Christmastime. The Hallmark Channel really is its own reality. It's that Vancouver-as-America "everytown" vibe. A pretty girl with a big smile and a vacuous soul has a high-pressure unfulfilling job in “the big city.” She decides to spend this Christmas in the small idyllic town where she grew up. Her mother (or aunt or grandma) runs an ornament shop or small bakery that probably makes 10 bucks a year in profits, yet the old girl somehow manages to be able to swing having said store in an amazing corner location in the best part of town. She has a boyfriend— invariably he’s an asshole — a slick guy in a Porsche (or a Camaro, budget permitting…in any case it has to be red). He’s always on the phone and he never has time for her. Early on in her visit, she has an awkward, humbling, chance encounter with a scruffy dog-walker/barista with a permanent 2-day beard and a funny zit on his jawline that the makeup artist couldn't conceal (or just couldn't be bothered to). He was the guy in middle school with thick glasses and an overbite who played Dungeons And Dragons in the stands during gym who has become pretty handsome as time’s gone by.
There are sad attempts at witty dialogue that fall flat with bells on. And there's WAY too much exposition in said dialogue -- things that could be told well with a gesture or a look in the eye have to be spelled out and said clearly, either to make sure we "get it", or because the writer had zero faith that the actors chosen could convey such subtleties, and, therefore, any potential stabs at artistry have to be reined-in in the holy name of "Why the next door neighbor is so grouchy."
Having locked up the romantic leads with former cheerleaders and Ottowa's finest, the producers blow the big dollars on a star appearance or two: maybe Christopher Lloyd, or William Shatner, or if the producers are REALLY feeling frisky, BOTH. They gladly appear, too -- genially sleep-walking through the sucker because, hey, it'll pay for something: feed for the show-horses for a year? The grandkids' college fund? The cable bill? Or as Rick said in "Casablanca" -- "sort of a combination of all three"?
In the fullness of time, there is the inevitable deus-ex-whackina “Christmas magic”, in the form of a wizened old janitor who turns out to be Santa, a kid who turns out to be an Elf, or a shelter dog who turns out to be a reindeer (wait, that's TOO GOOD). Said enchanted person/creature cathartically transforms the troubled protagonist into the sweetheart she was really meant to be, and she and the dog walker/barista go traipsing through machine-made snow drifts into the tiny-bulb-lit night, to the strains of an easy-to-get-the-rights-to public domain holiday tune.
Such films are the cinematic equivalent of Cott's Cola. Cott's was a b-list soda brand that was sold in a vending machine outside of a long-gone locksmith's shop on 23rd between 6th and 7th, back when that kind of meant something. Anyway, my friend Peer and I each bought a can of this soda once, because it was cheap and we were adventurous. And it tasted....meh. As Baz put it all those decades ago: "The flavor molecule? And the bubble molecule? They're not going together...."
Do yourselves a favor. Peel some potatoes and watch Alistair Sim's rendition of "Scrooge", again and again and again. Because nothing else comes close. If you need a break, alternate between Stevie Wonder's xmas album (that he made in the 70's) Dean Martin's "Making Spirits Bright", and Take 6's debut record. If I do that, I will close my eyes and feel my late mother with me in the room. In a good way.
I'll be doing my best to avoid the Hallmark Channel, as lovingly as I can, while still wondering why I can't get work as an extra. I suspect I may have written part of the answer to that question above. May all my actor friends earn enough to keep their coverage, and may the world, in some form, survive.
