As the first snowflakes dust the rooftops and playlists overflow with Bing Crosby crooners and Mariah Carey’s yuletide anthems, Netflix is once again transforming living rooms into winter wonderlands with its 2025 holiday slate. Gone are the days of predictable snow-globe romances and cookie-cutter carols; this year’s offerings crank up the whimsy, wit, and warmth, delivering a quartet of original films that capture the season’s magic while poking at its messier edges. Leading the charge are A Merry Little Ex-Mas, Jingle Bell Heist, My Secret Santa, and Man vs Baby—each a 90-to-120-minute escape hatch from Black Friday madness, perfect for curling up with cocoa and kin (or solo with a side of schadenfreude). From divorce dinners gone delightfully awry to Santa-suited sleights of hand and yuletide heists that steal hearts over jewels, these flicks promise laughs that linger like eggnog haze and feels that thaw even the grumpiest Scrooge. With release dates spanning late November to mid-December, Netflix’s holiday haul is timed for maximum binge-ability, ensuring your streaming queue jingles all the way to New Year’s. Dive in as we unwrap the details on these merry must-sees, where tinsel meets turmoil in the most heart-tugging ways.

Kicking off the festivities on November 12 is A Merry Little Ex-Mas, a rom-com cocktail of awkward ex-chemistry and festive forced proximity that feels like a Hallmark card rewritten by a divorce lawyer with a soft spot for mistletoe. Directed by Steve Carr—the comedic maestro behind Daddy Day Camp‘s pint-sized pandemonium and Paul Blart: Mall Cop‘s pratfall paradise—the film stars Alicia Silverstone as Kate Larson, a recently separated mom clinging to one last picture-perfect family Christmas before signing away her suburban dream home. Silverstone, forever the ’90s icon of Clueless spunk and Batman & Robin eco-fierceness, channels a relatable whirlwind of wide-eyed optimism laced with quiet desperation. At 49, she’s never been more luminous, her Kate a whirlwind of elf-ear energy who strings lights with the precision of a surgeon while inwardly unraveling like a poorly wrapped gift.

The plot unfurls in a snow-dusted cul-de-sac straight out of a Norman Rockwell fever dream, where Kate’s meticulously planned yuletide—complete with gingerbread villages and a vintage Polaroid Santa—derails spectacularly when her ex-husband, Everett (Oliver Hudson, all rumpled charm from Rules of Engagement and Scream Queens), rolls up with his dazzling new girlfriend, Sloane (Jameela Jamil, the sharp-tongued The Good Place alumna whose deadpan delivery could curdle eggnog). Everett, a harried architect with a penchant for half-baked apologies and holiday puns, arrives towing their two precocious kids: tween firecracker Sienna (Emily Hall, a breakout from The Baby-Sitters Club) and wide-eyed wonder Gabriel (Wilder Hudson, Oliver’s real-life mini-me, adding meta-magic to the family fray). What starts as a tense truce—think passive-aggressive charades and spiked cider standoffs—spirals into slapstick splendor when Sloane’s influencer antics (live-streaming turkey carvings gone wrong) clash with Kate’s traditions, forcing the exes into reluctant teamwork amid a blizzard of burnt cookies and buried resentments.

Enter the wildcard: Pierson Fode as Jack, the hunky 28-year-old Christmas tree salesman who becomes Kate’s impromptu plus-one, his boyish grin and flannel-clad reliability a balm to her bruised ego. Fode, fresh off The Bold and the Beautiful‘s brooding heartthrob turns, brings a grounded glow to Jack, whose backstory—a widower rebuilding after loss—mirrors Kate’s own reinvention. As snowdrifts bury the cul-de-sac and power outages trap the mismatched crew in a candlelit cocoon, old flames flicker: stolen glances over stockings, a midnight snowball skirmish that thaws frozen hearts, and a heartfelt tree-trimming confession that peels back layers of holiday hurt. Screenwriter Holly Hester, whose The Royal Treatment blended royal romps with real-talk redemption, infuses the script with whip-smart banter that skewers divorce tropes without descending into bitterness—think The Holiday meets This Is 40, but with more mulled wine and fewer midlife crises.

