Love Actually review

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For a man who's been Britain's most successful comedy export since Benny Hill, Richard Curtis comes in for a phenomenal amount of stick. The cash-churning success of Four Weddings And A Funeral and Notting Hill notwithstanding, his detractors slam Curtis' films as the self-satisfied scribblings of a privileged Notting Hill ponce, exporting his rose-tinted vision of Britain as a country full of pampered commitment-phobes (and the American women who love them) to the rest of the world.

It's sort of like rebuking Woody Allen for telling tales about wealthy, white Manhattan Jews. After all, Britain's premier rom-com practitioner writes what he knows, and he just happens to spin the kind of crowd-pleasing confections that draw in people who don't venture to the cinema much. When MOR songstress Dido crops up on the soundtrack midway through Love Actually, it's like a soothing beacon calling to the faithful: it's okay, there's nothing to frighten you here. Gwyneth Paltrow's head will not be turning up in a box.

It's busy, feelgood, has loads of famous faces in it, and is all about lurve. Richard Curtis is going to have several reasons to be cheerful this Christmas. Several million, in fact.

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