TL;DR: My Secret Santa is a predictable but warm Netflix holiday rom-com powered almost entirely by Alexandra Breckenridge’s heartfelt, funny, emotionally grounded performance. It sticks closely to the genre formula but uses its Santa storyline and slow-build romance to deliver a finale that lands better than expected.
My Secret Santa
There’s a special kind of déjà vu that hits when Netflix drops another holiday rom-com into your recommendations. It’s like when your favorite game franchise releases its annual update—new skins, same mechanics, familiar glitches. My Secret Santa slots right into that ecosystem with almost mechanical precision. The rich guy. The struggling single mom. The snowy resort town that looks suspiciously like a mid-budget Unreal Engine map. The emotional arc telegraphed so clearly you can practically see the dotted line on the screen.
And yet, I found myself… enjoying it. Against all logic. Against all exhaustion with the genre. Against the little critic-goblin in my brain screaming “This is just The Princess Switch wearing a fake beard!”
Because My Secret Santa has something most Netflix holiday films forget to include: a protagonist with actual emotional texture. Alexandra Breckenridge may be cosplaying as Santa, may be wading through predictable rom-com snowdrifts, but she grounds the story with enough warmth and lived-in energy to elevate the entire runtime. The plot may run on familiar firmware, but she’s the system upgrade that keeps the whole thing from freezing.
Taylor Jacobson, once the gravel-voiced frontwoman of Screaming Kittens, is now a single mom deep in financial winter. Freshly fired, four months behind on rent, and staring down the monstrous tuition fees for her daughter’s elite ice-skating academy, Taylor is running out of lifelines. So when the local ultra-bougie ski resort offers Santa gigs with big pay and huge discounts, she does what any desperate but determined mom would do: glues on a beard, chooses the alias “Hugh Mann” (peak dad-joke energy), and starts granting wishes.
Her new boss? Matthew Layne—the resort’s billionaire heir, a vinyl-loving romantic interest, and poster child for generational wealth trying to cosplay relatability. Their first spark ignites in a record store, because Netflix knows millennials love nothing more than a good vinyl meet-cute.
Let’s not kid ourselves: this is the classic rich-guy/poor-girl dynamic, reheated for the hundredth time like leftover gingerbread. Matthew has no idea Taylor is barely surviving financially, and the movie milks that imbalance for tension and charm in equal measure. It’s cliché, but clichés work for a reason. The sparks build slowly. Their banter is soft, awkward, and occasionally sweet. The chemistry takes its time, but when it finally locks in, it lands with the same satisfaction as a last-minute save in a Christmas anime episode.
The movie wisely avoids turning their class difference into melodrama. Instead, it lets the romance grow through vinyl records, accidental confessions, and the warm vulnerability that leaks through Taylor’s Santa persona.
This is where My Secret Santa pulled me in deeper than expected. Taylor-as-Santa isn’t just a disguise—it’s the emotional CPU of the film. At first, she botches the job spectacularly, giving kids realistic advice that would make actual mall Santas evaporate on contact. But slowly, she starts connecting. Not in a magical, Hallmark way, but in an empathetic, grounded way that reflects her own exhaustion and resilience.
These Santa scenes are the most effective moments in the film. Kids open up. Taylor listens, teaches, encourages. You watch her rediscover her purpose by helping other people fight their small battles—kind of like an NPC offering side quests that quietly heal your main character. It’s surprisingly affecting.
Tia Mowry plays Natasha, the film’s resident saboteur. She’s petty, jealous, and fueled by workplace resentment—basically the human equivalent of a passive-aggressive Slack message. Her role adds just enough spice without derailing the plot.
The writing, by Carley Smale and Ron Oliver, is straightforward and occasionally flat, but the emotional beats land when they matter. The comedy is hit-or-miss, but Breckenridge’s physical performance keeps even the clunkier scenes afloat. Her “Hugh Mann” shenanigans are consistently charming, like watching someone glitch their way through a questline with pure charisma.
Eventually, the mask has to come off. The truth has to hit. And yes, the reveal is messy and dramatic in that classic Netflix-holiday way. But what surprised me is how well the film stitches together humor, heartbreak, and a romance that actually grows from its conflicts rather than collapsing under them.
The final act hits a sweet spot—earnest but not saccharine, emotional but not manipulative. It all comes together in a conclusion that works better than the movie’s formula would suggest. It’s familiar, but it resonates.
Make no mistake: My Secret Santa is not reinventing the holiday rom-com. It operates like a comfortable seasonal playlist—but one with a few unexpectedly fresh remixes. It leans on tropes, but doesn’t trip over them. It plays it safe, but still delivers warmth. It keeps its heart simple, its conflicts manageable, and its tone cozy.
And at the center of all of it is a performance that carries the whole sleigh on its shoulders. Breckenridge doesn’t just elevate the film—she practically rescues it.
If you’re looking for something groundbreaking, you won’t find it here. But if you want a cozy December watch with actual emotional resonance tucked between the tinsel and tropes… this one is worth streaming.
