There’s a certain kind of chill that settles over London during the festive season, a damp cold that seeps into the bones. But in 1984, something far colder stalked those streets, captured on grainy videotape. Forget twinkling lights and carols; Don't Open Till Christmas offers a yuletide soaked in cheap whiskey, desperation, and arterial spray. It’s the cinematic equivalent of finding something nasty stuck to the bottom of your boot near Piccadilly Circus – grim, slightly unbelievable, and strangely compelling.
This isn't your cozy Christmas horror like Gremlins. No, this is a particularly grimy slice of early 80s British horror, operating on a frequency of pure sleaze. The premise is brutally simple: someone is murdering anyone wearing a Santa Claus suit in London. Not naughty Santas, not evil Santas – just any poor soul unfortunate enough to don the red suit and beard, often meeting their end via knives, spears, or even castration in a peep show booth. It’s relentlessly downbeat, painting a picture of a city not full of Christmas cheer, but of lonely figures shuffling through bleak, rain-slicked streets.
A Troubled Noel
You can almost feel the troubled production history bleeding onto the screen. Originally helmed by Alan Birkinshaw (known for directing the infamous Killer's Moon), creative clashes led to actor Edmund Purdom taking over the director's chair mid-shoot, rewriting and reshooting significant portions. It’s a textbook example of how behind-the-scenes chaos can manifest as narrative incoherence. The plot stumbles, characters drift in and out, and the pacing often feels jarringly uneven. Yet, doesn't this fractured quality almost enhance the film's grungy, disorienting vibe? It feels less like a polished product and more like a grimy artifact dug up from a forgotten corner of Soho.
Purdom himself stars as Chief Inspector Harris, a world-weary detective tasked with stopping the Santa slaughter. He brings a certain gravitas, a stoic presence amidst the escalating madness, even if his direction feels workmanlike rather than inspired. Sharing significant screen time is the late Alan Lake, husband of Diana Dors, in his final, tragically poignant role before his untimely death shortly after filming. Lake plays Giles, a troubled man drawn into the investigation, and his raw, almost uncomfortable intensity adds another layer of unease to the proceedings. Watching him now carries an extra weight, a real-life darkness shadowing the fictional gloom.
That Distinctive 80s Grit
What Don't Open Till Christmas lacks in narrative polish, it sometimes makes up for in sheer, unadulterated nastiness, especially for its time. The practical gore effects, while undoubtedly low-budget, have that specific, visceral quality common to 80s slashers viewed on worn-out VHS. Think thick, syrupy blood and unflinching depictions of violence that feel decidedly un-festive. Remember how shocking some of those effects felt back then, viewed on a flickering CRT? This film leans into that shock value, contrasting the supposed innocence of Christmas imagery with brutal, close-up death. The infamous peep show scene, in particular, feels designed purely to transgress and disturb.
The film also functions as a grubby time capsule of early 80s London. Forget the tourist traps; this is a London of dimly lit pubs, seedy back alleys, and deserted underground stations. The locations themselves feel less like deliberate set dressing and more like captured reality, adding an unintended layer of cinéma vérité bleakness. It's a far cry from the polished thrillers of the era; this feels raw, unvarnished, and frankly, a bit dangerous. It's the kind of film you might have hesitantly picked up from the horror section based purely on its lurid cover, hoping for chills and getting... well, this. My own tape, rented countless times from a local store with questionable curation, certainly showed the signs of wear!
A Cult Curio Wrapped in Barbed Wire
Is Don't Open Till Christmas a good film in the traditional sense? Objectively, no. It’s messy, poorly paced, sometimes bafflingly plotted, and the acting outside of the leads can be variable, to put it mildly. Yet, there’s an undeniable magnetism to its grimness. It’s a film that fully commits to its unpleasant premise, creating an atmosphere of yuletide dread that’s hard to shake. It sits awkwardly in the Christmas horror subgenre, lacking the wit of Black Christmas (1974) or the slickness of later entries, but offering something uniquely sour and British.
For fans of gritty 80s horror obscurities and "video nasty" adjacent curiosities, there's a definite morbid fascination here. It’s a testament to the weird and wonderful things that lurked on rental shelves, films made under challenging circumstances that somehow, against the odds, found a lingering cult audience. Did anyone truly expect a masterpiece from a film about a Santa killer prowling London? Probably not, but what resulted is unforgettable in its own bleak way.
Rating: 4/10
Justification: The rating reflects the film's significant technical flaws – the chaotic narrative, uneven pacing, and often amateurish execution resulting directly from its troubled production. However, it earns points for its uniquely grim atmosphere, its status as a notorious cult oddity within the Christmas horror niche, some shockingly effective (for the time) practical gore, and the poignant final performance of Alan Lake. It’s a deeply flawed film, but its sheer B-movie audacity and grungy 80s vibe give it a morbid watchability for connoisseurs of cinematic dreck.
Final Thought: Don't Open Till Christmas remains a fascinating, if fundamentally broken, piece of grungy 80s exploitation. It’s the cinematic equivalent of spiked eggnog that’s gone slightly off – unsettling, probably bad for you, but you might just find yourself morbidly curious enough to take a sip anyway. A truly sour note in the festive horror canon.