Cards on the table: Champagne Problems is, shockingly, one of the first new Christmas films I’ve reviewed that hasn’t made me want to lunge headfirst into the nearest mulled-wine vat. I didn’t feel angry, no one shat on feminism, and for once the main couple were not only legitimately hot but also capable of beige acting with enough sparkle to make it almost believable.
A Christmas miracle!
We follow Sydney Price, a businesswoman who means business, flying to Paris to acquire a champagne house; Château Cassell. She’s the sort of person who knows a lot about champagne but mispronounces Dom Pérignon like she’s ordering at Wetherspoons. She also cannot say macaron, grand cru, or honestly anything else French. It’s charming. Or tragic. Or just American.
She also owns a lot of coats: She takes at least six of them with her to Paris in a tiny carry-on. I would very much appreciate her packing tips.
On her first night, she’s promised her sister she’ll actually do some sightseeing, so she asks the concierge for a bookshop that stocks English books; clearly she doesn’t use Amazon and doesn’t mind lugging hardbacks across international borders for absolutely no reason. The bookshop is extremely Parisian: coffee, breathy singers, beautiful people browsing. C’est magnifique.
And because I’ve watched roughly 957 Christmas films in the past fortnight, I spotted the twist the second a flirty man in a turtleneck appeared among the bookshelves. If a handsome man appears in a Christmas film, he’s never a simple shop assistant, he’s the secret heir. Fact. (See also: The Secret Santa.)
Enter Henri: hot, smouldering, French, and in a bookshop so he can probably read too. Despite the language barrier, Sydney and Henri have instant chemistry because that’s just what happens in Paris bookstores. Unimpressed with her plans to sightsee like an embarassing tourist, he offers to show her the real Paris.
And maybe definitely his penis.
Cue montage:
Ferris wheels, twinkling Eiffel Tower, a crêpe stand. They kiss at 22 minutes, which is frankly obscene pacing.
They spend the night together. I won’t judge; it’s PARIS and he’s a hot Frenchman. The next morning she oversleeps and is late for a midday meeting; something I wish I could achieve, but she came to Paris for one reason and didn’t set an alarm? That is less believable than a human snowman, but OK.
The big meeting is where we meet Otto the humourless German, Brigitte the elegant French ice-queen, and Roberto, the fabulously camp American with a billionaire father. Roberto is Comic Relief Gay™ in a way that should annoy me, but Christmas films have broken my standards. He sabres champagne! He flirts with a shirtless Santa! He quotes Die Hard! He sparkles!
They’re all there to pitch for ownership of Château Cassell to owner Hugo in a tense little corporate bake-off, when in strolls son Henri, all brooding knitwear. I knew it. He looks shocked, Sydney looks shocked, as well they might. Henri knows Sydney’s company swoops in, guts family businesses, and sells the corpse for parts, and he’s about as enthusiastic about that as drinking flat prosecco. OH NOES.
Hugo, clearly bored of civilised business transactions, abruptly decides everyone must decamp to the château for an Apprentice-style weekend to prove that they deserve to buy the vineyard.
Château Shenanigans!
Once everyone’s herded to the château, Papa Cassell leads them through frosty vines before marching them into the cellars to demonstrate the sacred art of turning bottles. Otto remains stoic, Roberto enjoys champagne and innuendo, and Sydney nearly removes her own digestive system after being force-fed cheese despite her lactose intolerance. There’s even a horse-drawn carriage ride that would have been gorgeously romantic if Sydney hadn’t been quietly farting her soul out.
Between the cheese-induced near-death experience and the next plot twist, Sydney bonds with Hugo when she mentions her dead mum, giving him the perfect excuse to wheel out a monologue about his dead wife. Their grief tennis somehow leads to her fixing his ancient Citroën by suggesting he check the idle jets, which miraculously works. This scene exists purely so Hugo can decide she has a good heart and Henri can later realise he’s been an absolute plank.
Anyway, DRAMA!
Just when Sydney’s thawing Henri’s icy exterior, disaster strikes: she isn’t closing the deal fast enough, so her company flies in her evil male co-worker, a man who can’t grow facial hair properly. He turns up ready to asset-strip the vineyard into oblivion, instantly confirming everything Henri feared and causing maximum drama.
Henri is upset, Sydney cries beautifully, like a young J-Lo in a supermarket advert. She flees to the station, cue the Sad Girl on a Train Montage™, staring out at the French countryside while music insists this was a great romance and not 48 hours of kissing and gastrointestinal distress.
But because I’ve SEEN THESE MOVIES, I knew exactly what was coming: Hugo announces he’s selling the vineyard… to ROBERTO. The gay billionaire’s son. Who admits he knows nothing about wine, but is rich enough that none of this matters. Male co-worker leaves in disgust. Smell ya later, shit-tasche.
Henri, realising he’s been a monumental tit, hops into his dad’s shitty vintage Citroën (which Sydney magically fixed, keep up), and races to find her. He misses her at the hotel because she’s gone to the bookshop, where they reunite. He apologises. They kiss. Frenchly.
Flash forward a year: they’re still snogging in their bookshop–wine-bar hybrid (his dream) where she is COO of the champagne biz, Hugo and Brigitte are definitely shagging, Otto is now a Krampus-based children’s entertainer and Roberto is a silent partner sipping champagne at the bar.
Reader, it was… fine.
Actually fine! No rage! No predators! Attractive leads with chemistry! A story that didn’t make me want to self-immolate!
Champagne Problems won’t change your life, but it will gently fizz its way through 90 minutes of festive sofa time without making you hate the world.
And in 2025, that’s basically Best Picture.
Rating: 8/10. Cute, harmless, and French.
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All the same reactions to this film. I absolutely love it. And I forgave him for not correcting her when she called macarons, macaroons. Not once but twice. He was trying to get into her knickers. It’s just the perfect little bit of Christmas fluff that we need in the world gone bonkers. Again. I have to admit that I’ve watched it more than once and I may have popped it on at night to fall asleep to.
Please. PLEASE. Watch A Cinderella Story; Christmas Wish. It’s haunted me for years. I need to not be alone. I actually hit the fast forward button at one point.