Working title: A Festive Lesson in Why You Should Never Let Men Choose Films Based on Old Crushes
Last night I made the catastrophic mistake of letting my boyfriend select which Christmas film we were going to watch. He chose ‘Best Christmas Ever‘, featuring Heather Graham, purely because of his early 2000s crush on her.
This was a decision that felt low-risk at the time and has since been revealed as a full festive betrayal.
To be clear: Heather Graham looks phenomenal.
The woman is in her mid-50s and she is radiant, glowing. If she’s not had work done then she either has exceptional genetics or there’s a painting in her loft getting older. However, I can confidently report that any lingering crush that boyfriend may have felt has been decisively put to bed by this film, which manages to make a beautiful woman profoundly tedious through the sheer force of bad writing and baffling character decisions.
Heather plays Charlotte, mum of two, married to Rob (Jason Biggs of American Pie fame, who is actually a lot younger than Heather – though because she is apparently ageless, you’d never notice). Two proper Hollywood actors there, it has to be alright, right? Wrong.
The final main character in this charade is Jackie Jennings, played by 90s R&B singer Brandy. For the purpose of the ‘plot’ it is important to know that every year, Jackie (who is Charlotte’s high-school best friend and also her husband’s ex, because of course she is) sends out a glossy, competitively upbeat family newsletter detailing her flawless life, listing her children’s accomplishments and flaunting their posh holidays.
We are repeatedly told that Charlotte is a scientist.
She is detail-oriented, logical, a problem-solver of intelligence and rigour. This feels significant, because within the first act she somehow fails to notice that her family are driving to the wrong house and, instead of heading to her sister’s new place, accidentally rock up for Christmas at Jackie’s massive, perfect home.
How? Inspired by Jackie’s letter, Charlotte’s odd child decides he’d rather spend Christmas there than chilling with his cousins and deliberately enters Jackie’s address into the sat nav.
And that’s it. No one double-checks. Not Charlotte the Scientist. Not her husband. Not even a cursory “is this right?” before they set off on a nine-hour journey to the wrong sodding place. And when they arrive – still nothing. No recognition. No dawning horror. No sense that this is very obviously not her sister’s house.
Sorry. No.
I am not a scientist. I am simply a woman with Rightmove.
When my sister moved house, I inspected every room like I was preparing a planning objection. If Charlotte is supposedly close enough to this woman to spend CHRISTMAS with her, I do not believe for one second that she wouldn’t recognise the house, the drive, or the general vibe before dragging her obligatory suitcase full of way too many winter coats to the doorstep and committing to the mistake.
And then, rather than be absolutely horrified at the sight of uninvited visitors in the week before Christmas like a normal person, Jackie insists they come in and because her house is massive and perfect there is space for them all! After an overnight snow storm, Jackie convinces the family of four to stay with her, her precocious, nerdy little daughter and her crop-top wearing muscley husband for Christmas! Mad shit.
Once trapped in Jackie’s huge and aggressively perfect house, Charlotte descends into festive madness: snooping, spying, creeping around like CSI: North Pole. She must prove that Jackie’s life isn’t perfect like the holiday round-robins make out. She must! Tearing down other people always makes one feel better, after all.
There is a dollhouse she destroys, accidentally. There is a secret family newsletter written by her own husband. There is Brandy singing. There is a weird child prodigy who speaks exclusively in spreadsheet energy. All of this happens, and yet somehow the film still finds time to be deeply boring.
Then comes the ‘twist’.
Jackie’s son is not in Kosovo as this years’ newsletter claimed; he is dead. This is why she’s so kind. So relentless in her cheer. Her life is far from perfect, and grief, it turns out, explains everything, including why we now have to sit through even more earnest scenes of meaning and healing while we reflect on the fragility of human attention spans.
The climax involves a solar-powered hot air balloon, flown at night, repaired by Charlotte using her invention: the Chip Mitt; a product so stupid it should not exist in any universe. The balloon somehow tows a sleigh, the town thinks it’s Father Christmas, and at this point I had fully dissociated.
Science is not consulted. Logic is not invited. Physics is politely escorted from the premises.
By the time we reach the open-air nativity, the Brandy singing reprise, the Santa confirmation speech from the unsettling genius child, and the final emotional swelling, I was actively begging for the credits.
Final verdict
Heather Graham looks incredible.
Her character is insufferable.
The plot is wildly implausible.
The science is offensive.
The coats are excessive.
The boredom is terminal.
I will never again relinquish Christmas film choice based on male nostalgia.
Rating: 2/10. This film will actively ruin your day. There is not a single moment of humour.
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