Holidy films are inevitably cheesy. Perhaps Tim Burton’s “The Nightmare Before Christmas” is a kind of exception, but still.
What I like about holiday films is that they, also inevitably, show people coming home. I have been obsessed with the idea of home ever since I realized that I was no longer sure where that is anymore.
Home, to me, is warm food. Sharing a bathroom. Spending half an hour wiping off the great aunt’s acidy-pink lipstick.
It’s Kiev and Charlotte, South Kensigton and Shmeisani, Durham and the places that I have yet to go. It rises up like a mirage, shines like the Northern Star, plays like half-remembered music from another room.
And holiday movies seem to be the only thing that seem to satisfy this terrible cracing just a little bit – I coo and cringe at them just like I do at the people I love.
Well, except for Anna and MK – because we’re always too busy making “sexytime.”