ON: Romantic Comedies

Let's do it - let's fall in love.

Song of the Week: “Someone New,” by Hozier - “I fall in love just a little, oh little bit every day with someone new”

Last night I sat down to write an essay about camping. I went camping last weekend, and it felt like a safe, obvious choice. I rewatched the “Camping” episode of Parks and Recreation while I ate dinner. I read up on the history of the Coleman stove. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t concentrate. The spark wasn’t there. 

All I could think about was an encounter I had had earlier that day.

That is, if you can count watching a trailer for a Netflix show as an encounter. Earlier that day, one of my favorite bloggers had shared the trailer for a new miniseries, Nobody Wants This, which was coming out that day. One early review compared it to When Harry Met Sally, one of my favorite movies of all time (more on that in a bit). As soon as I saw the trailer, I was hooked.

So last night, I did something impulsive. I put away my essay on camping, ignored my responsibilities, and binge-watched five of the show’s ten episodes. And you guys? I am head over heels.

Nobody Wants This follows Joanne (Kristen Bell), a brash, agnostic L.A. thirtysomething who has a successful podcast with her sister about sex and dating. After a string of bad relationships, she hits it off at a dinner party with the warm, funny Noah (Adam Brody) - only to discover that he’s a rabbi. So far, cultural clashes and hilarity have ensued, with an ensemble cast of side characters that reminds me of My Big Fat Greek Wedding (2002) or The Big Sick (2017), two of my other all-time favorites.

Most importantly, however, Kristen Bell and Adam Brody have fantastic chemistry. By the time they finally kissed, I found myself giggling and literally kicking my feet.

And, I realized, this was just the culmination of a pattern that had developed all week. The night before, I had stayed up too late finishing Yours Truly, another book from author Abby Jiminez, whose Just for the Summer I talked about in my Mother’s Day essay. And on Sunday evening, after decorating my apartment for fall, I rewatched the Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan classic You’ve Got Mail.¹

So, even though I knew it would make me late to send out this essay, I changed topics. I had to follow my heart.

Meet Cute

For two semesters of my time at CU Boulder, I taught Introduction to Global Women’s Literature as a class about love stories. We read fairy tales and feminist remixes of them, discussed comedies of manners and the gothic, and listened to love songs from around the world. There was one text, however, more than any other, that shaped our class: Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice (1813).

Austen’s classic novel, which tells of how the spirited, witty Elizabeth Bennet first hates the pompous Mr. Darcy and then gradually comes to love him, needs no introduction. In a 2003 BBC survey of more than 750,000 people, Pride and Prejudice was voted one of Great Britain’s favorite novels of all time, second only to J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. As a work of satire and social commentary, Pride and Prejudice is unmatched - it asks questions about class, gender, and wealth that were relevant to its contemporary readers while also proving timelessly funny in its gently mocking portraits of small-town busybodies and irritating relatives.

While literary critics may be loath to admit it, however, I would argue that Pride and Prejudice has endured the way it has because it is the romantic comedy. Lizzy and Darcy hate each other. They banter. They are annoyed by their growing attraction to each other. There are a series of misunderstandings and hurt feelings and declarations of love. There’s a big romantic gesture. And, at the end, they live happily ever after.

This story has proven so timeless that the novel has been adapted for the screen more than fifteen times in the last century.

There are the two most well-known adaptations: the textually faithful 1995 miniseries starring Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy, and Joe Wright’s lushly romantic film starring Keira Knightley as Lizzy.²

Then there’s a host of other parodies, modernizations, and tributes, including the disastrously bad Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (2016), the rollicking Bollywood version Bride and Prejudice (2004), and the cheeky Bridget Jones’s Diary (2001).³

My favorite adaptation, however, is an unconventional one: Hank Green and Bernie Su’s 2012 YouTube miniseries The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. In this version, which was released in 112 2-10 minute episodes on YouTube and augmented by Tumblr blogs and tweets, Lizzie Bennet is a communication graduate student vlogging about her family for a project, and Darcy owns a new media company. While the setting and characters are updated in clever ways (Mr. Bingley, for example, becomes Bing Lee, a hunky doctor), the wit and the romance are the same. 

Jane Austen also wrote five other novels - Sense and Sensibility (1811), Mansfield Park (1814), Emma (1816), Northanger Abbey (1817), and Persuasion (1817) - all of which have been adapted or served as inspiration for other rom coms in the last century. Most famously, of course, the 1995 teen rom com Clueless, featuring a spoiled teen who meddles in her friends’ love lives, is an adaptation of Emma.

