Consider Billy Mack (Bill Nighy), an aging, lecherous rock star who cynically records a terrible Christmas cover of “Love Is All Around” (retitled “Christmas Is All Around”) to resurrect his career. Throughout the film, he is rude, crass, and hilariously disinterested in everyone. But his arc ends not with a supermodel or a record deal, but with a quiet confession to his longtime manager, Joe: “It’s Christmas. I suppose the truth is… you’ve been my love actually.”

Love Actually gives us both: the grand, foolish dash through airport security (Andrew Lincoln’s character, again) and the quiet, crushing dignity of staying. It gives us Bill Nighy singing a terrible song and Hugh Grant dancing like a fool. It gives us the boy who learns to drum to impress a girl, and the stepfather who learns to be enough.

Critics have called the film manipulative, saccharine, and tone-deaf. And they are not entirely wrong.

But here is the secret: Love Actually knows it’s ridiculous. Richard Curtis has admitted that the film is “the most honest and dishonest film” he’s ever made. The clichés are deliberate. The over-the-top gestures are intentional. It is a film that looks at the messy, often cruel reality of love and says: What if, just for two hours, we pretended it was simple? In the end, Love Actually succeeds because it understands a fundamental truth about the human heart: we are all waiting at the arrival gate. We are all hoping that someone—a partner, a parent, a friend—will come running toward us.