I truly believe some movies are the result of high-stakes dares. What else could have produced The Family Stone, a heartwarming Christmas classic you will watch at least 25 minutes of this December via channel-surfing alone?

The Family Stone, if you're unfamiliar, is a 2005 flick that has all the makings of a lovable holiday film — terminal cancer, dinner-table homophobia, a man mere days away from proposing to his girlfriend who then decides that his girlfriend's sister (whom he has just met) is a much better option, which is totally cool because his brother wants to get with the soon-to-be-jilted girlfriend anyway. But somehow, it works. (For me, anyway. My editor has a different opinion.) If you're seven candy canes in, and your Christmas tree or Menorah lights are a-twinkling, then you, too, will probably tear up as you watch Elizabeth Reaser watch Judy Garland sing "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

But The Family Stone was a fluke. It's the rare, semi-tolerable film that's part of a festive blight worse than knotted balls of twinkle lights: the home-for-the-holidays movie, a genre that banks on the notion that the right cover of "Jingle Bell Rock" and a certain quota of ugly-sweater hugs has the power to create the next yuletide classic, regardless of the quality of the script or acting skills on display.