It's well known for whoever reads this thing that not too long after my father passed away from Cancer, I spent a lot of time engaged with late night television at an early age (for better or worse, there are examples all over this thing). I did this television dance when time allowed, of course.
Despite having only the three networks and a handful of UHF options, there were ways to find time-passage within the tube.
On one particular Christmas break, I still struggled with sleep after Dad passed, and often spent my time with the television late at night. The TV being in a darkened living room, lit only by the soft glow of the Christmas tree.
One late night feature being aired was a William Holden film entitled The Christmas Tree.
It was fucking devastating.
Holden's character is a wealthy and busy man raising his son alone in the French countryside due to the death of his wife. One day on a boating expedition in the Mediterranean, a bomb explodes while Holden is underwater, and his son Pascal is still seated in the boat. There is nuclear material in that detonation and it's not long before we learn Pascal has radiation poisoning.
Holden makes a solemn vow to make the boys remaining months the best they can possibly be. For a reason hidden in my memory, Pascal is able to communicate with docile wolves who live in the home.
One Christmas eve, as Holden comes home, he exits his vehicle to the howling of those wolves. He rushes into the house to devastatingly find Pascal motionless under the tree in the act of opening gifts. He's been claimed by his sickness. It's a heart-rending experience for any viewer, especially a 9 year old child who is just off of losing his Dad. The role reversal had me weeping on the floor in front of my friend, the television. My dog Ginger nudging me quizzically. All of this to the sound of howling wolves and a grieving father.
The message is not lost. But it sure hurt. It even burned.
This was the most painful film-watching experience I've had to this day. I can never see The Christmas Tree again, for self-preservation's sake, but for some reason, I'm glad I did the one time.
There may have been a catharsis in that, that one isolated movie viewing of a film being aired by a local UHF station during the holiday season.
There was no Jimmy Stewart running through town shouting like a fool, there were no Bing Crosby carols, there was no goose given to Tiny Tim by Ebenezer Scrooge.
It felt like a message. Ginger and I walked to bed that night with it delivered in full.
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