MRS. SANTA CLAUS (1996) ø Just follow the Angela Lansbury down to the corner of Broadway and MTV, but let me warn you, it's a bad neighborhood. They sing songs so awful that they'll make you vomit, but at least won't get stuck in your head. They'll subject you to aesthetic abominations such that you previously considered an impossibility, they'll...I don't know if Angie lost all of her marbles very suddenly, or if she just should have shot her agent. The faces and mannerisms that we came to enjoy in "Murder, She Wrote" are all there, the problem being that they appear to have no connection with any functional mind-body continuum, or authentic motion however minor or bizarre. It's like Victoria Beckham walking down the street hoping someone will take her picture. I mean, I swear...it can't be fifteen minutes into the thing and you can't help thinking that (a) the only possible way to save the picture is by having UFO pilots kidnap Angela and conduct painful experiments on her, and (b) there's no way in hell the writers are clever enough to think up such a thing. Instead the only pain is suffered by the audience. Then they try and clothe it in respectability by referencing the worker's and suffragette movements. Everyone knows it wasn't that easy, and only an idiot or a reactionary would want to pretend it was. You really have to watch this film to have any idea how awful it truly is, but if you're given the choice between that and removing one of your toenails with a drill set, do yourself a favor and at least ask about any choice of drills. I mean, I don't even want to be in the same phylum with these people!
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