Critics who caught early screenings are buzzing about its emotional elasticity: Variety hailed it as “a festive fix for the broken-hearted, Silverstone’s vulnerability the gift that keeps on giving.” Running a brisk 98 minutes, the film’s lush cinematography—golden-hour glows on frosted pines, courtesy of DP Larry Blanford (Crazy Rich Asians)—pairs with a soundtrack blending indie folk carols (think The Lumineers’ “Ho Hey” reimagined as a divorce duet) and original jingles that stick like candy cane residue. Executive produced by Silverstone herself alongside Melissa Joan Hart (in a cameo as Kate’s snarky bestie, channeling Sabrina-era sass) and her mom Paula Hart, A Merry Little Ex-Mas isn’t just a movie—it’s a manifesto for messy merriment, proving that the best holidays aren’t perfect; they’re profoundly, imperfectly ours. Stream it when the turkey’s digesting, and prepare for a post-credits urge to call that ex you swore off forever.

Hot on its heels, November 26 brings Jingle Bell Heist, a cheeky crime caper that swaps sleigh bells for safe-cracking and turns the Twelve Days of Christmas into a countdown to chaos. Helmed by Michael Fimognari—the visual virtuoso of To All the Boys teen dreaminess and The Fall of the House Usher‘s gothic gloom—this 96-minute romp transplants Ocean’s Eleven‘s glitzy grift to a tinsel-trimmed London department store, where holiday hustle meets heartfelt hustle. At the helm are Olivia Holt as Sophia Martin, a whip-smart Philly transplant scraping by as a retail drone in Harrods-esque emporium, and Connor Swindells as Nick Reilly, a grease-monkey repairman whose toolkit hides more than wrenches. Holt, the Disney darling turned Cruel Summer chiller, infuses Sophia with streetwise sparkle—her character’s arc a testament to resilience, juggling mom’s cancer bills with a side of sticky-fingered survival. Swindells, Sex Education‘s brooding Adam Groff, trades teen angst for roguish redemption, his Nick a rumpled rogue whose cockney quips mask a heart as big as Big Ben.

The setup sings with seasonal subversion: Sophia, fresh from Stateside shores to nurse her ailing ma, clocks endless shifts amid garish garlands, her dreams of funding chemo dashed by paltry paychecks. Nick, drowning in debt from a botched apprenticeship, eyes the same glittering prize: the store’s vault, stuffed with £500,000 in holiday haul from Black Friday bonanzas. When their paths collide in a stockroom stakeout—her plotting a solo smash-and-grab, him mid-wiring sabotage—they forge a frosty pact: team up or tangle. What ensues is a whirlwind of wire-fu heists and heartfelt hijinks: dodging security elves in elf-ear disguises, rigging Rudolph the Reindeer’s animatronics for diversions, and a mid-robbery meet-cute over a mistletoe mishap that sparks more than alarms. Supporting the stars are Lucy Punch as the tyrannical store boss (a Hot Fuzz-esque villainess with a vendetta), Peter Serafinowicz as the oblivious owner whose Scrooge-like stinginess fuels the fury, and Belal Sabir as Nick’s hapless hacker sidekick, whose gadget gaffes guarantee guffaws.

Abby McDonald, whose Bridgerton scribe creds bring Regency wit to regency-free robbery, crafts a script that’s equal parts The Sting sleight and Love Actually longing—think con-artist capering laced with class commentary on gig-economy grind. Fimognari’s lens luxuriates in London’s luminous nights: Oxford Street’s twinkling tableaux, Thames-side escapes under fairy lights, a score fusing cheeky brass to choral swells that turns theft into tango. Early buzz from test audiences calls it “the anti-Hallmark heist we didn’t know we needed,” with Holt and Swindells’ chemistry crackling like Christmas crackers. At 96 minutes, it’s a swift sleigh ride—perfect for pre-eggnog evenings—ending on a note that’s naughty but nice, reminding us that the greatest scores aren’t stolen; they’re shared. Queue it up when the Queen’s Speech fades, and let the bells jingle for justice.

December 3 ushers in My Secret Santa, a gender-bending yuletide yarn that ho-ho-hijacks Mrs. Doubtfire‘s drag delight for a slopeside spin on self-reinvention and seasonal sparks. Directed by Mike Rohl—the Princess Switch trilogy’s twinkly-time travel auteur who swaps coronets for crampons—this 92-minute delight stars Alexandra Breckenridge as Taylor Evans, the vivacious single mom from Virgin River‘s heartland haze, now trading small-town vineyards for Sun Peaks’ snowy spires. Breckenridge, 44 and radiating that post-maternity glow, embodies Taylor with a mix of maternal ferocity and fizzy flair: a barista-by-day dynamo whose recent layoff leaves her scrambling to fund daughter Lily’s elite ski lessons, her resolve as unyielding as a black-diamond run.

