A man wakes up after a short stint in a police holding cell, still under the influence of the synaptic misfires and pale electric lethargy of junk sickness. He goes out into the pre-gentrified streets of New York City looking for a fix to keep the demons at bay for one more day. There is no tomorrow for the addict, only the immediate needs of the day. Morality takes a backseat to the pangs of addiction, not because the addict is innately amoral but because the static of physiological need screams with immediacy and drowns out the whispers of altruistic impulse. All focus has been narrowed to the satisfaction of the need; a need that goes beyond rationality, beyond reason, beyond hope, and beyond fear.
Burroughs crafts beauty from the ugliness of the world as only he can, spinning a tale of one moment of perfect selflessness in an imperfect world.
In a Claymation film that harkens to the Christmas specials of yesteryear, William S. Burroughs The Junky’s Christmas is brought to life with twisted monochrome clay figures whose sunken eyes show the ravages of too many junk sick mornings. This clay world and its inhabitants are covered in the soot and despair of city streets and moves the rhythmic vibrations of jazz bleating from downtrodden street corners and coldwater flats. It is a world that mirrors the uglier parts of our own with fat, apathetic doctors whose empathy had long disappeared into the bottoms of whiskey bottles and shady grifters looking for an angle to exploit to make it through another day. Burroughs’ unmistakable voice provides the narration for this urban Christmas fable and his lifetimes of experience and pain offer a priceless candor to the hyperreal film.
So if you are inclined to buy into the prescribed spirit of the season, remember that empathy is the most valuable gift that we have to give.
Burroughs crafts beauty from the ugliness of the world as only he can, spinning a tale of one moment of perfect selflessness in an imperfect world. These moments of temporary heroism would otherwise go unnoticed if not for Burroughs’ own explorations of the darkness inherent in the human soul. The square world would feel contempt for these tragic figures, certain of their own moral superiority despite the painlessness of sacrifice afforded by affluence. For these figures, a tab of morphine conned from an alcoholic doctor is more precious than all the golden ornaments and hollow holiday cheer that the square world has to offer, and one shining moment of selflessness can be rewarded with the immaculate. So if you are inclined to buy into the prescribed spirit of the season, remember that empathy is the most valuable gift that we have to give. Perhaps one day it will be the empathy of a junky under the overwhelming influence of personal demons that sees you through a difficult time and changes your life for the better.
Burroughs’ unmistakable voice provides the narration for this urban Christmas fable and his lifetimes of experience and pain offer a priceless candor to the hyperreal film.
