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Nothing puts the damper on the holidays like coming home with a Christmas tree and finding your husband’s brains splattered on the living room rug. Writer-director Zach Clark doesn’t rise much above that level of subtlety in his lampoon of the phony goodwill and soulless commercialism of the Yuletide season. Luckily, he has a cast that elevates the puerility into genuine pathos and absurdity.
Most of the credit goes to Anna Margaret Hollyman, who plays Suzanne, the bland real estate agent who makes the grisly discovery. In a deadpan performance, she combines the saccharine submissiveness of a Stepford wife with Buster Keaton’s blank acceptance of an absurd universe.