Desperation dons the red suit when Taylor, spotting a “Santa Wanted” ad at the opulent resort, stuffs pillows, pads brows, and pitches her voice to basso profundo for the gig. Enter Ryan Eggold as Matthew Hale, the silver-spooned scion managing Sun Peaks with a velvet glove over an iron fist—New Amsterdam‘s earnest doc turned holiday hunk, his chiseled jaw and quiet intensity a foil to Taylor’s tomfoolery. Their meet-cute? A beard-bristled interview where Matthew’s suspicions simmer like mulled wine, only to boil over into banter as “Old Saint Nick” charms kids with improvised carols and cookie heists. Eggold, 41, leans into Matthew’s layered longing—a trust-fund heir haunted by daddy issues, his arc a slow-melt from skepticism to swoon. Rounding out the revelry is Tia Mowry as Natasha, Taylor’s sassy sister-in-spirit whose Sister, Sister sass grounds the giddiness, alongside Madison MacIsaac’s bubbly bartender and Diana Maria Riva’s no-nonsense concierge who smells a Santa-sized rat.

Co-writers Carley Smale (Snowed-Inn Christmas) and Ron Oliver (Falling for Christmas) weave a web of woolly whoopsies: Santa-suited spills down bunny slopes, a hot cocoa catastrophe that singes Matthew’s scarf (and singes sparks), and a midnight gondola heart-to-heart where Taylor’s beard slips—literally and figuratively—exposing vulnerabilities wrapped in velvet. Rohl’s direction dazzles with alpine allure: powder-fresh panoramas, firelit lounges aglow with aurora-esque lights, a soundtrack skating from Jingle Bells jazz to indie pop flurries. At 92 minutes, it’s a swift slalom—critics previewing it dub it “Doubtfire on downhill skis, with twice the heart”—culminating in a New Year’s Eve reveal that’s as revelatory as it is romantic. Ideal for mid-December decompression, when resolutions loom and reinvention feels right; stream it post-ski (or sofa-ski) and ponder: Who’s the real gift under the tree?

Crowning the calendar on December 11 is Man vs Baby, a four-part comedy series (30 minutes per episode) that trades Man vs Bee‘s buzzkill for burp-cloth bedlam, proving Rowan Atkinson’s knack for nonverbal nonsense is as evergreen as a Norway spruce. Created and penned by Atkinson and William Davies (How to Train Your Dragon), this slapstick sequel resurrects Trevor Bingley—the hapless house-sitter from 2022’s Man vs Bee—now demoted to school janitor after his arthropod apocalypse. Atkinson, 70 and timeless as Mr. Bean, embodies Trevor with elastic expressiveness: his bushy brows telegraphing terror, his lanky limbs flailing like tinsel in a tornado. Seeking solace in a posh London penthouse gig over the holidays, Trevor envisions quiet carols and solitary sherry—until the nativity play’s Baby Jesus (a squalling infant prop) goes unclaimed, thrusting him into diaper duty amid designer digs.

The chaos cascades like a toppled tree: formula fountains flooding marble floors, midnight mobiles mistaken for mobiles (the ringing kind), and a climactic Christmas dinner where Trevor’s attempts at turkey triumph end in edible Armageddon. Co-starring Joseph Balderrama as a hapless handyman sidekick and Arti the dog as Trevor’s four-legged foil, the series skewers suburban solitude with Atkinson’s arsenal of sight gags—think Bean-esque escalator escapes, but with onesies instead of overcoats. Executive produced by Davies and Chris Clark, its 120-minute total runtime (bingeable in a brisk afternoon) bursts with visual vim: penthouse panoramas twinkling with skyline splendor, a score of sprightly strings underscoring the absurdity. Early peeks promise “Bean at Bethlehem,” a holiday hoot that heals through hilarity. Cap your Christmas canon with it, as fireworks fade—because nothing says “peace on earth” like pandemonium politely contained.

These four Netflix gems—spanning rom-com rifts, heist high jinks, Santa shenanigans, and baby-borne buffoonery—form a festive mosaic that’s as varied as a gingerbread village and as comforting as a cashmere sweater. In a season that often glosses over the grit (divorces dusted in sugar, debts decked in holly), they embrace the beautifully bungled, reminding us that joy isn’t in the flawless facade but the fabulous fallout. With casts that sparkle like ornaments and stories that snag the heart like stray hooks, they’re the perfect antidote to ad-jingle overload. So, dim the lights, queue the quartet, and let Netflix’s 2025 Noel nestle in—because this holiday, the merriest magic is just a stream away.