Carol for Another Christmas 1964

On Christmas Eve, Daniel Grudge, Sterling Hayden, a wealthy American industrialist, sits alone in a dark room of his mansion, brooding over a framed display of war medals while a record of a World War II–era song, Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree (with Anyone Else but Me), threads through the speakers. He shuts off the music, but the melody stubbornly returns as he leaves the room. Downstairs, his nephew Fred, Ben Gazzara, arrives to press Grudge on a cause, only to find a stubborn defense of isolationism. Grudge contends that the United States should stay out of foreign affairs, avoid cultural exchanges, foreign aid, and UN discussions, while Fred argues for empathy, dialogue, and a global approach to prevent future wars and nuclear catastrophe. The rift is sharpened by a shared memory that weighs on them both: Marley, the son Grudge loved and who was killed in World War II on Christmas Eve 1944, a memory that binds their fear of loss to a fear of intervention. Marley, Peter Fonda, remains a haunting reminder of the price of inaction.

After Fred leaves, the record begins again on its own, and Grudge is drawn into visions that blur the line between memory and nightmare. He finds himself aboard a fogbound troopship, its deck lined with coffins draped in flags and guarded by soldiers at attention. A voice introduces itself as the Ghost of Christmas Past, Steve Lawrence, and explains that the ship carries the dead of nations from wars across history. Through the mist, another vessel appears, carrying World War II dead, and Grudge realizes he is witnessing a vast convoy of history’s fallen. The Ghost urges that the path to ending killing is simple: more talk, more understanding, more humanity. This admonition leads them to a grim recollection from Grudge’s own past as a Navy commander, when he and his WAVE driver, Eva Marie Saint, visited a hospital in Hiroshima and beheld the faces of children scarred by the atomic blast. The moment is stark, intimate, and morally compounding, a reminder that distant violence touches real lives.

The journey then turns to the Ghost of Christmas Present, [Pat Hingle], who sits at an enormous Christmas feast laid out on Grudge’s own dining table. The Ghost’s gleaming plate is a stark contrast to the adjacent internment camp, where displaced people from various nations scrape for food in the snow. Grudge challenges the Ghost’s abundance, but the Ghost counters with statistics about the persistent needs of the world and insists that refusing aid only exacerbates suffering. In a dramatic gesture, the Ghost toppled tableware and food, scattering leftovers across the floor, to force Grudge to confront the consequences of his theories of self-reliance. The impact of this confrontation sends Grudge spiraling into a nightmarish vision of his town.

He emerges in the ruined hall of the local town hall, now a battlefield scarred by a nuclear war. The Ghost of Christmas Future, [Robert Shaw], presents a chilling scene: a demagogue who calls himself “Imperial Me,” a figure in a Santa suit with a cowboy‑hat crown, rallies a crowd that prizes self-interest over collective survival. The crowd cheers as Imperial Me and his followers begin to persecute the idea of cooperation, first threatening those across the river who want to talk, then turning on each other. Grudge witnesses his own staff—his loyal butler, Charles, portrayed by Percy Rodriguez—being condemned as a traitor and shot by a young boy in a cowboy outfit. Ruby, Grudge’s cook, played by Barbara Ann Teer, grieves at Charles’s death as the crowd presses toward a brutal survivalist endgame. As the vision unfolds, Grudge confronts a maddening question: is this world “as it must be, or as it might be?” The Ghost offers no answer, simply leaving Grudge to digest what he has witnessed.

When Grudge awakens on Christmas morning, he finds himself back in his study, the phone in his hand, and his nephew Fred at the door. Fred notes that Grudge called him in the early hours and asks him to stop by on the way to church. In the wake of the night’s revelations, Grudge softens toward internationalism and diplomacy, offering cautious support for the United Nations and the power of dialogue to prevent future wars. The mood shifts as the radio broadcasts the voices of UN delegates’ children singing Christmas carols in their native languages, a small but resonant symbol of global solidarity. Fred exits, and Grudge chooses a different morning ritual—he steps into the kitchen to share coffee with Charles and Ruby instead of allowing them to serve him on a tray, signaling a newfound respect for the shared humanity that binds people across borders.

In the quiet, hopeful aftermath, the film’s Christmas spirit lingers: a recognition that strength without mercy risks breeding cycles of violence, while openness to cooperation can become a lifeline for future generations. The narrative travels from a self-contained life of privilege to a broader vision where dialogue, empathy, and collective action stand as antidotes to fear and destruction. Through visions of the past, present, and possible futures, Grudge discovers a path toward reconciliation with others and, crucially, with Marley’s memory—an awakening that reframes his priorities and invites a more hopeful chapter for a world weary of war.