Back in November of 2019, shortly before the world shut down, a little animated Christmas movie dropped on Netflix without a ton of fanfare. This quiet gem of a movie won a handful of awards and currently sits at a 96% audience score on Rotten Tomatoes but only 8.2 on IMDb (because some people’s hearts are two sizes too small). Sadly, it’s only available through Netflix, but as I’ll demonstrate shortly, this one is worth throwing a little money to the corporate overlords. Once Jessi and I discovered this film a couple of years ago, it instantly became a staple of our December viewing roster— up there with Muppet Christmas Carol (which, if you know my movie tastes, is the highest praise I can offer). So what makes Klaus so special?
The initial setup sounds simple and cute: Meet the postal carrier who delivers all of Santa’s letters! This premise was enough for me and Jessi to start the movie as a bit of festive background noise, and we enjoyed the humorous introduction to our main character: the bratty reluctant postman, Jesper Johansen. Over the first twenty minutes or so, as Jesper settles into the conflict-ridden town of Smeerensburg, Klaus feels like it’s going to be a quirky fish-out-of-water story where everyone learns a rote lesson about kindness— a fun, if somewhat cynical, comedy which might fit in with the likes of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation or A Christmas Story.
But then Klaus takes a poignant turn.
The mammoth woodsman, Klaus, may well be my favorite on-screen depiction of Santa Claus ever. In fact, I’d go so far as to say he’s now my definitive movie Santa, and he’s probably going to be the primary Santa my daughter will experience as she grows up. While Jason Schwartzman’s Jesper constantly cracks jokes, winks to the camera, and has a mile-long sarcastic streak, J.K. Simmons plays Klaus with unwavering earnestness, and as the plot unfolds, we learn why.
****SPOILERS FROM THIS POINT ON****
Klaus isn’t just a lighthearted story about Santa’s postman; it’s a reimagined origin story for Santa Claus, and when we first meet the iconically jolly figure, he’s at his lowest. Following the death of his wife, Klaus has isolated himself from the world. He goes through the motions of making countless bird-feeders because his wife liked birds, and his woodshop sits otherwise untouched— full of dusty old toys intended for the children he could never have. Stark and imposing, Klaus is quick to brandish his axe at anyone who comes onto his land, yet a supernatural winter wind (implied to be his wife’s spirit) guides him toward opening up again. This wind gusts through when Klaus first meets Jesper, and it ensures that a timely letter makes its way into Klaus’s hands; it guides him in finally reopening his shop and inviting people in; and —I did say there would be spoilers here— Klaus calls the wind by his wife’s name as it beckons him into the next life.
While all the characters have their journeys —Jesper abandons his cynicism, Alva recovers her sense of purpose, the townsfolk overcome their senseless feud—, Klaus’s arc is easily the most dramatic. He laughs his heartfelt “ho ho ho” for the first time in years. His shop (previously a shrine to his grief) fills up with life and love and warmth. He moves from abject solitude into lifelong relationships with Jesper, Alva, and the Sámi people who come to his aid. His once-lonely and bitter life overflows with love and connection as he finds a new purpose: to bring joy to as many children as he can. And yes, all this is nice, but why does it hit so hard emotionally? Why does this movie pluck every heartstring?
Klaus is about grief— specifically the growth from raw active mourning into a more reconciled grief. And this is something to which literally every human being can relate.
While we frequently interchange the words “grieving” and “mourning,” there’s a subtle difference. Per Dr. Alan Wolfelt of the Center for Loss and Life Transition, grief is the complicated mixture of feelings and emotions we experience after a loss, while mourning is the outward expression of that grief. Because love is forever, grief too is forever, but mourning doesn’t have to be. As we mourn after a loss, we may make moves toward understanding our new reality, embracing the pain, finding ways to remember the person well, establishing new self-identity, finding new meaning, and developing supportive relationships. Dr. Wolfelt calls these “the six needs of mourning,” and we actually see Klaus engage in all six.
When we first meet Klaus, he may have acknowledged the reality of his situation, but he’s numbed himself to the pain of it; he has cut himself off from the world, and he fills his days with fairly menial work. He refuses to feel anything but anger. He’s lost any sense of purpose and won’t reenter the sections of the workshop which bear reminders of Lydia and the family they couldn’t have. Only through reentering the toy shop and seeing the carving of his yearned-for family does Klaus finally embrace his pain and start to talk about his wife. Through his work, Klaus starts to honor Lydia and their dream of a family. He forms supportive relationships with Alva, the Sámi carpenters, and of course Jesper. He finds new meaning in making and delivering toys. And in the scene where he at last dons his red cloak and hat, we see him fully taking on his new self-identity as a bringer of joy, not a man stuck in mourning. (If you’re keeping track, that’s all six needs of mourning.)
Klaus isn’t only a story of Santa Claus; it’s a story of learning to live with grief. Klaus himself becomes an aspirational figure not just for his kindness, but because of his ability to find new meaning and relationships while still honoring the person and the dream that he lost.
Maybe you’re hurting this Christmas.
Maybe you’ve lost someone, and now your holidays feel a little off kilter.
Maybe you’re just not feeling the joy this year and aren’t sure why.
I wonder if the story of Klaus can be a tool for reflecting on those feelings and talking about them. But even if not, it’s still a fun little movie that I can’t recommend enough.