Netflix Jingle Bell Heist: A merry little break-in

As familiar winter makes itself at home again, it brings with it the usual trio of visitors: the flu you swear you don’t have time for, the annual seasonal depression, and the inevitable parade of Christmas movies marching out like they’re on some festive military drill.

And as Netflix ho-ho-hos this year’s fleet into the algorithm, it’s a relief to see a heist film shove its way past the conveyor belt of girl-in-a-power-suit-taught-family-values-by-hunk-townie sludge. You know the one — where a corporate shark learns kindness from a man who cuts lumber shirtless and speaks exclusively in lessons learned from his nana.

Compared to that avalanche of festive mediocrity, a caper is practically an act of mercy.

There’s a special category of holiday movies designed not to warm your heart, but to pat it politely and keep walking. ‘Jingle Bell Heist’ fits snugly in that lane — a breezy London crime film that keeps mistletoe at arm’s length while flirting, very lightly, with romance.

At the centre is Sophie (Olivia Holt). Having moved to the UK for free healthcare, she is an American petty-crime-aficionado juggling a department store job, a pub shift, and the stress of caring for her seriously-ill mother. Unfortunately for her, the boss overseeing her retail hellscape is Maxwell Sterling, a man whose emotional temperature hovers somewhere between frosty and freezer-burned.

Then there’s Nick (‘Sex Education’ alum Connor Swindells), fresh out of prison, tinkering with broken gadgets at a mobile shop as he tries to rebuild his life. He once installed Sterling’s security system and was — surprise! — painted as the culprit when the store was robbed.

He still has access to the feeds, though, which is how he spots a tiny Sophie scam as she attempts to make do in this world run by rich overlords — who knew the red in the Christmas red-and-green stood for the communist flag?

His attempt to rope her into a more ambitious heist goes nowhere… until the medical bills for her mother suddenly balloon beyond what public hospital queues can handle. The two form a partnership that’s less sparkling chemistry and more begrudgingly functional teamwork.

Holt and Swindells are likeable, even when the romantic electricity barely flickers. A Santa-themed party and a charity gala give them chances to snoop; the latter also gifts the plot its wildcard — Maxwell’s wife Cynthia, who volunteers herself as a co-conspirator with the enthusiasm of someone who has several grievances and one convenient opportunity.

The film itself isn’t a marvel of plotting, but it’s stitched together with enough momentum to keep you invested. The puzzle fills in cleanly: brisk, uncluttered, and topped with a satisfying, bad-guy-gets-karma finale.

‘Jingle Bell Heist’ isn’t trying to reinvent the holiday film. It’s aiming for ‘pleasant’, and hits it with comfortable accuracy. You watch it for the cosy London vibe, and the mild thrill of watching terrible men finally get what’s coming. It understands that December is stressful enough, and responds by offering a competent distraction rather than a life-changing epiphany.

And, honestly? In a season where I expected at least three versions of the “Mama warned me of city girls like you” American slop to ambush our screens, I’m thankful this one steals from stores and not patience.