You may be familiar with the modern-day phenomenon that is the Hallmark movie; if not, here’s a quick crash course.

The Hallmark movie is the eighth wonder of the world. And yes, it is the same company that makes the Christmas cards. It’s a strictly made-for-TV movie (you won’t see one in the cinema) – and genre-wise, it will typically be a drama, a mystery, or a romantic comedy. It’s not to be confused with its peer, the Lifetime TV movie, of course, although the two are virtually identical in terms of content, execution, and style. Hallmark is far and away the mightier sausage factory, though, churning out approximately 14,000 features annually. Okay, I jest, but the actual figure’s not that far off*. Their offerings are infinitely more saccharine as well – particularly their Christmas outings, but more on those later.

The action invariably begins in the present, with the protagonist compromised in some way – bound to a kitchen chair, maybe, albeit with perfect hair and makeup, while the villain of the piece takes a quick bathroom break. Fade to black, and we’re transported back in time by six weeks to a happier place.

Never do you get someone who bears a striking resemblance to Gregg Wallace, but that’s probably for the best

.Our protagonist is often female – sometimes a mother, too, in which case she’s virtually indistinguishable from her daughter, age-wise. In some storylines, she falls victim to a confidence trickster, and it then falls to said daughter to get the dirt on the new guy in Mom’s life. Often, the daughter teams up with a new boyfriend to expedite matters, and between them, they’re able to turn up more in a single afternoon than the entire NYPD could in a month.

The love interest is conventionally tall, dark, and handsome, strong-jawed, and clean-shaven. Never do you get someone who bears a striking resemblance to Gregg Wallace, but that’s probably for the best.

In fact, everyone is a ten – bar none – with freshly coiffured hair, perfect skin, and perfect teeth. Not a single zit or misaligned gnasher to speak of, and not a fleck of dandruff in sight. And all parties are immaculately turned out: no one is ever flopped on the sofa in a baggy T-shirt and boxers, covered in ketchup and cake crumbs. The houses are just as flawless: all pearly white, pristine, and sparklingly clean. There’s never a pile of unwashed crockery in the sink, a bulging laundry basket, or a rubbish bin ready to burst.

This type typically wears a low-cut top, tight jeans, and heavy red lipstick – so there can be no doubt in your mind she’s a malevolent siren destined to lure the protagonist’s husband onto the rocks.

Next, we meet to the protagonist’s neighbour – a female friend, confidante, and functioning alcoholic. Twenty minutes in, she calls round for a chat, decked in industrial-strength mascara, and cracks open the Pinot the moment she crosses the threshold.

Alternatively, we’re introduced to the protagonist’s therapist – a cynic at first. “There, there,” she says. “Nothing’s the matter; try and relax.” But as things begin to fracture in the protagonist’s life, she becomes suspicious and realises the situation isn’t a figment of her client’s imagination after all – at which point she crosses every professional boundary in the book to help bring the antagonist to justice.

Said antagonist is traditionally male, wears black, scowls at his phone a lot, and ends calls abruptly without so much as a “Thank you, goodbye”. This way, you know for sure he’s a wrong un! He also has a habit of taking out his aggression on inanimate objects. Internal doors, walls, and furniture items tend to have a rough time of it.

Occasionally, though, it’s a female antagonist. This type typically wears a low-cut top, tight jeans, and heavy red lipstick – so there can be no doubt in your mind she’s a malevolent siren destined to lure the protagonist’s husband onto the rocks. She’s also pretty nifty when it comes to arts and crafts: an avid Blue Peter fan, we catch a glimpse of a charming collage she’s assembled of the happy couple next door – with the wife’s face hacked out and substituted for her own, of course. In short, she’s a caricature, prone to random fits of hysterical rage. She hides behind hedges, huffing and puffing like a bull whenever the protagonist walks by, and when the husband spurns her advances, she rips his photograph to shreds.

Every now and then, you’ll recognise one of the actors. “Wasn’t she in Dune as a child actress?” you might ask. Or: “Didn’t he get knocked about in a public convenience by Steven Seagal in one of his straight-to-DVD train wrecks?”** It’s always fun checking out IMDb to see if you’re right.

Next, the plot is established. Maybe the protagonist is filing for divorce, but the controlling husband isn’t happy about it, gives the compost bin a good kicking, then takes up stalking as a new pastime. Alternatively, a couple are going through a rough patch; the husband decides to have a fling with his daughter’s grade school teacher, and before he’s had time to change his pants, Miss Jones is going full-on Fatal Attraction.

Plot developments are driven principally via SMS. It doesn’t matter if the characters are one or one hundred years old; everyone has an iPhone. Villains break into their victims’ houses with minimal difficulty, because nobody in these movies ever considers it prudent to set an alarm. What’s more, they pick the locks in broad daylight, dressed head-to-toe in black, thereby looking about as inconspicuous as a completely conspicuous thing in a tree.

Indeed, the end result is toe-curling melodrama. A convincing villainess will suddenly go all-out panto, shrieking “If I can’t have you, no one can”, whilst brandishing a garden rake.

