Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street

If you haven't seen the original version of Miracle on 34th Street sometime in the past 47 years, it's certainly not for lack of opportunity. Next to It's a Wonderful Life (and nearly every John Wayne vehicle), it's one of the most frequently aired movies on TV, or so it seems. Why then, did John Hughes feel compelled to retell the story of the department store Santa who claims to be the real Kris Kringle? Perhaps for the same reason that drove Marlo Thomas to remake It's a Wonderful Life. The new Miracle is not nearly as dreadful as the Thomas TV travesty, but I fear that if this remake's a success, George Bailey could be reincarnated as soon as Macaulay Culkin's voice changes. Talk about nightmares before Christmas! Actually, Hughes has assembled a pretty decent cast here. A master at playing the vulnerable tough gal, Perkins effortlessly updates the Maureen O'Hara role. Her Dorie, determined to raise a daughter free of futile dreams, has the weary, reluctant strength peculiar to single parents. Likewise, as the daughter who yearns to believe but has instead been taught the awful truth, Mara Wilson is a winning and credible combination of gravity and giggles. McDermott as the romantic interest and Kris' most fervent supporter, J.T. Walsh as the grumpy, beleaguered District Attorney, and Jane Leeves as the Mata Hari from the discount chain store are all just dandy. But… Richard Attenborough? Sure, he has good hair and beard, but the man simply doesn't twinkle. He more bares his English dental plan teeth than smiles and has a slightly sinister air about him. Unlike the cherubic Edmund Gwenn's Kris Kringle (he won an Oscar for his 1947 performance), Attenborough's Santa is a hard sell. Exacerbating the problem is the story update that has Kris incarcerated, not for failing the department store's psychological exam, but for hitting a heckler with his cane. Moreover, it is at this point that Attenborough is most believable. Though he shows suitable remorse and delivers an impassioned speech about the importance of a role model's responsibilities, the bottom line is: Santa coshed someone. Cap that with a typically aggrandized Hughesian finale where Santa delivers a big, sumptuously decorated house in the suburbs, filled to the rafters with expensive presents, and the spirit of Christmas in the Nineties becomes painfully clear. And I heard a woman exclaim as the scene faded from sight, “Man, I guess I need to talk to Santa tonight!”