Ah, the holidays, that season of sensory delights. A Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, the scent of cinnamon wafting through the air, and on the television, a wholesome, snow-draped fantasy film driven by one pivotal question: What if Frosty the Snowman could fuck?
Alas, this is not a joke. The movie Hot Frosty takes place shortly before Christmas in a small town called Hope Springs. A grieving young widow named Kathy impulsively drapes a scarf over a hunky snow sculpture in the public square—which brings the snowman to life, in the flesh, wearing the magic scarf and a charming smile and absolutely nothing else. Unlike the Frosty of song, who celebrates his newfound sentience with a day of childish frivolity before thumping away into the hills to die, this snowman imprints like an orphaned duckling on the woman who made him a real boy, and hijinks ensue—as does romance, eventually.
Hot Frosty is part of Netflix’s holiday film slate, a collection of Hallmark Channel–esque romances that drop every December in honor of the Christmas season. The more discerning critics among us would be forgiven for wondering why this tradition persists: These movies are the silliest sort of melodrama, intentionally schlocky and critically mocked—sometimes even by Netflix itself. And yet, they are massively popular, topping the platform’s most-watched list year after year—in its first week, Hot Frosty was viewed a staggering 16 million times—even when the consensus, from professional reviewers and normies alike, is that they’re genuinely bad.
It’s an intriguing paradox—why is everyone watching a movie that no one likes?—and one that reveals something profound about these films’ target audience.
