As a lifelong enthusiast of the “so-bad-it’s-good” sub-strand of cinema, I approach every Christmas with a mix of excitement and trepidation. If at one end of the spectrum we have magical Christmas films (It’s a Wonderful Life, Home Alone, Jingle All the Way), passing through the slurry of mediocre, sentimental seasonal cash-ins, what I hope to find at the other extreme is something so truly awful it achieves a peculiar kind of transcendence.
Some recent contenders were Last Christmas (a January resolution to eat more vegetables masquerading as a Christmas film; weird Brexit subplot; insufficient George Michael) and Cats (genuinely creepy, but giving way to a confusing, cumulative high as the film progresses, so that by the time Judi Dench says “a cat is not a dog” you have reached a sort of collective hysteria).
