Scrooge. Grinch. Charlie Brown. Anything with Dean Cain. I’m addicted to Christmas movies.
Everything I am I learned from them.
I love the simplicity of the genre. It’s not rocket science; it’s not calculus. It’s enchanting, harmless escapism. Its childlike innocence and a cup of hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows all rolled into one happy ending.
What is there not to love?
Miracles happen in Christmas movies at an inversely proportional rate than at any other time of the year. It reinforces our belief in humankind – the need for hearth and home, honor and fair play, humor and happiness. We get to laugh at ourselves. We find redemption through a myriad of vicarious, familiar experiences. Everyone ends up happy.
I identify with people who make fools of themselves but learn to laugh at their shortcomings. People lose their way but rediscover their true selves and the right paths. Good always wins in fair play. Loneliness hurts more than vulnerability and risk.
I love that they are an integral part of our culture. It’s the power of story, the Christmas genre we have come to expect. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without the de rigueur Rudolph or Grinch, Scrooge or George Bailey. Christmas without a Charlie Brown Special or two? How would Hallmark, Lifetime, or the UP Channels fill their lineups if they didn’t have the hundreds of catalogued Christmas Romances to show during November and December?
We wrap up in our Snuggies and settle in every evening during the holiday months to watch all our old faves and the thousands of offshoots and variations that have borrowed their plots. Who cares that Scrooge has morphed into a woman, a child, or a dog? What is important is that we know that in the end, everyone and everything will be resolved.