Bad Santa is vulgar, crude, and offensive. It boasts no admirable characters and few redeeming moments. Most, if not all, of the characters are wracked with personality disorders. It's packed with foul language; Quentin Tarantino could take lessons on how to squeeze in as many variations on the F-word as possible. Its main character is an alcoholic loser, a felon who drinks himself stupid and urinates on himself in public, who has a predilection for sodomizing large women in the dressing rooms of malls, and who plays Santa every year to gain entrance to department stores, which he robs. The film would be unforgivable if it weren't so damn funny. I laughed louder and longer during Bad Santa than I have in a while.

Billy Bob Thornton playes Willie, the titular bad Santa, and he is really bad. He hates kids, for one thing. He growls "what do you want" at them, and he boots them off his lap when they aren't quick enough. Since he's always drunk or hung over, he doesn't really listen to what the kids want: he's liable to spout profanity at them when they ask for weird gifts ("What the fuck is a Fraggle stick?"). He's just as liable to nod off in a drunken stupor or urinate on himself. His long-suffering assistant, small person Marcus (Tony Cox) who poses as Santa's elf, attempts to keep his drinking under control long enough for them to stage their yearly heist. This year, it looks like their system is on the verge of breakdown.

Adding to the problem are Mr. Chipeska (John Ritter, in his last screen role), the cheapskate who hired him because he works cheaper and comes with his own elf. Chipeska is a mild-mannered guy who seems to have hidden fascist depths: while it's understandable that he doesn't like the idea of Santa having sex in the dressing rooms, he gets a wistful smile on his face when banning all intimacy is suggested. He enlists Gin (Bernie Mac), the store's security chief, to investigate the two bearers of holiday cheer, looking for a reason to fire them that won't bring angry political action groups out of the woodwork (there's an absolutely priceless scene where he tries to fire them but backs down when the spectre of dwarf activists with tiny bullhorns is raised). Gin learns all there is to know about the two thieves, but instead of turning them in, he forces them to cut him in (yet another priceless scene where he negotiates his cut).

And then there's the kid, Thurman Merman (Brett Kelly), a seemingly brain damaged leech who affixes himself to Santa. He takes no notice of Santa's foul mouth, stinking breath, or pathalogical antisocial behavior. At first he's a nuisance, then he's a nuisance who provides a nice house for Santa to stay in. The two bond, although not in your average movie way, because this isn't your average movie. Also present is Sue (Lauren Graham), a bartender with a Santa fetish whose sexual attraction to Willie's red hat turns into real affection.

Billy Bob Thornton raises misanthropy to new levels in his portrayal of Willie. He spouts profanity in such streams that it becomes almost rhythmic. His deadpan delivery is the key: he doesn't call attention to the fact that he's just said something funny. I nearly hurt myself laughing when he's asked by a kid why he's wearing a fake beard, and he responds that his hair fell out "because I loved a woman who wasn't clean" in his matter-of-fact way. He looks it, too: Thornton is a living, breathing version of an alcohol-soaked couch abandoned by a college fraternity.

I liked how the secondary characters were filled out with personality tics that made them interesting. Bernie Mac chain-smokes and ritualistically eats oranges. John Ritter gets that faraway look in his eye when imagining a world without filth. I also liked how the film toyed with movie cliches but seldom fell into their trap. Santa attempts to teach Thurman how to defend himself from skate punks, but he eventually has to do the job himself; his summary of the day's events is another high point in the film. Holiday films require their characters to undergo dramatic changes for the better, but Willie even manages to mess that up: watch the color of the elephant. Even the obligatory happy ending is done entirely tongue-in-cheek, as the film gives the braying raspberry to Hollywood endings where everyone lives happily ever after.

Director Terry Zwigoff, who directed two other odes to misanthropes, the documentary Crumb and 2001's wonderful Ghost World, is like the anti-John Hughes: while the latter made sweet films about loveable losers who everyone roots for, Zwigoff specializes in antisocial creeps who make people nervous to be around. When I first saw the preview for this movie and noticed that he was directing it, I wondered what he was thinking. After seeing it, I understand.