It’s got an Anglophile’s dream cast, a rousing version of “All I Want for Christmas” and an overstuffed romantic plot that takes place in the loveliest, coziest, most well-to-do version of London you’ve ever seen. Perhaps then it’s no wonder “Love, Actually” has, in the nine years since its release, become something of a holiday classic. At this time of year it regularly crops up on cable and in Netflix queues. Slant calls it “the greatest modern Christmas movie,” and Empire puts it in its top 10 “Best Christmas Movies Ever.” Screw all that.

It’s not just that writer-director Richard Curtis’ jumbled-up stew of intersecting plotlines would make a Garry Marshall joint look minimalist. It’s not the relentless deluge of hokey, forced scenes – like Hugh Grant’s prime minister dancing wildly to the Pointer Sisters, or a declaration of unrequited love that’s lifted  from a Bob Dylan clip. I love hokey! I’m still waiting for John Cusack to show up under my window with a boom box! I am physically incapable of channel surfing past any Sandra Bullock movie, ever! And when, a decade ago, I first heard there was going to be a movie involving my imaginary boyfriends Colin Firth, Alan Rickman and Liam Neeson, as well as my pretend BFF Emma Thompson, I was pretty sure that qualified as proof of the existence of a loving God.

Instead, the moment it reached theaters, I discovered that “Love, Actually” is instead one of cinema’s nastiest, most depressing commentaries ever on “love,” wrapped up like a velvet box from goddamn Kay Jewelers. Well, you never fooled me, “Love, Actually.” I don’t mind lighthearted holiday twaddle; I just don’t like demoralizing, misogynistic holiday twaddle.

With the exception of Bill Nighy’s witty plotline about an aging pop star’s attempt to secure the coveted Christmas No. 1 hit, every one of the 85 other stories in the movie involves some horrible lesson out of the battle of the sexes playbook. If you were an alien watching “Love, Actually,” you would come to the conclusion that what human British men really, really want are hot chicks who fetch them tea, put up with their dalliances, and don’t speak English.