You may well be long since over Christmas. But if you're still trying to clutch onto the excuse for indolence, I've seen a lovely double bill (though not screened as such) of festive movies, both of which were unexpectedly delightful.

To my fascination, The Guardian have consistently panned Last Christmas. Even Peter Bradshaw whose opinion I usually swallow as gospel, didn't like it. Even the columnists have waded into the tomato throwing as the poor film is fastened into the stocks.

I burst with curiosity to see it as it's written both by Emma Thompson (who also featured in the film. I admit I do agree with The Guardian's verdict on her accent) and the incredible Bryony Kimmings. (And I shamelessly agree with The Guardian on her most recent performance piece, I'm A Phoenix, Bitch, five star sellout of this year's Fringe.)

So on seeing it, I can see why viewers may have felt a little stumped.

This is the poster. It gives every appearance of froth, right?

The film itself is fleetingly frothy but more often than not, a hideous gallop through the ruined state of our nation. Commercial, callous and hopelessly unable to look after almost anyone apart from ourselves. And our protagonist doesn't even manage to look after herself too well. It is a bit Bridget Jones (though our lead's sister is a sudden blast of Fleabag in amidst the Richard Curtis on a gloomy gin hangover frolics). 

I loved it. I was left a little bit breathless at how much it wasn't what I expected. I felt even more breathless as the final twist revealed itself as a fat cat's set of plump whiskers away from the twist I'd expected. I love that it was scripted by two women. I love that it didn't shudder away from dwelling on awful our land has become. And I love (spoiler alert) that our protagonist didn't get her man - at least, not in the way you'd expect in a so-called Christmas movie - and instead, found independence, self-sufficiency, strength of spirit - and a beautiful singing voice. 

Maybe the message is bleak."Sometimes you've just gotta have faith" entreats the poster. Maybe the dark reveal is you can only have faith in yourself to try and stumble our way out of this. Yourself - and the NHS. But maybe that's a beautiful and brilliant antidote to the usual 'everything's alright in the end' Christmas message. As heavens above, we all know it isn't. 

Interesting therefore that this newest remake of Little Women also recognises that life doesn't always go according to plan. Neatly conflating the second of the four novels into the narrative from the first, poor old Beth (spoiler alert) doesn't just get away with being pale and sickly. Here, she embraces full on death. Laurie experiences very touchingly rendered disappointment at the hands of the adorably tousled Jo. 

Where Jo comes with self-sufficiency built in, long-suffering Marmee is allowed to acknowledge that doing nothing but nurturing these four feisty women maybe isn't her life-long dream. And the flighty, feisty Amy is almost a feminist. Where Louisa May Alcott maybe intended though trod lightly over this element of the story, the wonderful Greta Gerwig lets her stamp her metaphorical feet as well as toss her actual curls and the result is a sparky treat.

If you love the books, it's easy to love this movie. But better yet, the cinematography is gorgeous, the casting spot on (I questioned only Saul though he did such a good job that I have to forgive that too), the costumes a delight and the play-making sequences were surely written just for me. 

I didn't expect to find a rousing call to arms in either Last Christmas or Little Women. You can choose to sit back and enjoy the ride or you can sit forward and enjoy this appeal for a better world. Perfect festive food for thought. 

I'm a teensy bit late to share this with you but How The Grinch Stole Christmas! The Musical was far more fun than I expected.

Lots of singing and dancing and the best gig for a costume designer I've seen for a long time.

Sandy Wilson's The Boy Friend is not a feminist play.

It tells the tale of a gaggle of 17 year old girls at Finishing School in the South of France in the picture perfect 1920s. Their collective dearest dream is finding a boyfriend whom they might wed as this obviously equals lifelong joy, stability, security and success.

In a Shakespeare-worthy comedy of errors, sweet Polly Brown, daughter to a trillionaire, bumps into the son of a millionaire. But both have long since sickened of being courted for their money so she passes herself off as a secretary and he, as a messenger boy. And so their courtship unfurls, aspiring only to a meagre little room in Bloomsbury (possibly rent was lower in 1953), two cosy armchairs and a plump plum duff, providing only enough for two.

Swirling around the edges of their burgeoning love affair are other girls, other dalliances, a long lost father that turns into a long lost love affair and re-kindled romance and a predatory old perv (the brilliant Adrian Edmondson) who stalks the edges of this field of fertile fillies. Alongside a delicious soundtrack, a delicately hard-working set and in the Menier Chocolate Factory's new production, exquisitely choreographed Charlestons from Bill Deamer that Chris Stuart-Wilson would be proud of. 

It's a really silly story that requires utmost sincerity from its leads to work. If you don't fall in love with Polly from the get go, it's hard to feel much sympathy with the poor plight she creates when she invents an imaginary escort for the forthcoming summer ball. But because Amara Okereke is so endearingly sweet, we yearn for someone to wander across her path who perfectly fits the bill. Dylan Mason as her beau, Tony, is debonair, devilishly handsome and dances like a dream.

The frothy frivolities are given a twenty-first century jolt of energy, thanks to David Cullen's  brand new orchestrations and Simon Beck's new vocal arrangements. The soundtrack is infectiously, foot-tappingly catchy and the band sound like they're having a ball. 

For all its silliness, this is one of those shows that makes you fall in love with life. And in the aftermath of this most recent gloomy Thursday, The Boy Friend couldn't be a better antidote. 

On at the Menier Chocolate Factory in London until 7 March 2020.