The 71 Best Christmas Movies of All Time |
'Tis the season once again for Christmas cheers and Hallmark holiday movie jeers. Whether you go for the classics like Miracle on 34th Street, or come together as a family to laugh at whatever silly idea Netflix has come up with now, December has a host of Christmas films to take you all the way into the New Year. Tired from decorating the tree and wrapping presents? Plop yourself down on the couch with those you love and revel in some of the finest Christmas movies to ever climb down your chimney. Whether it be a romantic comedy, a festive musical, an animated special—or an action film that just so happens to take place on Christmas—this list has everything you could ask for this holiday season. So put the cookies out for Santa and switch off that 24-hour yule log channel, because it's time for a holiday film for the whole family. Check out our favorites below (and maybe even check it twice!) for the best Christmas movies of all time. |
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| It's Time to Admit That Ethan Hawke Is the Greatest Actor of His Generation |
There was a time when it appeared as if Ethan Hawke's career arc was going to be one that went from playing the fresh-faced youth who must learn about the world's duplicities and disappointments (Dead Poets Society) to playing the kind of ineffectual slacker whose main purpose onscreen seemed to be to demonstrate what happens when the neck of a Gap t-shirt loses its elasticity (Reality Bites). It was unthinkable to imagine that Hawke would be where he is now, and that is the best American screen actor of his generation. That claim may surprise or amuse you. What, big films, you might ask, has Hawke starred in, what performances have dominated the public conversation, at least for the duration of an awards season? The answer—that most of his roles have been in small films that didn't make an impact at the box office—is, I would argue, precisely what has allowed him to amass such a deep and varied body of work. |
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Murder and Loathing in Las Vegas |
Robert Telles isn't willing to discuss how his DNA ended up under the fingernails of Jeff German. Or why his wife's car was spotted near the sixty-nine-year-old investigative reporter's house on a warm Friday morning in early September, a day before a neighbor discovered German's lifeless body at the side of his Las Vegas home. Or how an outfit matching the one worn by the suspect captured on security-cam footage wound up in Telles's home. Speaking to me at the Clark County Detention Center, a couple miles north of the Vegas Strip, Telles is serious but engaged. Eager to please, even. But he must be careful about what he says. His court-appointed lawyers at the time made that clear. The man charged with premeditated murder in one of the most sensational cases in recent history here—one that drew the attention of virtually every major newspaper and network in the country—is short and lean, with dark eyes framed by black caterpillar brows beneath a gleaming bald head. He's no longer wearing the thick white bandages that were wrapped around his forearms, covering up what officials described as self-inflicted wounds, when he first appeared in court, six days after German's murder. He faced the judge that day with a wry smile before being led back to jail in shackles. |
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A$AP Rocky Remains the King of Date-Night Style |
When's the last time you gave your old man a call? Not because you want something, but just to say, "Hey, pops. I love you." Has it been a while? Probably. Could he use some emotional support right now? Considering the fact that A$AP Rocky, a new dad himself, just stomped all over every other dad's style in public, we're guessing he could. So, in about five minutes, pick up the damn phone, call your father, and tell him that you appreciate him and his chinos. But before that, let's consider Rocky—who recently stepped out with Rihanna in L.A. for date night—and how impressive every element of this outfit is. First, you've got the nighttime sunglasses and the fat joint. These were also present last time we discussed Rocky's impeccable date-night style, and we're glad to see them making an appearance once more. But, barring the crisp white shirt and black lace-ups–the foundational elements of countless good outfits, and items you should absolutely have in your wardrobe—the rest of the fit is a departure. Gone is the sleek, designer-y vibe. In come the dad vibes. |
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'How Can You Still Be a Christian?' He Asked. It's...Complicated. |
A guy at work recently asked why I'm Christian. It's not something I am particularly vocal about, but it's also not something I'm not vocal about, you know? In some ways, I think of it as doing improv or supporting the Patriots: If you talk about it in public, get ready for eyes to roll. But I'd been trained for moments like this. It's been years since I've considered myself evangelical, but the indoctrination is hard to shake. The party line is that the only way to the afterlife is through Jesus, and the only way to Jesus? Well, it could be through me. I could practically hear the youth pastors from my past speak in unison, "How blessed to be in this moment, provided through the grace of God, where this young man has queried you about your faith." As we stood there, chatting over a cubicle wall and sipping on expensive promotional liquor in CVS plastic cups, my colleague said, in what amounted to nothing short of an invitation to put evangelicalism in action, "I just don't understand how someone could believe in that." Former me would have mounted a spirited reply, but I'm not former me. I understand why you'd ask the question. For my every East Tennessee impulse to defend my faith, I have what is now an equally strong New York impulse to talk on past these moments. But the side of me that is Christian—the word I use most easily to describe myself—stumbled over my words, trying to find one specific anecdote that would make that question make sense. |
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On The Road With The Big Red Dirigible Of Christmas Love |
I'm talking to my friend Nick, guy to guy, thirty-three stories above Boston in a swank establishment known as the Bay Tower Room. Seated among stiff Brahmin lawyers, Nick wears a spiffy blue blazer and a somewhat psychedelic holiday tie, a beacon of his foppish charm. He's a Renaissance man—a pianist, computer genius, primo baseball player, amateur astronomer, lady-killer. And he's eight years old. When our shrimp cocktail arrives, Nick reaches to an inside pocket and produces…a wand! Nick is a son of friends, and it's not unusual for us to get together, do stuff. Wherever Nick is, you'll usually find a deck of cards and some other slyly pocketed props of the blackest craft. So he does a couple of tricks. Birds of a feather. A disappearing dollar bill. He's got the perfect mix of pizzazz and talent. And a stage name, too: the Great Manzana, which, he tells me, is Spanish for "apple." Usually, Nick's tricks make me happy. And yet tonight, for some reason, I'm just not in the mood, floating in a funk. "You know what I'd like to know?" I say suddenly, waving a piece of shrimp in the air. "What happened to the abracadabra?" |
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