The Family Stone, of course.

"It was the first totem pole to be raised in that community in a hundred years and it was just because this guy, I guess he was a fisherman, would wander around from bar to bar talking about how he had this hole in his heart; he said he couldn't sleep, he would just lie there in bed, because he had this hole in his heart. .... You don't want to hear this. (No, tell me, tell me). The community found this log, and even though he had never carved before..."

This, of course, is 'played' completely straight. And it's part of what makes TFS the best satire (or anti-satire? or unintentional comedy scale entry?) I've ever seen. The most monstrous family. Ever. Watch poor Sarah Jessica Parker, who I've never liked before, be humiliated by a Susan Sontag look-a-like (Keaton in her NYRB best) and her gay black son-in-law (so token, he's the only non-famous member of the cast!) and Craig Nelson (that's Coach), playing Robert Bly with quiet, quiet fury.

The joke's for "us" non Kool-Aid drinkers. I think. Just as in "The Last Supper," except without Ron Perlman headlining. Still, owing to a few awkward montages, perhaps it is wholly a blissful Christmas miracle of self-satire. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and Luke Wilson is the snow, and flannel wearing SJP just scooped him up with her big red shovel to Maggie O'Brien from "Meet in Me in St. Louis."

Mercy, Mercy, Mercy me.

Merry Christmas to all. (And to the Godfather of Soul, RIP). (Re: McL, McC much softer.)

UPDATE:
Sorry, this is just too good. From Berardinelli's hysterically misguided review: "The film comes with an epilogue, and it is needed because not all the subplots can be wrapped up in the three-day span that restricts the primary action. This five-minute sequence, which offers closure to almost everything, has an underlying sense of poignancy that the director could have mishandled. The atmosphere is ripe for manipulation of the kind that will ensure there's not a dry eye in the house. But Bezucha is restrained. He's smart, recognizing that we don't need violins to feel the undercurrent." I read this, of course, as we cued strings (many, many a violin) to the least couple dancing by the Christmas tree in the reflection of the photo of their dead by cancer mother. Genius.