Austen’s work has been so influential that her books serve as totems and guideposts in much of contemporary romance, beyond just simple adaptations. In You’ve Got Mail, for example, Kathleen Kelly’s favorite book is Pride and Prejudice, and her enemies-to-lovers dynamic with Joe Fox loosely mirrors that of Lizzy and Darcy.⁴ And in the 2006 time travel romance The Lake House, starring Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock, the two characters have a long conversation about missed opportunities and second chances in Austen’s Persuasion.⁵

Austen so dominates conversations about romantic comedy, in fact, that it’s easy to forget she did not invent the form. That credit goes to another all-time British writer: William Shakespeare. 

Shakespeare, who wrote a total of thirty-eight plays between 1590 and 1612, is often recognized more today for his great tragedies, like Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth. But he also wrote sixteen comedies, featuring lots of banter, hijinks, and - crucially - at least one wedding at the end. Some of these have been adapted into successful teen comedies: Twelfth Night, for example, is the basis for the Amanda Bynes vehicle She’s the Man (2006), and the deeply problematic Taming of the Shrew became the far more charming Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles movie 10 Things I Hate About You (1999).

My favorite, however, is Much Ado About Nothing (circa 1599), which follows misunderstandings, betrayals, and reconciliations surrounding the wedding between the dashing Claudio and the virtuous Hero. The real stars of the play, however, are Claudio and Hero’s friends Benedick and Beatrice, whose adversarial, flirtatious banter gives us all of the best lines. As this segment from PBS explains, their lightning-fast back-and-forth set the precedent for Pride and Prejudice, the 1930s and 1940s screwball comedies like Bringing Up Baby (1938) and Adam’s Rib (1949), and the modern rom com.

As Leonato observes in the play’s first scene, “There’s a skirmish of wit between them.”

What I find really compelling about the relationship between Benedick and Beatrice, however, is its startling equality. Shakespearean comedies are full of troubling resolutions and rewarded bad behavior, and Much Ado About Nothing is no exception. The central conflict in Much Ado regards whether Hero has cheated on Claudio before their wedding; at the slightest accusation, Claudio abandons her, and every other man in the play turns on her as well. Benedick, however, is the sole exception. Despite his protestations, he loves Beatrice, and if she believes her friend, then he does too.

Though Shakespeare has its share of angry women, from Macbeth’s Lady Macbeth to Othello’s Emilia, Beatrice stands out. When Hero is falsely accused, she drops her flirting and witticisms, and rages against the cowardly Claudio. “Oh God, that I were a man!” she cries, “I would eat his heart in the market-place.”

Beatrice acknowledges her lack of agency and the systemic sexism that permeates her society, and calls on Benedick to stand up for her and Hero. And he does. 

But unlike in a Shakespearan tragedy, where Beatrice would die as the price of speaking the truth, everything turns out alright in the end. Hero’s honor is restored. The villains are exposed. And Beatrice and Benedick get to live happily ever after.

Falling-in-Love Montage

In the modern age of film, there have arguably been two great eras of romantic comedy: the 1930s and 1940s era, dominated by Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant; and the late 1980s and 1990s era, which made stars like Meg Ryan, Julia Roberts, and Sandra Bullock beloved household names. It was this second era that gave us what most critics agree is the greatest romantic comedy of all time: When Harry Met Sally (1989). 

As the title implies, WHMS follows two New Yorkers, Harry and Sally, over a twelve year period in which they meet, hate each other, meet again, become friends, and then finally fall in love. In addition to its pitch-perfect soundtrack and aesthetics - for the last six years I have mulled cider and watched it during the first week of October because it’s just so cozy - it has been enormously impactful in defining the tropes of the romantic comedy in the decades that followed. Blind date gone wrong? Check. Beautiful, improbably large and well-decorated homes? Oh yeah. Dramatic declaration of love? The best.

As the A.V. Club’s Caroline Siede wrote in 2018, “You can find traces of When Harry Met Sally’s DNA in virtually every romantic comedy that’s been made since.” 

Though aspects of the movie are dated - its central question of whether men and women can be friends is almost quaint in its heteronormativity - it remains timeless because of the witty dialogue and effortless chemistry between Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal. We get to spend an extended amount of time with these characters, listening to them talk about everything and nothing, and so we actually believe that they get along and enjoy each other’s company. We see them change and mature as people, and bring out the best in each other. 

Unfortunately, that isn’t always the case. 

The falling-in-love montage is a staple of the modern romance: after the couple has kissed, or agreed to start dating, or admitted they like each other, the movie frequently transitions into a peppy montage featuring them going on dates, having funny interactions, and in the throes of passion.

