how it’s SO FUCKING OUT OF FOCUS! Kids, always learn to USE the camera before you start making your movies.

Taking a cue from his hero, Jim Varney, Larry the Cable Guy decides to star in a bunch of really dumb cheap-o comedies. Up first: Larry the Army Guy. After this? Larry the Camping Guy, Larry the Christmas Saving Guy, Larry the Scared Stupid Guy, Larry the Slam Dunking Guy, and if there’s enough money left over, Larry the Fat White Redneck in Africa Guy… which sounds like an interracial gay porn. Perfect.

Krampy tries out his new UrbanDictionary sexual maneuver entry on his girlfriend. He doesn’t know whether to call it a “Sam Elliot” or a “Wyatt Earp”. You can’t just call it “the Cumstache”, after all.

I have a feeling his jolly red nose isn’t because of Jack Frost so much as it’s thanks to Old Milwaukee and cocaine.

Typical fucking cop – pulls over everybody he sees driving on their cell phones, then just goes right ahead and does it himself! What a dick cheese!

Ah, I see Santa’s starting his own veal venture geared toward cannibals. Always the entrepreneur, that guy.

How to make the world’s least believable Action News cast – for starters, her teleprompter is apparently GLUED TO THE CEILING! Also, the file photo they have for the dead Officer Walker? Apparently taken from Duffin’s cell phone RIGHT BEFORE THEY STARTED HUNTING FOR KRAMPUS!

Heather (in the pink): “Mom, I’ve always wondered but… have I always looked five years older than you?!”

“Excuse me ma’am, but I’m a door-to-door lung salesman. Are you in need of any lungs? Or, perhaps you have any lungs you don’t need and would like to part with?”

Man with massive head wound (or was just hit with cherry syrup) is watched from the window behind him by a happy cartoon polar bear who’s apparently masturbating, while the jersey of an infamous football playing rapist hangs proudly on the wall behind them… this is a shot worthy of Lynch.

He’s about to learn that you don’t ignore this bar’s two drink minimum policy!

Imagine this guy coming at you while making that face and waving his dick around. If he’s the President of Steelers Country, I suggest you stay the fuck away from Steelers Country!… though he would be perfect to play Egg Head in Edgar Wright’s Ant Man movie!

If David Cronenberg’s mask from Nightbreed were a person.

So that’s Krampus. Pretty bad ass for a Halloween mask from Spencer’s Gifts, right? Except for one huge problem. See that little band of white right behind his top row of teeth? That’s the mouth of the person inside the mask… it’s prevalently viewable during the ENTIRETY of this scene…

Oh my gods! They killed Bubba Ray Dudley!



Anubis will return next time in
“They Prefer to Be Called ‘the Vertically Challenged Living Impaired Motorcycle Enthusiasts’”

Enjoy the review? Hate the review? Have a movie you’d like to see judged in The Tomb? Fill out the feedback form! Never has it been easier to make contact with a deitic being!

All materials found within this review are the intellectual properties and opinions of the original writer. The Tomb of Anubis claims no responsibility for the views expressed in this review, but we do lay a copyright claim on it beeyotch, so don’t steal from this shit or we’ll have to go all Farmer Vincent on your silly asses. © October 1st 2013 and beyond, not to be reproduced in any way without the express written consent of the reviewer and The Tomb of Anubis, or pain of a physical and legal nature will follow. Touch not lest ye be touched.