The Thanksgiving dishes have been put away, Christmas lights are out, and Grandma’s bulk order of vitamins has commenced.
It’s December, which only means one thing: It’s “Love Actually” time, and the excitement is palpable.
Let’s get something straight: “Love Actually” is a great movie and is more than just a guilty pleasure. (I hate when people say something is a guilty pleasure. There’s no such thing as a guilty pleasure. Just pleasures, you know? As Ira Glass says, “Pedophilia is a pleasure a person should have guilt about. Not chocolate.”)
In my world, straight dudes many people shrug it off as chick porn a trivial holiday flick, but it’s really a solid storytelling gem. Look closely at each storyline and I think you’ll be surprised by the emotional complexity that separates them from their Hollywood rom com counterparts—an aging rock and roll legend finds a friend in his longtime manager, an English writer falls in love with his Portuguese housekeeper in spite of a crippling language barrier, a sister struggles to maintain stability as she cares for her mentally ill brother. And then there’s Karen and Harry:
Alan Rickman and Emma Thompson. Together. Ohhh, let the pleasure of the talking pictures sink in.
Please don’t make a “Love Actually 2” and compromise the sanctity of the original,