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).
Over the past few years, streamers have attempted to engineer “so-bad-it’s-good” hype for their offerings. Creating the worst film possible has become an explicit aim, which has resulted in almost-infinite permutations combining baking, identity swaps, princes and minor skiing accidents in fictional European countries. Look at how bad this is, the film seems to say. Isn’t it terrible, reiterates the marketing. And yes, these films are indubitably bad, but in the pedestrian sense: stilted dialogue punctuated with awkward silences, plot strands that are forgotten about, dead-behind-the-eyes performances. (One exception, I must admit, is Hot Frosty, a supremely stupid film that executes its premise – a buff snowman comes to life to help a lonely widow from having to do her own DIY – as skilfully as can be expected.)
But in order for a film to break through to something approaching the sublime, there needs to be an element of failure: the film-maker ought to at least try to make it good. Knowingly making a film as atrocious as possible while winking at the audience is lazy and ultimately unsatisfying. To become a true cult classic you can’t begin with the assumption of badness: you must have badness thrust upon you.
That said, I have high hopes for Christmas in the Spotlight, a thinly veiled fictionalisation of Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce’s whirlwind romance that includes the line “I’m just with you for your fantastic body”.
The eyes have had it
Last week, the Oregon city of Bend urged its citizens to stop sticking googly eyes on its statues. Although the additions have been popular with residents, the city has spent $1,500 (£1,190) on removing the eyes; one Facebook user pointed out that “It would cost $0 to leave them on”. Officials replied that they were concerned about the adhesive causing damage to the artworks, adding that there was “no intent to be heavy-handed and we certainly understand maybe how that was taken”.
Meanwhile, Just Stop Oil activists Phoebe Plummer and Anna Holland are in prison for two years and 20 months respectively for throwing soup at Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, causing damage to the frame (the painting was unharmed). We can only hope that, if caught, the individual behind the googly eyes does not admit to similar environmental leanings.
Leo lives!
For the past few months, I’ve been following the social media account of Mohammed, a young man in Gaza who posts updates about his cat, Leo. Every day, he uploads a photo of him and his magnificent ragdoll, with the caption “Leo and I are still alive”.
Whenever he doesn’t post an update, I am distraught. Their situation continues to be concerning: Mohammed is trying to raise money to help feed his sister’s seven-month-old baby. Let’s hope for their sake, and for everyone else in Gaza, the West Bank and further afield, that the ceasefire talks in Doha lead to lasting peace in the region.
• Kathryn Bromwich is a commissioning editor and writer on the Observer New Review
