As a Christmas present to my readers, I am recommending a good family movie. You, Ma, Pa and little Sue Beth are bound to head to the local video store at least once over the holidays. Your parents will realize sadly that it has been decades since any movie was marketed to them. Dad will end up looking fondly at the box for “Dirty Harry.” Little Sue Beth will suggest a Drew Barrymore flick, you’ll groan, your parents will say, “OK,” you should recommend a movie then.

At this moment you will realize that just about everything you like, you like at least partially for unsavory reasons. When watching movies with your parents, anything even remotely concerned with sex is out, covering most comedies. Exposing little Sue Beth to violence and harsh language simply won’t do, so there goes action, drama, anime, suspense, horror and sci-fi. You are left with family, documentary and exercise. More power to you if your family is into the latter two, but, if not, you will have to drift into that maverick group of films that tries to do the impossible: appeal to everybody.

There are classics in the genre, no doubt – “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “ET,” “Ernest Goes Disco” – but you’ve seen those already, and most of the rest of is unbearable Tim Allen-type stuff. But there is some uncharted territory in the realm of quality family picks, and it lies – where else? – in Australia.

I happened to have been living in Australia when “The Dish” came out, and, in Australian terms, it was a big deal. Australia, overshadowed in pop culture by the United States and in inherited culture by the United Kingdom, is a small, modest country, and they are proud when they do something themselves.

A large helping of this national character is integral to the charm of “The Dish.” The story, set in 1969, revolves around the rural town of Parks and its football-field sized radio telescope. The telescope, normally as ignored as the sheep paddock it resides in, is enlisted by NASA to help broadcast the moon landing around the globe. Suddenly, Parks finds itself an essential, if small, cog in one of humanity’s greatest feats.

Cliff Buxton, played by “Jurassic Park”‘s Sam Neil, is the director of operations at the telescope. To him, the NASA project is the zenith of a life dedicated to science, and a bittersweet tribute to his recently deceased wife.

Cliff’s assistant, Mitch, shares the excitement for science but is on the opposite end of the spectrum of love, facing its newness awkwardly rather than its loss with nostalgia. The object of his affection, Janine, plays a bit of a reverse Rapunzel routine, constantly trying get past her brother, the comically self-important security guard, to woo shy Mitch in the telescope’s tower with sweetness and sandwiches. Rounding out the dish crowd are NASA liaison Al, a Clark Kent-style quintessential American played by “Seinfeld”‘s Patrick “Puddy” Warburton, and Glenn, a smart-mouthed technician resentful of Al’s American presence.

The outcome of the film’s greater events is never in question. But, on an intimate level, the residents of Parks enchant us with quaint foibles, and simple, noble humanity.

On request, Bob fondly selects a yellow dress for his wife, Maise, to wear to the big party for the U.S. ambassador. Maise instructs him that in front of the ambassador, he should call her May and that her dress is lemon, not yellow. When the ambassador arrives, Bob, flustered, says, “This is May, my wife. She’s the lemon.” Our fondness for these characters makes their smaller victories seem big, and it recasts a glow of awe on the larger historical events as we watch them through their eyes.

Perhaps “The Dish” is particularly appropriate now, as it is largely about a sense of community and patriotism. Glenn, his Aussie pride injured by what he views as NASA’s arrogance, complains that the Americans simply don’t understand or care about them.

“They aren’t so different,” Cliff tells him, “NASA is just a bigger version of us.” As with the moon landing, “The Dish” is about how our common challenges can remind us of the value of our place in “a bigger version of us” which is capable of common accomplishments far greater than the sum of its parts.

Come to think of it, that’s not a bad theme for Christmas either.

Luke Thompson is a senior in English from Fort Dodge.