My Fave Holiday Films Are About Dysfunctional Families
My last Christmas with my mom, plus some cathartic film recommendations
Note: some of the content in today’s newsletter could be activating, including issues of substance abuse, child abuse, family dynamics, and suicide. That said, there is nothing graphic.
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Since 2010, I have spent at least half of my holidays alone.
My last holiday with immediate family was Christmas with my mom, in 2009. I was twenty-nine years-old. My nanny family had invited me to spend the holidays with them in Denver, where I had been living for the previous three years, but I ended up at my mom’s place in Seattle instead.
Twenty-nine was a transformative year for me. I was committed to therapy and focused on recovering from life-consuming eating disorder I’d had since age twelve. For most of my twenties I worked as a wildland firefighter, moving often and struggling hard with alcoholism and my eating disorder. My life in Denver felt miraculous. I was taking classes at Lighthouse Writer’s Workshop and had completed NaNoWriMo. More importantly, I was finally surrounded by friends who loved me and encouraged me.
My mom was often a source (if not the primary source) of strife in my life. I had visited her the previous Christmas, in 2008, shortly after she had officially divorced my stepdad (they’d been married since 1993). We got snowed in with her younger boyfriend, his sister, and my cousin. Her ancient, too-expensive rental house oozed the sharpsweet scent of mildew; its picture-window view of Lake Washington was what my mom paid for. She’d lost her contracted job at Boeing— the last job she’d ever have. While my cousin and I were smoking outside, she let it slip that my mom had been lying to me about something essential for several years. I got upset just as my mom emerged from the house to join us for a smoke. When I confronted her, she absolved herself of any responsibility. It’s not my fault if you’re upset, she said, echoing the Law of Attraction language she’d been mainlining for the past few years. The way you feel is your responsibility.
I recounted this to my therapist when I came home. Just as I had recounted the Christmas before that one, when my mom had called me a little bitch, and asked me why I thought I deserved to be treated like gold. This therapist wasn’t the first to suggest I take some space from my mother, but she was the first one I kept seeing. I trusted her. So, I listened.
All that to say: by the time I flew out to Seattle in 2009, my mom had drawn me back into her life, starting with slurred late night phone calls about Crohn’s disease; then colon cancer. I vacillated between belief and disbelief, and told my nanny family the truth of what was happening: my mom said she had cancer, but I couldn’t tell if she was being honest or not.
When I arrived in Seattle my mom’s face was ruddy and speckled from excessive drinking and smoking; her hair was greasy and unbrushed; her teeth yellowed from nicotene. Appearance was an obsession for her, and this was alarming. Her clothes were dirty and her refigerator was filled with wine and condiments. She blacked out every night and woke every morning wondering why I was upset. Whenever I tried to coaxe information from her regarding her cancer a dark haze descended. Lips tight, she always had the same response: I don’t want any doctors or chemo. Restrospectively, it seems so clear that she had given up on her life, but the cancer was like a red herring. My gut said she was lying. My heart punished me for thinking that my mom could do something like that.
On Christmas Eve we went to the Capitale Grille in Seattle. There had been several uncomfortable moments in the preceding days: my mom giving me several pieces of jewelry; her evasiveness whenever I brought up her cancer, or tried to ask about doctors and diagnoses, and a visit with her old work friend, who told me how sad it was that my mom had brain cancer. Not colon. Brain. Yet I still couldn’t fully convince myself, or anyone else, that she was lying.
At the fancy restaurant my mom was on the edge of blackout— I’d forced us to take a cab because she wanted to drive and wouldn’t hand her keys over. Dinner progressed. Drinks came and went. Her eyes took on the blackout’s familiar blank sheen and she swayed in her seat. I say she, but I could never really tell who was there once my mom was blacked out. Whoever it was, it wanted to inflict harm. Whenever my mom got like this I retreated to my child-self, my voice lilting high and sweet, trying to appease her and slow the incoming tide of inevitable rage. Our stilted conversation was a minefield; my stretched, uncomfortable smile like protective armor. When dessert came, the tide roared in. She pulled my bread pudding away from me, towards her, and hissed, I know you’re still throwing up. I froze, and she continued: You know, all those books say it’s my fault that you’re sick, but it’s your fault. You can’t blame everything on me. All you do is blame me for your life, but you’re really the fucked-up one, not me.
The words sliced through me, as they always did. I stared at her, knowing she’d never remember this. She kept talking, until I stood up and left, just as I’d done at the restaurant in Denver two years before. That time, I’d driven to my friend’s house, but now I had no one but her. Right outside the restaurant I leaned on the glass near the revolving door, watching the doorman receive a cab. From the backseat a family emerged: a pair of parents and their adult children. They were dressed up, smiling and laughing, their faces blushed and warm. Their love for each other, so bright and inviting, hurt me more than my mother’s words had.
