The Polar Express: An Unapolgetic Endorsement of Christmas

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I was barely six when I got the goods on Santa. It was all quite accidental, although my suspicions had already been aroused at least the Christmas season before, when it dawned on me that everywhere I turned, Santa was there. And he always looked a little different, always had a slightly different mannerism, seemed hearty at one turn, and slurred his speech at the next. But mostly, he never rememembered that we had chatted just an hour ago.

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Never.

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My parents' contrived reassurances that those "Santas" were actually elves the Big Man employed to get wishlists back to him did little to qualm my doubts. Little kids are not stupid. Even then, I knew elves were not six feet tall. And I really didn't want to believe Santa lived in a shadowy North Pole underworld populated by double agents and operatives constantly surveilling my every move.

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I wanted to believe--I really did. But that one evening when I was six sealed the deal. This Santa was good--jolly and empathic--and almost had me fooled. I though he had to be the real deal. So when he told me he had to go check on his elves, I just had to trail him. I furtively followed him through the Lasater Grocery aisles and watched him disappear into the backroom warehouse. I clambered onto the idle conveyor that moved produce onto the sales floor to get a better look.

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What I saw would shape all my perceptions for the better part of the next forty or so years. "Santa" was sitting on boxes cajoling with the workers in the warehouse, drinking beer, smoking a stogie and talking about honkey tonkin'. His padded red coat was off, and so was his "beard". Santa was just another redneck picking up beer change. He did have a cool, greased-back head of black hair, though.

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Even though I knew the truth, there was still a miniscule grain of doubt. That grain translated into it would be in my best interest to play along with the Santa thing. After all, if my parents knew I knew, I reasoned, I might not get presents. I was six, remember--and six year old logic is hardly developed.

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It took over forty years for a Christmas film to touch me, How the Grinch Stole Christmas notwithstanding. 2004's The Polar Express is a movie guaranteed to touch anybody whose heart isn't "two sizes too small." It's a simple story told with a childlike sense of wonder that's magical. Forget about the motion-capture technique Bob Zemeckis employed to turn Tom Hanks into at least three different characters. Never mind the extensive use of CGI to make you believe the Polar Express could careen crazily on ice before getting back on track. All you need to enjoy this film is suspend your disbelief for a little less than two hours..

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If you can do that, you'll be utterly immersed in a world enhanced by the vivid, but surreal colors of childhood memory. It's a dreamscape that doesn't merely challenge you to believe in magic-- it demands it. The Polar Express is a story in which every point is gently presented like an oil painting, with dibs and dabs of doubt and cynicism counterbalanced with the belief that what we can't see is the larger picture.

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It's a road trip the likes of which has never been chronicled, and it all takes place on Christmas Eve. At its core is the fundamental knowledge that faith is the one thing that holds us all together. And that's a message that extends well beyound Christmas.

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If only the Polar Express had come around that night when I was six. . .

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