For example, there’s this montage following Mia and Sebastian’s first kiss in La La Land:

Or this montage of Tim and Mary in the tube station in About Time:

These montages represent romantic comedies at their most idealized: full of beautiful sights, great outfits, and perfect relationships. They’re what we often picture when we imagine a romantic comedy. They’re the inspiration behind my fall playlist this year, “Romcom Fall,” which is full of big band tunes and 90s staples like “Dreams” by the Cranberries.

They’re so iconic, in fact, that they lend their name to Ciara Smyth’s The Falling in Love Montage (2020), which follows two queer girls who attempt to have a summer limited only to the kind of fun and romantic activities depicted in a falling in love montage, without the commitment or messiness of a long-term relationship.

Unfortunately, however, when the best of the couple’s time together is constrained to one of these montages, it can make it hard to understand what this couple actually has in common, and why we should root for them. That was my biggest issue, for example, with the promising gay rom com Bros (2022), which limits most of the central couple’s happiness to one quick montage before throwing them into conflict. By the end of the movie, I wasn’t sure why these people were together - or whether I wanted them to be.

Breakup

There’s no question that romantic comedies represent a fantasy version of life - one in people fall in lasting love over a matter of days or weeks, everyone has plenty of time and money, and (as Roger Ebert famously quipped) someone who looks like Julia Roberts can’t get a date. Their heroes are overwhelmingly white, wealthy, thin, and able-bodied. They often promote unrealistic or unhealthy ideals for relationships. And they can feel like a slap in the face to people who have been perpetually single, or gone through divorce, or been trapped in abusive relationships. 

Even at their least problematic, romantic comedies are an easy target. To a lot of people, their optimism and over-the-top nature can feel, well, corny.

Rebel Wilson’s Isn’t It Romantic (2018) affectionately parodies the silliness of the romantic comedy through the eyes of Natalie, a hard-working and cynical architect who gets mugged and wakes up in an alternate universe that follows the rules of rom coms. Her job is suddenly glamorous and exciting. Conflicts devolve into dramatic karaoke showdowns. And, much to her consternation, when she tries to have sex with Liam Hemsworth’s dreamy leading man, the scene insistently cuts to the next morning, keeping things PG.

Though Natalie purportedly hates romantic comedies, however, Isn’t It Romantic doesn’t, and the film still ultimately affirms that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after. 

Some movies, on the other hand, take a much darker view of the genre [spoilers ahead].

(500) Days of Summer (2009) is, I would argue, one of the most misunderstood movies of the twenty-first century. 500 Days of Summer follows Tom (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), an aspiring architect-turned-greeting card-writer and hopeless romantic, through meeting, dating, and breaking up with the quirky and beautiful Summer (Zooey Deschanel). The movie jumps around in time to contrast highs and lows in the relationship, and employs playful postmodern elements to emphasize Tom’s feelings, such as when he sings and dances with a crowd the day after he and Summer first have sex, or in this scene late in the film, which contrasts his hopeful plans for reconciliation with the crushing reality: 

Throughout the movie, Summer is clear about her intentions: she is not looking for a long-term relationship, she does not believe in lasting love, and she does not want to find it with Tom. Tom, on the other hand, sees Summer as a manic pixie dream girl who will transform his life, and he insistently narrates their relationship as a romantic comedy, even when all evidence points to the opposite being true. 

Individuals who watch this movie and root for Tom and Summer to be together - or who see Tom as the hero and Summer as the villain - miss the point of its critique of the ways in which romantic comedy tropes can warp our understandings of ourselves and others. As director Marc Webb explains, “Yes, Summer is an immature view of a woman. She's Tom's view of a woman. He doesn't see her complexity and the consequence for him is heartbreak. In Tom's eyes, Summer is perfection, but perfection has no depth. Summer's not a girl, she's a phase.”

Happily Ever After

We are in something of a renaissance, today, of romantic comedies. From goofy adventure movies like the Sandra Bullock and Channing Tatum vehicle The Lost City (2022), to charmingly understated indies like Plus One (2019), romcoms are back. And, this time, mainstream readers are also openly embracing their love for romance novels, with writers like Casey McQuiston and Emily Henry receiving the kind of recognition once reserved for Nancy Meyers or Nora Ephron.

