elc team
By Old Boy
Two years ago, Celine Song made a powerful impression with Past Lives, her directorial and screenwriting debut, which earned, among other distinctions, Academy Award nominations for Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay. On one side, a love story written in the language of fate, infused with the essence of romantic comedies and love stories across art forms; on the other, a lifelong relationship carrying its own kind of romance. The tension wasn’t between “want” and “must,” but between two different “wants.”
Now, with Materialists (Do We Match? in Greek), Song returns with a similar structure and a related dilemma: once again, a woman caught between two men. As in Past Lives, these two men don’t embody a stark contrast of good versus bad, nor does one carry some glaring flaw to push the audience away. Instead, both are desirable, both are lovable – not only as men but as human beings – each representing different conditions, so that the heroine’s choice resonates with broader meaning and symbolism.
This time, Song’s success in her debut allows her to work with far more luminous names: Dakota Johnson caught between Pedro Pascal and Chris Evans. Johnson plays a luxury matchmaker in New York, a profession apparently enjoying a revival in the very city where everything happens first. Into her life walks an irresistibly charming and wealthy man – while, simultaneously, her ex resurfaces, carrying undeniable charisma but remaining just as poor as when they were together. And this is no small detail, since she had broken up with him precisely because of his poverty, because their lifestyle had become suffocating and miserable over time. The original title of the film, Materialists, underlines this tension, reinforced in the trailer by Madonna’s Material Girl.
I liked Past Lives, though I didn’t find it as revolutionary as some claimed – I saw it as simply an excellent film within its genre. But Materialists, even though some see it as a step backwards, strikes me as nothing of the sort. It establishes Song as, at the very least, a Nora Ephron adapted to the present (and perhaps even more). It reveals a wealth of ideas and a restless creative energy. While Past Lives immersed itself in the realm of raw, conflicting emotions – its entire foundation resting on the concept of in-yun, souls destined to meet across lives – Materialists takes a deliberate step back. It is less about being swept up in emotion, and more about dissecting the machinery of romance itself: what draws us to another person, what constitutes attraction, what romance is made of.
Here, Song looks at love and desire through a meta lens. Without abandoning sentiment and romanticism, she constantly places them under scrutiny – questioning, dismantling, rationalizing, parametrizing them. After all, her heroine is a professional matchmaker; the film’s central terrain is an “open market.” The word “market” echoes again and again throughout.
So, what does each person bring to the market? What is their value? How high are their “shares”? What kind of partner can they “land”? What is their exchange value, making them worthy of a desirable match? It may sound crude, this commodification of relationships, but Song is not distorting reality. Marriages, partnerships, romances – they have always played within a metaphorical marketplace. A potential partner is never just an abstract object of Cupid’s arrow: they are always embedded in context. And that context -their wealth, education, lifestyle – is an inseparable structural element that makes them desirable, loveable, marriageable.
This being the U.S., and this being a service for the highly privileged, it is unsurprising that income level tops the list of requirements clients cite when seeking partners. Nor is the emphasis on age surprising. What is striking is the prominence of height as a non-negotiable factor. Women insisting on a minimum height threshold, while body weight is barely mentioned—perhaps avoided for reasons of political correctness, or because, in the world of affluent Americans, such issues are presumed resolved. As one line in the film puts it: “There are no ugly people, only poor people.” Likewise, one might say: “There are no fat people, only poor people.” In any case, these client demands -men’s and women’s alike – give Song opportunities for delightful vignettes, perhaps none more so than the middle-aged man who confesses he’s tired of dating much younger women and now wants someone with more life experience.
At least twice, Song shakes up the conventions of the rom-com. The first comes as we watch a wedding in the background, while the heroine clinically dissects, step by step, how the couple’s relationship will unravel – boredom, alienation, conflict. If such outcomes are common knowledge, if statistics lean so heavily toward failure, why do people still want to marry? Her answer: because society still dictates it, because people fear loneliness, but also because people need hope. The external and the internal. The fearful within us, and the luminous within us. One could easily imagine Song someday making a film about a marriage decaying in real time.
The second rupture comes later, at a point where the film might have ended – a kiss between the heroine and one of the men, framed in full rom-com glow. The atmosphere sweeps you along, and then abruptly, they stop. They start analyzing what they’re doing, why they’re doing it, what their real motivations might be, what the outcome of their “phase” together could look like.
If there’s a criticism to be made of Materialists, it’s that it wants to both deconstruct and indulge the rom-com form – to have its meta-cake and eat it too. Not because the ending feels unconvincing; on the contrary, it does. Nor because the film contradicts itself; it doesn’t. It’s simply that Past Lives, far more conventional in its build, ended with more daring, even subversive notes. Here, the intentions feel smaller in scope, keeping the film from soaring as high as it might have.
That said, Materialists belongs to Dakota Johnson. She fully embodies the role of someone who critically examines her own experiences while living them—someone at once immersed and self-analytical. She embodies ambiguity: sometimes ironic, sometimes tender, always both cerebral and deeply emotional. Opposite her, Chris Evans and Pedro Pascal bring that quintessential American actor’s quality: naturalness, unforced presence. Pascal – everywhere these days, perhaps Hollywood’s hottest name right now – exudes relaxed confidence in every gesture, even in how he tilts his body toward others in conversation, a stance that seems both generous and magnetic. Evans, meanwhile, stripped of his Captain America sheen, dark-haired and vulnerable, conveys fragility, tenderness, and a desire not to be crushed by life’s disappointments.
The discourse around Evans’ character sparked controversy. Since the heroine genuinely considers him alongside Pascal’s wealthy suitor, critics accused the film of “broke boy propaganda.” Song responded, frustrated but incisive: how twisted is it to equate poverty with total failure as a human being? How warped is it to consider it antifeminist for a woman to seriously contemplate being with a man who isn’t rich? She even underlines her point in the film, making Evans’ character a Bernie supporter, and putting in his mouth a line condemning those who earn their living as arms lobbyists or corporate consultants for Shell or McKinsey.
Ultimately, the film’s underlying theme is value. Song plays masterfully with this concept. Yes, there is financial value. But there is also intangible value – the value of each human being, our worth. In an era obsessed with self-sufficiency – give yourself value, don’t wait for others to give it to you – Song counters: no, of course others give us value too. How do you see me? How do I see myself? How do you make me feel – not only as a partner but as a person? How does your presence confer worth upon me? Identity and partnership are intertwined: “Show me your partner, and I’ll tell you who you are.”
Pathetic? Perhaps. But equally pathetic -perhaps more so- is the opposite claim: that one’s worth can and must derive only from oneself, divorced from human connection.
