The dilemma of the Christmas movie is the dilemma of the season: How to scrape away the cynicism to find joy? Why should audiences believe in anything except the commercialism force-fed to them? When movies invoke joy, they do so only after all other marketing opportunities have been exhausted. A grim example is Jingle All the Way, which sells you its must-have toy before and after telling you that Christmas isn’t about must-have toys.

Thank heaven The Preacher’s Wife doesn’t follow the formula; it skips the cynicism in favor of genuine seasonal warmth. The movie updates the 1947 film The Bishop’s Wife, replacing Cary Grant’s angel with Denzel Washington in a snappy gray suit. He has been sent by God in answer to the prayers of Rev. Henry Biggs (Courtney B. Vance), pastor of an urban neighborhood church in crisis. Rev. Biggs runs from the hospital to the courthouse trying to rescue his flock, while a real estate developer (Gregory Hines) offers him a crystal cathedral in the suburbs if he’ll surrender St. Matthew’s. Angel Dudley finds himself shepherding the neglected Mrs. Biggs (Whitney Houston) through the season’s pleasures, but he may be losing his heart in the process.

Updates of holiday classics, like the 1994 Miracle on 34th Street, are usually pointless. But The Preacher’s Wife gains fresh energy by changing the race and the concerns of its protagonists. Rev. Biggs’ problems with children in the social services system and young men accused of crime ring true. So does his temptation to leave the inner city for an easier life in the suburbs, a dilemma that tests his responsibility to his neighborhood and his parishioners. Most importantly, the movie’s heart—its deeply religious music—is untainted and undiluted. The gospel singers that Houston leads (played by the acclaimed Gospel Mass Choir of Georgia) will bring goose bumps to the most jaded Scrooge with their unadulterated praise.

The lead performances sparkle, and director Penny Marshall shows uncommon wisdom in staying largely out of their way. Washington lends every scene verve with his toothy grin and heavenly innocence. Although the script forces Rev. Biggs into long skeptical speeches, Vance finds the right balance of weariness and anger for his complex role. When his preaching gathers force in the final scene, “hallelujah” is the only response. And Houston, not the most subtle of actresses, fairly glows as she sings the movie’s beautiful songs. An added dollop of cuteness and humor comes from young Justin Pierce Edwards as Jeremiah Biggs, the child who narrates the film, and Waiting to Exhale’s Loretta Devine as Rev. Biggs’ secretary.

The movie raises a few theological questions—is it commonly believed that angels are dead human beings?—and the preponderance of Disney toys in Jeremiah’s room has the stench of product placement. (Touchstone Pictures, a Disney subsidiary, financed the film.) But The Preacher’s Wife left me in no mood to quibble. The power of faith is evident in this warm and joyful film, which is so unlike the flood of predictable, disposable Christmas movies we see every year. It can be added without qualms to the short list of perennial holiday classics that lift our spirits and help us believe.—Donna Bowman

Oafs of Office

Is everybody in Hollywood baked? Just this year, I’ve seen movies about a cop teamed up with a dinosaur, a medieval swordsman conning towns with a talking dragon, and Michael Jordan shooting hoops with an animated rabbit. Now comes My Fellow Americans, in which two former presidents team up to solve a mystery. It’s as if screenplays were being generated by Mad Libs.

Although it’s nice to see old pros like Jack Lemmon and James Garner playing rival politicians, and though it’s a gas to see a made-up “insider’s” view of the presidency, the fact of the matter is...they’re presidents and they’re fighting crime! Where do we draw the line? It’s bad enough that My Fellow Americans panders to public cynicism about politicians—via a plot involving abuse of power and cover-ups—but the bumbling, sleuthing, constantly arguing leads are tired and one-note. Ultimately, we have to ask ourselves: Do we really need Grumpy Elder Statesmen?

The dignity of the presidency really takes a beating in My Fellow Americans. Whether they’re complaining about the messes in their shorts or squabbling over money (our presidents apparently don’t have ATM cards), these two ex-presidents never miss a chance to be vulgar. It’s hard to select the most offensive line in the movie: Contenders include, “I’ve got chunks of purple mountains’ majesty up my ass,” and, “After this is over, remind me to go back and look for my balls.” For my money, the winner is the multilayered, “Decaf? You pussy! I gotta go find a john.” (By the way, in what year is this movie set? Judging by the references to other presidents, it appears to be at least 2004, but if that’s the case, I’d expect to see a lot more hover cars.)

What’s most galling about My Fellow Americans is the straightforward approach to the material taken by director Peter Segal and screenwriters E. Jack Kaplan and Richard Chapman. Earlier this year, when the Farrelly Brothers made Kingpin, a movie about an Amish bowling champion, the results may have been silly, but at least the filmmakers never pretended they were making anything else. Segal and company keep their illusions. They try to “cute up” My Fellow Americans by having the ex-prezes bond, repeat catch phrases, and generally act as if they’re in a conventional family comedy rather than a lowball high-concept vehicle. Faced with a candidate like this, it’s best to throw the bums out.—Noel Murray

Ivory Soap

If you had to choose someone to direct a movie about an artist who challenged the confines of his medium, who would you pick? I’ll wager it wouldn’t be James Ivory, who spends the two-hour length of Surviving Picasso proving why. Based on Arianna Huffington’s biography, Surviving Picasso ostensibly depicts the cubist master from the point of view of his mistress Françoise Gilot (Natascha McElhone), who recalls his years of neglect, unfaithfulness, and manipulation.

Trouble is, when Picasso (a lusty but unconvincing Anthony Hopkins) tells Françoise her life is meaningless without him, screenwriter Ruth Prawer Jhabvala hasn’t given us much evidence to the contrary. The only interesting things we learn about Françoise concern her proximity to Picasso—for all the insight Ivory and Jhabvala give us, we might as well be watching a movie about somebody who once double-dated with Jackson Pollack. The movie has no point of view toward Françoise, Picasso, his artwork, or their relationship. All are filmed in the bland, impersonal, gutless style that passes for craftsmanship on public television.

Despite all the anecdotes of psychological cruelty and pettiness, two truths remain undiminished at movie’s end: The subject is the man responsible for Guernica, and the filmmakers are the people responsible for Jefferson in Paris. A few of the actors shake off the Masterpiece Theater doldrums to strike sparks of heat and passion, particularly Julianne Moore as a fiery former mistress. Even so, they’re at the service of a director whose idea of cubism is to stage the action in a perfect square at the center of the frame, leaving the edges of the wide screen an uncharted wilderness. Picasso’s reputation as an artist survives this half-baked biopic unscathed; it’s James Ivory’s reputation that’s on artificial respiration.—Jim Ridley