Christmas In Lagos

A hallmark film that misses the mark

“Typically, romance is based on conflicts between structures that govern relationship formation in a given society and agency. If, in this game, structure wins, the romance is a tragedy. If, however, the lovers steadfastly resist and overcome the pressures of these sanctions, agency wins, and it is a comedy.”¹

—Ryan Ruby

“When it began creating original movies, the romances they portrayed were remarkably chaste. To this day, there is no sex, drugs or swearing in a Hallmark film, no politics or violence or drunkenness.”

—Laura Barton

Christmas is Valentine’s Day in drag. The reds, the parceled gifts, the matching PJ’s. It’s all an elaborate costume party for love. But, more importantly, for family. With everyone home, catching up before the new year scatters them across the globe, the holiday film serves as a special social adhesive: sweet, family-oriented, and family-inclusive. A good time to rewatch Eyes Wide Shut (trust me on this one), The Shining (I’m sure there’s a Christmas tree somewhere and blood, yes, but it’s red, no?), Home Alone, and the million and one Hallmark TV shows, and, for this year, Jade Osiberu’s long-anticipated Christmas In Lagos, which, given the love triangles that give this holiday rom-com its structure, comes across a botched Valentine’s Day in Christmas.

The film begins with Fiyin (Teniola Aladese) going to pick up her cousin Ivie (Rayxia Ojo) and her childhood best friend Elozonam (Shalom C. Obiago) from the airport. On the ride home, Elozonam announces that he plans on proposing to Yagazie (Angel Anosike), his girlfriend of eight months, to Fiyin’s surprise because she, for some reason (she’s in love with him), thought it’d be her. Once she drops off Elozonam, Fiyin promises to win his love and scatter this proposal, and Ivie, who came to have a good time not fall in love, agrees to help her achieve this.

On the other side of town, Fiyin’s mother, Gbemi (Shaffy Bello), is caught up in her own love triangle between an old flame and three-times divorced billionaire, Zachariah Dozie (RMD), and Toye (Wale Ojo), her lover, a quintessential charmer, whom she refers to as a “friend”. There are two other love stories here, one about grief too, but I’m tired of recounting the plot already.

The first thing that struck me was the potpourri of accents from the main characters. It’s British, American and Nigerian all at once, not in a seamless way, not in a clever way, not due to code-switching for social purposes, just vibes. Not a new critique, so I won’t dwell much on it, but it was jarring.

The second is how much of nothing happens in the film. Rom-com as a genre almost always ends with the two love interests getting either engaged or married, a formula that traces back to Shakespeare. So, it’s ludicrous to expect anything other than that; however, the journey towards that resolution is shaky, full of tension and breakaway points that feel like torture, to the point where their union, in the end, feels like a miracle, a stroke of luck. But Christmas In Lagos eschews all conflict for all certainty, a terrible, terrible barter that ruins all the chemistry it tries and fails to muster. We are never in doubt where things might end up, because the characters never act out of character. Even when they do, it comes at no real cost, no meaningful repercussions that suggest character growth or reversal. All we get are stolen kisses and cheap apologies that induce amnesia and nausea ad infinitum.

In this Jade’s picture—an hour-long, one-note ballad—all is as it seems. The oranges are sweet from rind to seed, and the bitter leaves are bitter even after a glass of water. Zach, the billionaire, is an asshole who thinks money can buy him attention and, despite three failed marriages, love, Gbemi’s love. Even Mr. Darcy had a small identity crisis, a necessary atheism in the power of his class and status to win Miss Elizabeth over. He conceded one or two things. He broke his carapace. He shed his pretensions. Zach, on the other hand, learns no lesson. Even the things he says when flirting sound like threats. There is no refinement in his manner (why are you calling the woman you want to marry Gbemisco abeg?), no wit in his quip, no sophistication in his person; he is a silver fox G-boy in a Rolls Royce. Not a case of money miss road, but dollars enter gutter. No wonder why he was driving that car in Calabar, of all places.

Toye, the supposedly sweet man, brings flowers and is considerate. His only flaw: he burns fried plantains while distractedly admiring the woman he so dearly loves. He does nothing creative or unique to Gbemi’s person. His gestures are romantic cliches outfitted for the love interest here with no interesting alteration. It’s ready-to-wear love, not bespoke haute couture affection. He does everything by the book, is as patient as a leafless tree before the rains, never once rocks the boat, except to inquire when Gbemi will put the nail in the coffin that is Zach and put the rock on her finger already. We’re never in doubt that Gbemi loves Toye, and that her reluctance, contrived for convenient plot-lengthening, comes from a place of no real conflict, because she makes it clear, on multiple occasions, that she doesn’t love or like Zach in the slightest. She hasn’t been tempted by his offer: she’s well-to-do; money doesn’t charm her: she has hers and isn’t driven by the kind of ambition that would allay her to a billionaire, sending her heart into a pumping fit. Yet, she stalls, for reasons known only to the film’s run-time.