Finally, we have the denouement. Here, the various plots and subplots unite like a hideous collision on the M62. This is because Hallmark movies are fundamentally flawed at this point in the proceedings – a kink they’ve yet to iron out. Runtimes are relatively short (about 84-90 minutes apiece), which doesn’t leave much room for events to unfold organically. Instead, we’re rushed through a gamut of emotions at double speed. Cue histrionics as the performances go from 0 to 60 and come to the boil way ahead of schedule. It’s not the cast’s fault. Thus far, they’ve tried their darndest to keep a straight face with a script that’s at best risible in the extreme. But then, they’re forced to abandon all subtlety in a last-minute slapstick routine. Indeed, the end result is toe-curling melodrama. A convincing villainess will suddenly go all-out panto, shrieking “If I can’t have you, no one can”, whilst brandishing a garden rake. The editing also takes a nosedive, with jump cuts that defy sense: one minute, the characters are arguing in the kitchen; next, they’re on the lawn, throwing punches. How did that happen? Teleportation? How much acid were they popping in the cutting room that afternoon? Worst of all, when the antagonist is finally unmasked, it’s the same hackneyed formula every time: a scuffle ensues with an embarrassing Spartacus-style back-and-forth of “Haha, I have the gun”, “No, wait, I have the gun” before said gun is sent flying under the spare bed. Next, we have some rubbish fisticuffs on the landing; then the villain misses their footing, tumbles backwards down the stairs, and cracks their head in the hallway. The end. Rinse, repeat, regurgitate.

For instance, when you’ve arrived home after a heavy day at the office, tuning into a Hallmark movie is the filmic equivalent of slipping into a nice, warm bubble bath.

Now for an entirely different beast: the Hallmark Christmas movie, as promised. This is a strict painting-by-numbers exercise, and it goes something like this … A forlorn city girl returns to her leafy hometown to spend the holidays with her folks. This is a rare occasion, as she’s a high-powered professional and an indispensable asset to her company. She barely has time to park up before her boss calls her in a panic! Hey, the Empire State Building might implode in her absence – who knows? But she’s currently going through a breakup and wants to get away for a bit. So here she is, back at the old homestead.

The family are friendly, welcoming, and, above all, uber-polite. No one ever says, “Hello, stranger, where have you been all these years?” No, because one of the rules, or hallmarks of these movies is that characters have to be sugar-sweet and above board at all times. No one ever belches, breaks wind, or takes the Lord’s name in vain.

The village itself is hyperreal. Stepford Wives has nothing on it. Because it’s Christmas, the neighbourhood resembles a Hallmark card. It’s as if Santa’s workshop has spilt into suburbia, with chestnuts roasting on open fires, illuminations, and tinsel at every turn. And of course, snow. Lots of it. Every lawn, rooftop, and tree branch is caked in it – even when the sun’s out and blazing at thirty degrees. (The majority of Hallmark movies are filmed during summer, believe it or not.)

It isn’t long before the protagonist crosses paths with her old flame, who, of course, is raven-haired, rugged, and good-looking. It wouldn’t do for him to have gone bald, taken up pies, and put on twenty stone in her absence. No, it’s as if he knew instinctively she was coming home for Christmas and has been in the gym for the past six months. Crucially, he’s had a breakup as well. So … will they, won’t they? Of course they bloody will. But we have to go through the motions all the same, which are as follows … Having met and gotten cosy with her childhood sweetheart, she feels under pressure to stay. But then her boss back in New York gets in touch to offer her the promotion of a lifetime (his timing couldn’t be lousier). Lover Boy finds out about the offer, assumes she’s going to accept it, and says something offhand to her in a moment of bitterness. She then storms off and decides on that note, yes, she will take it. Meanwhile, he goes into a sulk, decides to quit his job, leave town, and become a monk in Nepal (they never do anything by halves or sleep on anything, these people). As she’s about to board her flight, a local busybody tells her she’s got the wrong end of the stick and Lover Boy’s crazy about her. “Oh, no, what have I done?” she yelps and dashes back into town. Quick, he’s about to board the Polar Express! But she stops him just in time. They patch things up, declare their true feelings for one another, and have a quick peck. Santa gives them his blessing over a cup of mulled wine each, and they all have a bit of a dance. Love reigns supreme. The end. Now multiply this package by a thousand, and that’s Channel 5 fully stocked for another year!

I must sound cynical, but I do have a positive point to make about these movies: they’re reliable, safe, and, at times, oddly comforting. For instance, when you’ve arrived home after a heavy day at the office, tuning into a Hallmark movie is the filmic equivalent of slipping into a nice, warm bubble bath. It’s also fun looking out for the various clichés you know are going to crop up each time. It’s like a game of Bingo. Try mocking up a category sheet of your own and playing along!


*The actual figure is 35-40 made-for-TV movies per year, which, by anyone’s standards, is still rather a lot.

**For anyone remotely interested, the answer to both questions is yes