I turned and looked through the restaurant, spotting my mom at our small table. I could see everything in her rigid, upright posture: her pride; her fear; her despair. As a child I’d learned to prioritize her well being above my own. Unknowingly, I sacrificed myself, always taking the blame. I’d learned to see myself as responsible for her. Our relationship was inverted. The tenderness I felt for her as I looked through the window was akin to the love a parent must feel for their child. She abused me, and my impulse was to comfort her, always. There was no one else to care for her, whether she really had cancer or not. If she didn’t have cancer, something unspeakable was happening. I was all she had. In January, I moved from Denver to Seattle. In May, one day before Mother’s Day, my mom died by suicide, and left a note confessing that she didn’t have cancer.
As a child I’d learned to prioritize her well being above my own. Unknowingly, I sacrificed myself, always taking the blame. I’d learned to see myself as responsible for her. Our relationship was inverted. The tenderness I felt for her as I looked through the window was akin to the love a parent must feel for their child. She abused me, and my impulse was to comfort her, always.
My first Christmas without my mom was profoundly painful, and many holidays since then have been challenging in various ways. Processing a parent’s suicide has got to be one of the most intense, challenging experiences one can have. I don’t think there’s an end point, but it does get easier as time passes. Or maybe I just don’t think about it as often.
Each year since her death I’ve spent holidays alone, with extended family, or with the families of my friends. I’ve been single throughout this time, and over the years I’ve learned to embrace the freedom from holiday obligations. This time of year is very quiet for me. It’s no longer sad, although there are moments of sadness. It’s a time for me to be with myself, and love myself, and perhaps be a little grateful that I no longer have to be subjected to anyone’s abuse.
My holiday touchstone films
It should be no surprise that all of my favorite holiday films feature dysfuctional families. Not all of them are official holiday films, but they all share a common theme: families come together and things fall apart. In all of the films, there’s a satisfying resolution at the end. They’re all cathartic for me, and maybe they can be for you as well.
Pieces of April (2003)
This is one of the most fucked-up, sweet and endearing holiday films I’ve ever seen. None of the characters are 100% likeable. They’re all messy, and they’re all trying their best to be their own version of good. April (played by Katie Holmes), is the family outcast. She’s made a lot of mistakes, and her family, who she’s invited over for Thanksgiving, doesn’t really trust her. But she really, really wants this Thanksgiving to be perfect. She’s bought all the food, including a turkey, and makes Herculean efforts to cook such a huge meal within the confines of her tiny NYC walk-up kitchen.
Her family, of course, can’t see any of these efforts, because they’re all squished in the family car: Mom, Dad, Sister, and Brother, plus Grandma. April’s a mystery to them, almost an evil archetype instead of a human being. April’s mother, played by Patricia Clarkson, has terminal cancer, and April’s siblings don’t understand why they’re going to the trouble of driving into the city at all.
Pieces of April (POA) is reminiscent of films like National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and The Daytrippers. What differentiates it is the grainy camera work and diversity of characters. Unlike so many films of the same era, even those based in NYC, this one features a diverse cast of characters without feeling like the director decided “I need a diverse cast of characters because diversity is good.” Rather, the cast feels totally natural and organic to the Lower East Side (which of course has transformed since 2003). April has to depend on her neighbors, basically strangers, in her quest to make this dinner happen, and in the end they all feel like an extension of her family, rooting for this hapless girl who’s just trying to create something out of nothing, and make up for her past mistakes.
Rachel Getting Married (2008)
Y’all, I can get teary-eyed simply looking at stills of this film, like this one of Anne Hathaway, who plays Kym, Rachel’s younger sister.
Kym has been in rehab for nine months, and she’s home for her sister Rachel’s wedding, a beautiful multicultural affair infused with music and celebration. Very quickly, it’s clear that Kym’s family is watching her very closely, waiting for something terrible to happen, and Kym knows this, too. It’s a lot of pressure for someone newly sober.
Rachel Getting Married (RGM) was directed by Jonathan Demme, best known for The Silence of the Lambs and Philadelphia. He chose to film RGM using a whole bunch of handheld cameras, giving him the freedom of choosing many different angles for each scene. The choice creates perpetual motion and a sense of fragmentation and instability; almost as if wedding guests are holding the cameras, documenting everything family film style, to be viewed years later.
Anne Hathaway’s performance here was overlooked; I think it’s one of her best. Like many of my favorite films, tragedy’s embedded in its center, but the tragedy is like a diamond created by force; its edges sharp and dangerous, its beauty only available to those who can stick with each other long enough to see through the grimy surface and find beauty through redemption. Redemption can’t erase our pain, but in RGM grief, loss and regret is juxtaposed alongside enduring familial connection. Like POA, RGM has a redemptive arc for all of its characters. The music and sound design plays an important part in the film as well— as a text it’s multilayered and complex well beyond its complicated narratives.