Then there’s Fiyin, who is all about “man, man, man” not even, “my man, my man, my man”. The first significant thing she says is a lie—Lagos is the city of love—an opinion Ivie, her cousin, corrects almost immediately, bless the heavens. The film shows them leaning into the antithesis of each other’s worldview, a reversal that would’ve worked best if driven by conflict and being conflicted. Instead, Fiyin learns her love for Elozonam won’t be rewarded with love, and she (they did my girl dirty) has to convince the love of her life’s love of his life that she should not abandon him because it was her, Fiyin, who initiated the kiss she shared with Elozonam. She neither loves him for ideological reasons nor does she love him for social reasons, just proximity induced by a vulnerable confession on his part, one that she empathizes with him on. Surely, that can’t be all? Something similar happened in Gangs of Lagos, where young kids grew up into lovers, except there, at least, their lives diverged significantly, a difference that tempted a fatal rift. Fiyin is the base in an isosceles love triangle. She isn’t competing with Yagazie, but herself, because Elozonam never betrays anything beyond platonic affection towards her. Her love needed a glasses prescription.

Ivie, fine, posh (let’s go with this), sexy. She came for “Detty December” but doesn’t spend time crashing party after party, club after club. Her only contribution to this empty-voiced aspiration is her comment to Fiyin in the third act to, “Put on something Ayra Starr would be proud of.” She hasn’t come looking for love, but on sighting a guitarist—one that does nothing remarkable, by the way, not a Black Sabbath solo or a crazy take on Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit—she falls as easily as Cinderella’s glass slipper. The next day, when she learns he’s an okada rider (a delivery guy: there’s dignity in work), it doesn’t miff her in the slightest, no class antagonism arises: this is the man she’d ordered straight from Temu at Black Friday price. The woman who came to have fun doesn’t have a roster, filled with rich assholes, that would bring conflict into this sharp-sharp relationship.

She goes on a date with him, and while the camera makes a 360 turn around them to simulate a whirlpool, a twirl into the centre, she falls for him as he says, “you’re falling,” and convinces her to try her hand at poetry without dismissing the dream first. I’m sorry, what? Then, it turns into a double date with Gbemi’s maid, a seamstress who’s also an aspiring fashion designer, and the houseboy. Silly me, I thought Sabinus and Sharon Ooja in a rom-com was the height of tufiakwa, but never say never, my dear. And this isn’t me calling for a vilification of the poor, but Nigeria is a very classist country, depicting two people from different classes getting into a relationship without even hinting at a disparity paints a false picture of normalcy. It’s not fiction, it’s a lie. Even Bridgerton had to invent a shoddy reason for why racism wasn’t that strong in that particular world.

The Elozonam family, on the other hand, are in a crisis, “frozen in time”, as the son put it. Ijeoma, the youngest family member, died in an accident on Christmas. This one hit close to home: my younger sister died on December 26, and, for the longest, Christmas celebrations have felt like the hollowness of a wreath not that of a doughnut. I think it was the most masterfully handled part of the film, although it felt too heavy for the movie’s overall tone; it would’ve worked best in a romance drama, not a romance comedy, where the grief would have had to be offset by a wisecrack or two that doesn’t necessarily drown out the sadness.

While it does sound like I have infinite issues with the film—I do, make no mistake—it was technically perfect, but this is nothing new either. The cityscape shots with the pink and purple sunsets were outrageously beautiful. The framing, especially the close-ups, captured the characters in a flattering light. The B-rolls of food, bridges, and lighted wiry statues were sure eye candies. The camera moved with such fluidity. The sound and lighting were very well done and would have qualified as one of the best I’ve seen from a Nollywood flick—if only they were all in service to the story, which needed servicing itself. The music was, once again, beautiful; a well-curated soundtrack, and eclectic cameo appearances from Wurld, Ayra, and AG Baby, but to what end?

And that’s my biggest grouse with the film. Most things that happen in Christmas In Lagos just happen. There is no “why” worth the event, the gesture, the cameo. And we’re supposed to be dazzled by pizzaz, hypnotized into cannibalizing our questions. But there isn’t enough spectacle to bribe one into silence. If you’re going to spray glitter on peacock feathers, there better be a good reason why. Don’t just tell us, it’s pretty, isn’t it? It is, but why? Even hallmark films (which this picture leans into a bit), as formulaic and saccharin as they are, argue that rural life in America is better than city life. Christmas In Lagos doesn’t challenge any societal norm in Lagos or Nigeria at large, heck, it cannot even manufacture chemistry that feels like a guilty pleasure to indulge in or one that induces involuntary awws. The only thing irredeemably beautiful—storywise, i.e.—is that the major almost-love triangle happens between three elderly people. It’s wonderful that the spotlight is raised that high in search of love. It says love belongs not to the young but to all those who seek it. However, Christmas In Lagos is a hallmark film that misses the mark, a romance film that challenges no structure and gives no agency. It is, alas, an anagram of beautiful nothings.

1. “Typically, literary romance is based on conflicts between structure (the norms of class, race, sexuality, physical appearance, number, age, and so on) that govern relationship formation in a given society and agency (the sense, common to all lovers, that the exceptional circumstances of their special attraction are uninfluenced by and ought not be beholden to these norms). If, in this game, structure, using the various psychological, social and economic sanctions at its disposal, wins, the romance is a tragedy. If, however, the lovers steadfastly resist and overcome the pressures of these sanctions, agency wins, and it is a comedy.”

This is the complete quote, which, as you can see, was written to suit literary romance more so the typical rom-com. The omissions were necessary to highlight the parts relevant to the review.