Holidate

I remember exactly where I was when I first pressed play on Holidate. I was sitting on a sofa that had seen better days, eating a bowl of cereal that was 40% milk and 60% regret, while my radiator emitted a series of metallic clanks that sounded like a ghost trying to play the drums. It was the peak of the streaming-only era, that strange moment in time where we all collectively agreed that a Netflix original was the only thing standing between us and total cabin fever.

Holidate arrived in 2020 like a loud, slightly drunk guest at a party you weren't sure you wanted to attend. It didn't care about being "prestige" cinema. It didn't want to be a "meditation" on anything. It just wanted to mock the absolute absurdity of being single during the gauntlet of American holidays—from the terror of the "singles table" at weddings to the inevitable interrogation by relatives who treat your lack of a partner like a manageable terminal illness.

The War Against the "Singles Table"

The premise is pure high-concept fluff: Emma Roberts plays Sloane, a woman who hates the holidays because her family views her singleness as a personal failing. She meets Jackson (Luke Bracey), a charming Australian who just wants to survive the seasonal pressure without the emotional baggage of a real relationship. They strike a deal: they will be each other's "holidate"—a platonic plus-one for every major calendar event.

What sets this apart from the sea of Hallmark fluff is that it’s unapologetically R-rated. It’s crass, it’s sweaty, and it understands that most family gatherings are just organized chaos fueled by cheap wine and repressed resentment. Emma Roberts is the perfect anchor here; she has this wonderful, slightly jagged edge to her delivery that prevents Sloane from becoming a "sad girl" trope. She’s cynical, she’s grumpy, and she’s genuinely funny. When she’s paired with Luke Bracey, who essentially plays the "human golden retriever" archetype with a bit more grit, the chemistry actually crackles.

I’ve seen plenty of these "fake dating" movies where the leads look like they’d rather be anywhere else, but Roberts and Bracey seem like they’re having a blast. There’s a natural rhythm to their banter that feels less like a scripted rom-com and more like two people who actually enjoy making fun of the same things.

Chemistry, Ryan Gosling, and Emergency Room Visits

One of the highlights of the film is the supporting cast, particularly Kristin Chenoweth (who gave us Wicked on Broadway and the delightfully weird Pushing Daisies). She plays Aunt Susan, the family’s resident "fun" disaster who cycles through themed boyfriends like most people cycle through socks. Chenoweth is a force of nature here, and apparently, she improvised a significant portion of her raunchier dialogue, catching the rest of the cast off-guard with some of her more graphic holiday-themed double entendres.

Then there’s the "Ryan Gosling" of it all. In one of the film's most meta-moments, Jackson tells Sloane that she’s so cynical she wouldn’t even date Ryan Gosling if he walked up to her. Later, during a grocery store confrontation, there is a man in the background who looks exactly like Gosling. For months, the internet went into a tailspin trying to figure out if it was a cameo. Turns out, it was just an actor named Chad Zigmund, a stand-in who became a mini-celebrity overnight because of the "streaming sleuths" on TikTok. It’s that kind of detail that makes Holidate feel like a product of its time—a movie built for the "second screen" experience where you're tweeting along while you watch.

The film also features a disastrous attempt at the Dirty Dancing lift (which Luke Bracey and Emma Roberts reportedly practiced for days until they were bruised and exhausted) and a Fourth of July accident involving a finger that is the most unnecessarily graphic thing I’ve seen in a romantic comedy since the 90s. It’s messy, it’s weird, and it keeps you awake.

A Modern Streaming Ritual

Is it a "classic" in the way When Harry Met Sally... is? Of course not. But in our current era of "Content" with a capital C, Holidate managed to do something rare: it created a recurring audience. It has become a modern "cult" favorite for the digital age. People don't just watch it once; they put it on every November because it feels like a warm, slightly inappropriate blanket. It captures the frantic, over-commercialized energy of the 21st-century holiday season better than most "sincere" films do.

Director John Whitesell, who previously gave us the manic energy of Deck the Halls, knows exactly how to pace this kind of comedy. He leans into the tropes while winking at the camera. He knows we know how this ends, so he focuses on making the journey as loud and colorful as possible. The cinematography by Shane Hurlbut (who shot Terminator Salvation) gives the film a polished, bright look that feels expensive—a hallmark of the "Netflix aesthetic" that was starting to solidify in 2020.

I honestly went into this expecting to roll my eyes until they fell out of my head, but I walked away feeling a strange kinship with these two idiots. We live in a world that is obsessed with "meaningful" connections, but sometimes you just need a person who will stand next to you while your mom asks why you aren't married yet.

At the end of the day, Holidate is a movie that knows its lane and stays in it at 90 miles per hour. It’s a raunchy, energetic, and surprisingly sweet look at the transactional nature of modern dating, disguised as a Christmas movie. It’s not going to change your life, but it might make your next awkward Thanksgiving dinner a little more bearable. Sometimes, that’s exactly what the doctor—or the streaming algorithm—ordered.