Deck the Halls with Bodies Giles Harrison Joins the Third Class of the Hall of Killers
There are many villains who hate people. There are villains who hate society. There are even villains who hate holidays in general. Giles Harrison is something far more specific and far more British. He does not hate Christmas itself. He hates Santa Claus. Or more accurately, he hates anyone who dares to put on the red suit and pretend everything is cheerful while the world quietly rots underneath.
That deeply focused festive rage has now earned Giles Harrison a well deserved spot in the third class tier of the Hall of Killers.
First unleashed upon unsuspecting audiences in 1984’s Don’t Open Till Christmas, Giles Harrison is one of the most singular Christmas slashers ever put to screen. While many seasonal killers embrace the iconography by wearing the costume themselves, Giles goes the opposite route. He hunts Santas. Street Santas. Mall Santas. Charity Santas. Any man foolish enough to don a beard and a red coat in December is effectively putting a target on their back.
Played by Edmund Purdom with an intensity that suggests several emotional breakdowns happened before breakfast, Giles is a traumatised former soldier whose hatred of Santa is rooted in a wartime tragedy. The film hints at a past filled with violence guilt and psychological damage, all of it crystallised around the image of Santa Claus as a cruel symbol rather than a jolly one. Therapy would have been cheaper. Instead we get murder.
What makes Giles such a perfect third class Hall of Killers inductee is that he is memorable without being mythic. He is not supernatural. He does not crack jokes. He does not stalk teenagers across multiple sequels. He appears once, commits a series of extremely festive murders, and then disappears into slasher history having done exactly what he came to do.
The third class tier is built for killers like this. Characters who burn brightly in a single film, leave a lasting impression, and then politely step aside for bigger icons. Giles Harrison is not Freddy Krueger or Michael Myers. He does not belong in Legendary or Premier class. But if you mention Christmas slashers to any horror fan, his name comes up surprisingly fast.
Don’t Open Till Christmas itself is a glorious example of early 80s British slasher excess. Shot on the streets of London with a gritty almost sleazy energy, the film feels like it barely survived its own production. It leans heavily into exploitation cinema, combining nudity violence and holiday iconography in ways that feel both shameless and strangely earnest.
John Saxon appears as the investigating cop because if there was a slasher film in the 1980s, John Saxon was legally required to show up and look concerned. His presence gives the film a strange sense of legitimacy even as umbrellas are used as murder weapons and Santas continue to drop like flies.
Giles Harrison stands apart from many holiday killers because his motivation is clear and unwavering. He is not punishing naughty children. He is not enacting folklore. He is not possessed by a demon or driven by irony. He is simply a man who associates Santa Claus with personal trauma and responds to that association with lethal force.
That simplicity is part of his appeal. There is something brutally honest about a villain whose entire worldview boils down to one idea. Santa equals lies. Lies deserve punishment.
His induction into the Hall of Killers also arrives at the perfect time thanks to 88 Films finally giving Don’t Open Till Christmas the respect it deserves with a brand new Blu ray release as part of their Slasher Classics collection. After decades of murky transfers and bootleg memories, the film now looks better than any Santa Giles ever murdered.
Giles Harrison now joins a growing group of festive Hall of Killers inductees. Harry Stadling from Christmas Evil brought his own warped sincerity to the season. Stripe from Gremlins turned Christmas into chaos. La Femme from Inside proved that Christmas Eve is an excellent time for psychological terror. Giles fits right in among them, quietly sharpening his weapon while Mariah Carey plays somewhere in the distance.
So welcome Giles Harrison to the third class tier of the Hall of Killers. A man who did not wear the suit. A man who destroyed the suit. And a killer who reminds us all that dressing as Santa is not always a victimless crime.
Especially in 1980s London.
