This movie erroneously boasts that it’s in the style of Love Actually but whether you love or hate Love Actually, there’s no option but the big ole hate button for A Christmas In New York.

It’s about 6 couples who are all staying in the same New York hotel around Christmas. There’s an old couple, a young couple going to prom, an ex-couple excavating some relationship skeletons, a couple fighting about whether to start a family, a couple having an extramarital affair, and a musician who’s on tour and missing his kid – and, I guess, having sex with groupies. Or something.

Anyway, the editing is so atrocious that we coldly flip back and forth between the stories without ever getting invested in any one, let alone all. And it’s not that any of the stories are particularly good or original or interesting anyway.

And the thing is, I love Christmas in New York, you know, the actual holiday in the actual city. I love the lights and the window displays and going to Macy’s and seeing the Rockettes, and the big tree at Rockefeller Center. It’s magical. You know what’s not magical? Stock footage of New York, and a California shooting location. That’s a lot less magical.

This movie does not have a charmingly licentious Bill Nighy, or the unforgettable dance moves of Hugh Grant, or the romantic proposal lost in translation by Colin Firth, or the terrific, heartbreaking acting by Emma Thompson. It has nothing, really, except delusions of grandeur.

If you want a New York Christmas experience, may I suggest hitting yourself in the head with a cast iron skillet while streaming the Macy’s parade on Youtube. It’ll be 1000% more authentic.

Did you ever wonder what would have happened had Charles Dickens been raised in a trailer park? Me neither, actually, but this movie is determined to answer the question that nobody asked, and it turns out the answer is even more dismal than you may have (briefly, just then) imagined.

Cindy (Taryn Manning) is a trashy trailer park fixture. She’s allergic to work and has a collection of scruffy kids from different daddies, one of whom has just died in a paint balling accident as untragic as they come. His redneck funeral is an occasion for her to once again lean on her generous boyfriend while flirting with the bad boys who impregnate and leave her. Cindy hates Christmas, and it looks like the tree will once again be bare, as “the claw machine ain’t been kind to Mama.”

Second-rate Cindy gets a second-rate redemption. She is visited by 3 ghosts (you guessed it: past, future, present), and the sad thing is, even Scrooge got a better reception. Her ghosts are just as junky and bargain basement as she is, which is a damn shame. For once I found myself sympathizing with Cindy, in that these ghosts were doing a piss poor job of convincing me too. Will Cindy ever come around? Um, yes. What else is the point? This is a Christmas movie, albeit a difficult to identify one, and there are certain protocols to be followed. Happy endings are a must. And even a writer dumb enough to rewrite Dickens isn’t fool enough to think he can best him.

Taryn Manning is of course perfect for this role, as long as we all agree that this role needed to exist in the first place. She parades around in booty shorts that are mostly booty and hardly shorts. Her hair is never brushed, her kids are never tame, she hasn’t got a touch of class. Beverly D’Angelo plays her mother, and I assume that was a pretty low point in her career – probably didn’t make the D’Angelo family Christmas letter, despite its being seasonally appropriate. The movie is dumb. I wish it was at least dumb fun but it’s not, it’s just a frustrating, useless ball of goop, like gum on the sole of your shoe. Better to have not stepped in it in the first place.

Do you like A Christmas Story? Well may I present to you its bastard brother, The Christmas Project. It’s a blatant ripoff, and a very embarrassing one. Almost identical, but vastly inferior.

It’s a “period piece”, but while A Christmas Story drips with nostalgia, this is just an excuse to have mom in teased hair and blue eye shadow. Even the Christmas Story-esque narration can’t make a good case for itself.

There’s a bully. There are broken glasses. There’s a snafu with the turkey. There’s a definitive homework assignment. There are dreaded Christmas gifts from a clueless aunt. How this movie did not result in a plagiarism lawsuit is beyond me. But as you know, in my books, the worst offense is to bore me. And this one bored me impressively, from tail to antler (that’s a new saying I just made up, in honour of the holidays). With nothing new or original or well-said, there’s literally nowhere to direct your attention to in this film. It’s the kind of movie where, as the credits roll, you’ve unexpectedly baked a pie or given yourself a manicure. Your brain just gets so thirsty for input, anything will do. You might compulsively online shop, or you might accidentally eat the whole bag of chips. And it’s not your fault! Santa will be leaving big lumps of coal in the director’s and writer’s and producer’s (etc) stockings this year; the movie is from 2016 originally but it only offended me this year, so another round of coal is due, on my behalf (and hopefully not yours).

I’m not even sure that coal is enough. I’m sharpening up candy canes – a shiv with a minty aftertaste. And I’m crushing up glass ornaments. And I’m going to leave little Elf on the Shelfs all over their homes in random places; not the joyful elf in regular houses, but elves whose eyebrows I’ve made dark and pointy, so when the person happens upon it, perhaps in some dark, out of the way corner, they’ll be startled, and then feel judged. And those little wooden eyes will bore into their souls, causing them to question their motivations and goals with the only possible outcome to realize that they’ve lived their lives entirely wrong. Merry Christmas everyone!