That Christmas: The Netflix Festive Formula Defeats Richard Curtis

WATCHING That Christmas is like watching an animated, cutesy, children’s version of Love, Actually (2003) — the love-to-hate and hate-to-love holiday classic that gets more divisive as the years pass. It’s no coincidence, of course. That Christmas, directed by Simon Otto, is co-written by British romcom icon Richard Curtis and based on his book That Christmas and Other Stories. It features three intertwining stories in a quaint little English town called Kensington-on-Sea.

There’s Danny, the new kid in town with an overworked single mom, an absent dad, a strict teacher and a crush on a girl named Sam. There’s Sam, an anxious teenager who wants her twin sister to behave so that she doesn’t get onto Santa’s naughty list. And there’s a gang of kids left with the eldest, Bernie, as their parents — all of whom are friends — head out of town for a wedding. There’s also a voice-over by none other than Santa Claus himself, voiced by Succession’s Brian Cox in his original Scottish accent, which means he’s not on the brink of growling “f*ck off!” to anyone.

If you’ve seen enough Richard Curtis movies, you’ll know that everyone’s funny and awkward and lonely and warm. There are several Love Actually-coded moments here — like the school stage production, the parents’ banter, the softening up of the uptight and isolated teacher (a bit of Home Alone there), and the in-joke of young Bernie playing the film (and dismissing it) with the kids. I like the little touches. Like a clumsy and overwhelmed Claus arriving in a snowstorm, doing everything he can to make the kids happy next morning, but then realising that life still has a way of continuing after Christmas; they’re still on their own. Like the feel-goodness of the resolutions — tropey but necessary. Like Claus not really being the difference-maker in the film, and just the narrator. The writing also has a way of establishing the setting; the animation isn’t exactly cutting-edge, but there’s a sense of personality and atmosphere about this cosy village.

But there’s something template-ish (other than the title) about That Christmas. I don’t mean the been-there-done-that vibe; if anything, that’s comfort food. You can tell that the film sort of struggles to connect its three threads organically. There are three different films fighting for attention, unlike the anthological nature of Love Actually, where each film was content to exist in its own little bubble; the links were more of a bonus there. As a result, every character feels like a type: the Indian mother making sarcastic comments, the annoyingly cheery red-haired dad, the grumpy teacher, the hyperactive soccer mom, the gurgling sweet kid. They’re all made to look like they occupy the same quirky universe, one that Pixar probably used to create two decades ago. At times, you even forget it’s computer generation imagery — and not in a good way.

You expect a little more from storytellers who’ve been around and back. I know Christmas movies aren’t usually about ambition. But at worst, they need to be like a cup of hot chocolate by a fireplace even for those who haven’t really experienced that feeling. That’s the reason most of us still rewatch older classics from simpler times — which ironically belong to an era that Curtis himself had defined. The recent Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point, which has largely been unheralded this year, is a fine example of subverting the holiday movie by showing life as is. It’s an antidote to worse Netflix movies, but That Christmas is so content in being a side-hug that you wonder if there’s a way forward for the genre. People have strong feelings about Curtis’ brand of organised humour (despite Notting Hill), yet it’s that old-schoolness that keeps attracting us to meet younger versions of ourselves.

The issue with a film like That Christmas is that the makers often know that it’s difficult — and unfashionable — to dislike. They operate from a default space of appealing to our most basic human senses, like presenting the cinematic equivalent of an adorable puppy that turns out to be lazy. The result is invariably a production that relies on the prestige of featuring big names rather than the natural whimsy of its film-making. It’s more disappointing to watch a movie like this — where it’s okay-ish in isolation, but only fuelled by autopilot reputation — than the outright terrible Hollywood ones that are fuelled by nothing but the Netflix algorithm.

And mind you, I’m a huge Love Actually stan, where I’m seduced by the exoticism of little Western vignettes from cultures I’ve barely encountered. Christmas, actually, is a far cry. There’s only so much of Santa and his bitchy reindeer one can snigger at before even they get too grating. If anything, it reminded me of the reindeer hotdog I had on a Norway trip. Which in turn made me think about how we often grow up to eat everything we loved as a child. Including our own egos. This is a deviation from the review and the film, but just imagine I’m the mumbling fourth thread in it. What difference can it make?