Release Date: June 13, 2025 (U.S.)
Runtime: 117 minutes (1h 57m)
Rating: R (language & brief sexual material)
Production Companies: 2AM, Killer Films, A24 (domestic), Sony Pictures International
Producers: David Hinojosa, Christine Vachon, Pamela Koffler, Celine Song
Cinematography: Shabier Kirchner (shot on 35 mm film)
Music / Composer: Daniel Pemberton; also features Japanese Breakfast and Baby Rose songs
Materialists (2025)
Director/Writer: Celine Song
Starring: Dakota Johnson, Chris Evans, Pedro Pascal, Zoe Winters,
⚠️ Trigger Warning: This review contains discussion of sexual assault as it relates to the film’s plot.
After the acclaim of Past Lives, anticipation for Celine Song’s next project was sky-high. Following such a deeply personal and resonant debut is no easy task, yet Song chose to remain in the romance-drama space—this time with a sharper, more subversive edge and a star-studded cast. Materialists was marketed like an early-2000s romantic comedy, all glossy and nostalgic, but what it delivers is a genre shake-up that left many viewers feeling blindsided.
Was it successful? When filmmakers take creative risks, they have to be both intentional and clever for them to truly land. What Song does here feels almost meta: she dissects the rom-com framework from the inside out while weaving topical commentary on modern-day dating—filtered through the lens of a professional matchmaker. The result is a film that feels both familiar and new, aided by the warmth of 35mm cinematography and a cast who fully embody their characters’ intentions and contradictions. Add in a mix of sharp comedic beats, uncomfortable truths, and commentary on today’s dating culture, and you get a follow-up that may not work for everyone, but worked for me.
Song opens with a striking, almost whimsical prologue: prehistoric lovers. A caveman delicately weaves a flower into a ring and slips it onto his partner’s finger, a silent expression of intimacy and connection. It’s a simple gesture, but it echoes throughout the film.
Cut to present-day New York. Lucy (Dakota Johnson), a high-end matchmaker at Adore, is celebrating her ninth successful marriage pairing. Johnson, who often gets dismissed for her acting—or written off as a product of nepotism—actually delivers one of her more grounded performances here. Lucy is ambitious and polished on the surface, but there’s a deep pessimism simmering underneath. She jokes that she’ll either “die alone or marry someone wealthy,” a cynical outlook shaped either by her past heartbreak or her profession, where she sees just how transactional modern romance can be.
Lucy’s day begins with Sophie (Zoë Winters), a client still hopeful about love but crushed when Lucy informs her that her latest date isn’t interested. Before their meeting, we hear Lucy on the phone with the man in question, who casually rattles off superficial reasons—her looks, her “vibe”—but fixates most on her age. He complains he’d been promised something different and seems genuinely aggravated, as though Sophie had failed to meet some arbitrary expectation. Sophie leaves the meeting resigned, saying she’d even settle for less at this point.
Later, at the wedding Lucy orchestrated, the bride gets cold feet. Lucy is summoned to talk her down and ends up giving a pitch about how, yes, marriage is somewhat transactional—but so is love. It’s a telling moment: Lucy can convince others to believe in love, even when she no longer does.
At the reception, Lucy meets Harry (Pedro Pascal), the groom’s wealthy and impossibly charming brother. He flirts. She deflects by handing him her business card, steering him toward Adore’s services rather than entertaining the idea of dating him.
But then there’s John (Chris Evans), Lucy’s ex, working the event as a caterer. They share a cigarette outside and briefly reminisce. A flashback reveals the cracks in their relationship—financial insecurity, clashing priorities, a heated argument in the middle of a New York street that marked the beginning of the end.
Lucy begins dating Harry. He’s the “unicorn” of the dating world—wealthy, kind, cultured. Their time together is filled with luxurious restaurants and indulgent gestures. Lucy remains skeptical, half-joking that she’s “beneath his level,” but he reassures her that their connection doesn’t have to make perfect sense. They acknowledge, almost clinically, that their relationship is a little transactional—but they’re both happy enough to let it continue.
Soon they’re officially together, and Lucy’s life seems lighter. Brighter. Until it isn’t.
While Lucy is on the phone with a client—Mark—he gushes about how much he adored Sophie and can’t wait to see her again. But at the office, Lucy is blindsided: Mark sexually assaulted Sophie. Sophie is pressing charges against Adore.
It’s a sharp tonal shift, and Song doesn’t treat it lightly. The film, up until this point, has been satirical, airy, and a bit biting, but here it grounds itself in the darker reality of dating—where women bear the weight of danger and consequence. Lucy is rattled. She’s told to take time off and go home, but the unease lingers.
Lucy and Harry attend a play starring John. At the after-party, John sees through her polished exterior, gently prodding that something seems off. Lucy bristles, takes it as condescension, and abruptly leaves with Harry.
Ignoring her boss’s warnings, Lucy seeks out Sophie directly. Their confrontation is tense, Sophie calling Lucy a “pimp,” accusing her of throwing clients at men without considering the risks. It’s a damning indictment of Lucy’s detachment from her work’s human cost.
Later that night, as Harry showers, Lucy stumbles upon his luggage for their planned Iceland trip. Inside, she finds a ring, making her assume that he’s preparing to propose. The discovery leaves her restless. Unable to sleep, she wanders back into the bedroom and notices the scarring on Harry’s legs. When she asks, he reluctantly admits to having undergone leg-lengthening surgery—a literal embodiment of the pressure to appear “ideal.” It’s a sobering realization for Lucy: their relationship is built on image, not feeling. She tells him they’re not actually in love, and they part ways amicably but emptily.
With her apartment sublet for a trip she’s now canceled, Lucy turns to John. He doesn’t have much to offer—a cramped place, a beat-up car—but he offers to take her upstate for a break.
They sneak into a stranger’s wedding, dance together like they used to, and finally confront their past. John admits his love for her never wavered. Lucy admits she once chose financial security over their love. Just as they start to reconcile, Lucy gets a call from Sophie—Mark is outside her apartment, the police won’t help.
Lucy and John rush back. Mark is gone by the time they arrive. Lucy stays with Sophie, helping her file a restraining order. It’s a quiet moment of solidarity, of Lucy finally stepping up beyond her detached professional role.
When Lucy emerges, John is waiting. They talk about their future, and John promises to support her however she needs. It’s a moment of humility and hope.
We cut forward in time. Sophie is dating again. Harry, too, is now a client of Adore. Lucy, sitting on a park bench, fields a call from her boss offering her a promotion. She declines—she’s ready to leave.
John approaches with flowers. From them, he crafts a ring, just like the caveman at the start. He proposes. Lucy says yes. It’s not about money or status—it’s about connection.
Materialists spins the rom-com formula on its head. It starts as a satirical romantic dramedy but delves into darker, more realistic territory—sexual assault, the commodification of love, the social pressures that warp relationships. Song still embraces the warmth and humor of the genre but doesn’t shy away from showing its underbelly.
Dakota Johnson, Chris Evans, and Pedro Pascal deliver performances layered with charm and vulnerability. Johnson and Evans, in particular, have a natural chemistry that grounds the film even in its most heightened moments. And the cinematography—lush, grainy 35mm—evokes the early-2000s rom-com era while underscoring the story’s timeless themes.
For some viewers, the tonal pivot will feel jarring. They’ll walk in expecting something light and breezy and instead get something messier, more complicated, more real. But that’s exactly what sets Materialists apart from its peers. It doesn’t just play with rom-com tropes; it interrogates them, exposing how love—and dating—can feel both deeply personal and uncomfortably transactional.
It’s not a film for everyone, but it lingers. And for me, it worked.