"Love Actually" is terminally precious. Chirpy "classic" pop songs populate every third scene. It has no structure, just a jumble of interconnected stories -- some little dramas, some little comedies -- about love, flirtation, courtship and heartbreak, all of which will pay off just in time for a lovely London Christmas.
It's the kind of pandering, populist movie in which Hugh Grant, playing the prime minister of England, joyously shakes his booty to The Pointer Sisters' "Jump (For My Love)" until he suddenly, to his great embarrassment, realizes he's being watched. It offers no real surprises except in how and when it reveals the inevitable six degrees of separation between each anecdotal yarn -- none of which has enough substance to ever stand on its own (nor would you want them to!).
And yet, you'd have to be a terrible grump to not like "Love Actually" at least a little.
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