Happiest Season

Romantic Comedies have been on life support since the late 1990s, the last decade where the wonderful but deceptively difficult genre flourished. In the past twenty years, few filmmakers have even bothered to try breathing new life into the form, and audiences seem to delight in the way modern rom-coms lean into the tired clichés and contrivances that brought about the genre’s downfall. It’s as if filmmakers, audiences, and critics forgot that this genre is not a mere guilty pleasure but rather a major part of the foundation on which cinema history was built. That’s one of the many reasons why the potentially promising Happiest Season is such a heartbreaking disappointment. Billed as the first studio-backed rom-com with gay protagonists, it intentionally wallows in all the most saccharine aspects of what we now think of when we think of romantic comedies while avoiding almost everything that makes the genre meaningful and important. 

Kristen Stewart stars as Abby, a well-adjusted but holiday-averse woman who is invited home by her girlfriend, Harper (Mackenzie Davis), to spend Christmas with Harper’s family. However, on the drive to her childhood home in rural Pennsylvania, Harper reveals that she lied to Abby about coming out to her family and, since her father is running for mayor, this visit isn’t an opportune time to set the record straight. Thus both women must pretend to be straight. It’s a fairly classic set-up for a romantic comedy: the protagonists have to maintain a false pretence for the duration of their time in a heightened situation or else all hell will break loose.

The reason the rom-com is such a difficult genre to do well is that, in most cases, the premise is based on one or more of the main characters actively deceiving the others. It’s difficult to maintain empathy with characters who continuously lie (to everyone or to themselves) especially when the demands of the genre require a constant heightening of the stakes—thus deepening the deception and stretching the credibility—in order to maintain the momentum that drives both the narrative and the comedy. One could say that this task was easier to pull off during Hollywood’s golden age, when the form was a staple. After all, societal conventions of the 1930s through ‘50s were so strict back then that most audiences could more easily accept the conceit that characters who found themselves in a sticky situation had no choice but to perpetuate a dishonest impression. But I would argue that classic rom-coms worked so well because they focused on the truth behind exaggerated characters as much as the comedy in exaggerated situations. 

Happiest Season comes from Clea DuVall (writer/director/star of The Intervention, and known for her roles in But I'm a Cheerleader, Girl, Interrupted, and lots of prestige TV). The film is apparently semi-autobiographical but that doesn’t make it seem any less false. As with most broad comedies, we must accept at least one major contrivance in order for the film to cast its spell. In this case, it’s that in the first scene, Harper could get so swept up with her love for Abby that she’d invite her reluctant girlfriend to spend Christmas with her family even though she knows everything that we will soon discover about them. We can even go along with the idea that someone with a childhood as uptight, competitive, and controlled as we learn Harper’s was would love Christmas as much as she genuinely does. There could be myriad fascinating psychological reasons for someone like Harper to internalize a romanticized love for this picture-perfect holiday; unfortunately, this film isn’t interested in exploring any of them.

As soon as Abby and Harper arrive at the big WASPy suburban homestead, every false note this movie strikes is far too discordant to work in what is meant to play as a festive holiday romp. Harper’s behavior at each significant plot turn seems more extreme than even the standard conventions of a Hollywood rom-com require. More to the point, after just a couple of these beats—in some cases where Harper’s actions are pretty unforgivable—we start to actively root for Abby to dump Harper and find someone who is at a more appropriate level of self-acceptance and maturity. This desire is compounded by the introduction of Riley (the indomitable Aubrey Plaza), the girl Harper dated back in high school who also had to deal with Harper’s cruel denials about their relationship to her family and peers. Once we see these two commiserate around their common experience of being betrayed and hurt by a woman who clearly hasn’t learned from her mistakes, we can’t help but want the two of them to end up together at the end of the movie. Part of the reason Abby and Riley seem so much better suited for each other is that there are the only real characters in the film. Everyone else is a one-dimensional stereotype. And, while the cast features some talented folks, Stewart and Plaza give the only performances that viewers can invest in.

Of course, the conclusion of Abby ending up with Riley is exactly what would happen if this were an indie movie, but DuVall and co-writer Mary Holland (who also plays Harper’s “wacky” sister Jane) seem to think that forcing a queer narrative to adhere to the cliché-ridden mold of a disposable hetero-normative studio holiday rom-com is some kind of revolutionary act. It’s not, especially when you consider the fact that some of the best studio rom-coms—from Some Like it Hot to Annie Hall to My Best Friend's Wedding—have unexpected endings yet still perfectly satisfy the expectations of the genre. Worse, the traditional tropes that come off as funny misunderstandings in a straight rom-com have a disproportionally harsh bite when the protagonists are queer and dealing with this specific relationship dynamic. Having the person a character views as the love of their life repeatedly reject them in front of family, and fail to come to their defense and/or acknowledge their feelings in public and private situations wouldn’t play well in any rom-com, but here it’s downright painful.

I guess the fact that the characters are so unreal is meant to take the sting out of this behavior. But with most good rom-coms, both characters are flawed in various ways, and when they suffer it is because they deserve to suffer a little bit. They ultimately benefit from the trials and humiliations they must endure, and become worthy of the person they pursue. But in this movie, Abby has done nothing to deserve what Harper puts her through other than simply being who she is.

If there’s anything that five decades of queer cinema has taught us it’s that people do not need to embrace their toxic families in order to find some semblance of happiness. People can, and do, choose to cast off their disapproving families of origin and make room to discover true happiness with a chosen family. Not that Harper’s family is presented as all that toxic. In fact, it’s difficult to believe that Harper would face much backlash from these people if she were honest about herself. Maybe if this was a film from 1993, when the phrase “don’t ask, don’t tell” (a phrase that’s actually evoked in this movie) entered the American lexicon. But in 2020 it’s hard to buy that a politician who’s eager to exploit his bi-racial grandchildren in photo ops would consider having a lesbian daughter as potentially scandalous.

One of the few straight rom-com tropes that works just as well when the protagonists are queer is that Abby has a gay best friend, played by Dan Levy (Schitt's Creek), whom she confides in and who eventually swoops in to add some spice to the proceedings. DuVall and Holland craft a truly great monologue for Levy near the climax that could almost undo everything bad that comes before. It’s a terrific little speech that, in the best Hollywood rom-com tradition, is far more eloquent than anyone could ever speak in real life. But hearing the exact right words conveying authentic and undeniable sentiments at a key emotional turning point is one of the gifts this genre can give better than any other cinematic form. If only the other 100 minutes of this deeply frustrating picture could have re-appropriated and assimilated the genre as elegantly as that one speech.