Film

Bad blood courses through the veins of A Christmas Tale, and not just figuratively. The extended Vuillard clan is rocked by news of leukemia striking its brave-faced matriarch, Junon (Deneuve). With the holidays drawing near, they gather around a chalkboard, as other families might a board game, to calculate Junon’s remaining lifespan; hopefully, an acceptable blood donor is within their circle. Alas, it might be mischievous Henri (Amalric), the black sheep of the family, excommunicated by seething sister Elizabeth (Consigny) for reasons that aren’t quite clear—and not much loved by Junon herself, frankly. Enough domestic drama for you?

All of it and more gets swirled into a seasonal hot toddy by expert director Arnaud Desplechin, who so easily elicits anxieties and laughs from tense ensembles. The secret to the success of A Christmas Tale, for all its fatalism, is how closely it reminds you of other cozy cinematic gatherings: A spiky harpsichord burbles on the soundtrack like in The Royal Tenenbaums; Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander isn’t far from mind, or even Home Alone, when a major character goes missing (not for long) in the snowy third act. Desplechin’s masterwork, Kings and Queen (2004), felt like the whole of cinema reinvented with The Magnificent Ambersons, not Citizen Kane, as its apex. If the new movie isn’t quite at that level, that’s only because it’s occasionally forced: An elderly lesbian ex machina shows up with some crucial knowledge, and the insights are convenient. Still, this is a holiday den you won’t soon want to leave.