All of this said, RGM is intense. Emotionally it’s a lot to take in, so if you are feeling fragile after a recent loss, especially if you have recently lost a child, you may want to pass on this one. Though it was healing for me after my mom’s suicide, I know that it may not be healing for everyone. You can watch the trailer below.
The Family Stone (2005)
I don’t know how The Family Stone became one of my holiday traditions. Imperfect and flawed by age, my love for this film endures. Sarah Jessica Parker plays Meredith, a super uptight but well-intentioned and intelligent businesswoman from Bedford, NY. She’s visiting her boyfriend Everett’s (Dermot Mulroney) family for the first time, but she’s already met his sister Amy (Rachel McAdams). Amy hates Meredith, and makes sure to tell everyone about Meredith’s nervous “throat tic,” which Amy thinks is disgusting.
The Stone family is quirky, fun, judgemental, and harsh. They love each other unreservedly and their closeness is quite beautiful. Maybe this is what draws me in again and again. The family turns on Meredith; Meredith goes to a hotel. When Meredith, on the outs with the family, hands them all the same thoughtful gift, she melts their defenses. Chaos ensues. Tragedy unfolds outside of the film’s frame. The following Christmas all but one of the characters returns to the Stone house. Only one of them arrives with the same partner as the year before. It’s fun. It’s sad. It’s silly and cute and sometimes cringe. I love it.
Of all three films, this one is the most lighthearted, yet hesitate with that descriptor because it’s not a lighthearted film. No matter. The redemptive arc is why I keep returning.
Honorable mention: Krisha (2015)
This is a horror film, okay? No redemptive arc. No catharsis. Just darkness. You’ve been warned!
Years ago, I had a terrible Christmas alone while I was living in Syracuse, NY. I was totally hungover (yay for life without excessive drinking) and spent all day on the couch. For some reason I decided to watch Black Swan. I’ve always been drawn to super intense films, and I really liked Darren Aronofsky (my opinion of him has plumetted since The Whale), but watching Black Swan while hungover on Christmas Day? Too dark. Way too dark.
Krisha might be too dark for you, but if you have a relative (or relatives) locked in addiction, it may also help you feel seen in your suffering, or it may help you better understand theirs. I’ve been on both sides of addiction— an addict myself, but also someone trying to help an addict. Neither is easier than the other. Watch the trailer below and you’ll be able to see if the film looks interesting. Maybe you’ll be repelled, which is fine, too. It’s an A24 film and they’re known for horror, specifically by Ari Aster, who directed the film. Hereditary.
What are your favorite Holiday standbys?
Tell me about your fave films, music, television episodes, or activities? For instance, Wham’s “Last Christmas” is my favorite holiday song of all time. My mom’s favorite Christmas film was It’s a Wonderful Life. We watched it every year. I keep telling myself I’ll try watching it on my own, but I don’t think I’ll ever manage that.
There are also a few traditional holiday films I enjoy, but I want to hear yours, from the traditional to the outlandish! Share your faves in the comments!
Thank you for writing this and putting such a depth and shape around what the holidays mean to you. Our holidays were always predictably “egg shelly,” never really joyful and carefree but they also never descended into violence. It was just the ongoing sense that everything could explode at any moment that made them miserable. My heart really ached reading some of the things that your mother said and created around you.
As for the holidays, I went the opposite direction as many people with conflicting experiences: I charged unapologetically into overdrive. All the holiday things my little heart had dreamed of. I spent Thanksgiving with some cousins in Brooklyn, shlepped to the Macys Thanksgiving Day parade and had an “eye contact moment” with Santa and felt some sort of childlike belief was planted inside me. I can’t shake my enthusiasm for the music, the soft light, the evergreen. The efforting is catching up with me these days and my tree this year is wrapped in lights but otherwise undecorated. It is a new closeness with trees that I’m savoring, as it’s my first christmas in five years that I won’t be tucked on the side of our mountain.
All this to say, The Family Stone was a breakthrough visionary sort of movie to me in my college days. The dysfunction you described is accurate but to me it felt like a family that’s alive enough to engage, care and get a little messy together. I was enraptured by the mother. She felt like an archetype I wanted to be wrapped in like a soft blanket. I wanted to become a mother whose children brought themselves to her, a mother who defended them (the dinner scene where Meredith talks about not wanting her to children to be “challenged”).
Oof. Thank you for the time you poured into this piece. I really do honor that. 🙏🏼
A beautiful and moving post. I found it a pretty heart-wrenching read!
I don't have a favourite Christmas film. I'm not a great Christmas fan. But last year, in England, facing my first Christmas without my mother, who'd died 6 weeks before, I found myself watching Die Hard. I don't know why. I guess it was a reminder of times past (though not with my mother, who'd have hated all the swearing), a tiny glimpse of Christmas nostalgia without too much tinsel.