The film is a family affair in more ways than one. It was written by Winslet’s 21-year-old son Joe Anders (né Mendes; his father is Bond director Sam, who is now filming the Beatles biopics), and was inspired in turn by the loss of Anders’s grandmother, whose death by ovarian cancer in 2017 Winslet has discussed in interviews. It is, unavoidably, a bit of a nepo project – but the air of intimacy works in its favour, and the various configurations of familial trickiness are all dead-on.
Against a backdrop of dreary hospital corridors and ordinary kitchens and living rooms, the performances take centre stage by default. These are solid across the board with the exception of Riseborough’s, which is flatly tremendous: Molly is a difficult character in every sense, yet there’s an exhilaration in watching her gradually thaw towards her older sister, her much-put-upon husband (Stephen Merchant), and finally herself. As a Christmas movie, this is a sweetly melancholic addition to the canon, and if it feels a little too familiar for comfort at times then it’s doing its job.
In select cinemas now; on Netflix from Christmas Eve