This time, however, it feels like we have learned both from the unhealthy fantasy and the cynicism of the past. Some movies, like 2020’s hilarious Palm Springs, acknowledge the risks and obstacles to true love - and then choose to believe in its possibilities anyway.⁶

Other stories, such as Netflix’s adorable Heartstopper (2022), keep the heart-fluttering tropes and optimism of the genre but expand their scope to encompass a far more diverse cast of characters.

As romance novelist Cat Sebastian argues in her essay “Romance, Compassion, Inclusivity (Or, Why Romance Will Save the World),” that kind of inclusion isn’t just admirable - it’s revolutionary. Romance narratives, Sebastian says, are fundamentally about empathy - we enjoy them in large part because we relate to the characters and put ourselves in their shoes. Romances “provide a unique reminder that we share a common humanity - you can’t read a book in which you’re deeply embedded in the consciousness of a character, rejoice in this character finding the love and happiness they wanted, and then deny that character’s humanity.” 

Furthermore, she says, for many marginalized groups - people of color, LGBTQ+ people, or disabled people - the genre’s insistence on happy-ever-after is radical.

This isn’t just empathy, it is a restructuring of the way people might think of other human beings — who deserves and should expect happiness, who can be loved. There are no other books that insist on joy and love as an end in itself. This is nothing less than radical. Books have long made intellectual arguments and political stances. They have also long engaged in the power of empathy, anger, made a case for rights and humanity. This is not new. But how often do we read something that insists simply on another’s right to love and happiness? Something that helps us understand the importance of sheer pleasure as it is experienced by other people?

I’ve realized, in the last few years, that I’m tired of thinking about romantic comedies as a guilty pleasure. Why are we so dismissive of a genre dominated by women writers, enjoyed by millions of women, that so often foregrounds three-dimensional women and their hopes, fears, and vulnerabilities? Why do we accept that the most cynical and the darkest parts of life are more honest or more real than the optimistic ones, the ones that celebrate friendship and romance and the simple pleasures of life? Why should we feel guilty about believing in love? 

In Rainbow Rowell’s novel Fangirl (2013), twin sisters Wren and Cath are arguing over how Cath should end the epic, novel-length fanfiction she has been writing for years. Wren and Cath are the children of divorce, and Cath thinks that a dramatic, tragic ending will be more honest and more romantic. 

“Think of your readers,” Wren says. “Think about how good it’ll feel to leave us with a little hope.” 

“But I don’t want it to be cheesy.” 

“‘Happily ever after, or even just together ever after, is not cheesy,’ Wren said. ‘It’s the noblest, like, the most courageous thing two people can shoot for” (387). 

There’s one more element, by the way, that I think makes When Harry Met Sally the best romantic comedy of all time: the scenes sprinkled throughout of actors telling the real-life stories of how elderly couples met and fell in love. 

When I was single, romantic comedies gave me something to yearn for. And now, they make me grateful: for my first kiss, and my falling-in-love montage, and all the mundane and wonderful days and years beyond it. 

Those of us who love romantic comedies love them because, yes, they help us to believe that someone will think we’re exciting and attractive, but also that they’ll see us in all our particularities and love us anyway. That they’ll stay. That they’ll love us all our lives. 

At their best, romantic comedies tell us that someday, we could be one of those old couples telling their story together on the couch, our faces lined by years and by laughter. 

I can’t help it. I love them, and I always will. I am a hopeful romantic.

When it comes to romantic comedies, what should I add to my syllabus?

I want to hear from you, whether it’s in the comments on this post or in emails to me directly at roschmansyllabus@substack.com!

1. I don’t actually care for the romance in this one that much, with its deception, emotional infidelity, and celebration of big business. But it’s simply unbeatable for 90s autumn vibes. As Taylor quipped when I told him I was rewatching it, “Your favorite character in that movie is New York.”

2. The 1940 adaptation, starring Laurence Olivier and Greer Garson, is a good film, but it’s not quite Pride and Prejudice. All of the characters wear 1860s hoop skirts to cash in on the recent success of Gone With the Wind, and Olivier is far too smooth and charming as Darcy

3. I actually don’t have an objection to the book Pride and Prejudice and Zombies - I used to teach an essay in that class about how the book uses the zombie plague as a metaphor for women’s lack of options in society. The movie, however, is an incoherent mess, and doesn’t even stay faithful to the plot of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies!

4. Except, of course, that Darcy saves Lizzy’s family from social and financial ruin, while Joe Fox puts The Shop Around the Corner out of business. Ugh.

5. The Lake House, while swoony and romantic, is not funny enough to be a romantic comedy.

6. The less you know about this movie going in the better, so just trust me: It is the best romantic comedy of the 2020s