“M Replacement is a business deal, and it always has been.” So says Dakota Johnson’s Lucy, Elite Manhattan matchmaker in Celine Song’s second feature, The Materialist.
Materialists throw us headfirst into a world where connecting with a partner is a purely financial endeavor; where silly notions of love are not only ignored but also considered irrelevant; where women must choose between passion or practicality.
If this all sounds rather archaic or even regressive, that’s because it is. And the song knows it. After all, she often cites Jane Austen, particularly Pride and Prejudice, as one of her biggest inspirations for the film: “How amazing is Pride and Prejudice in fantasy, because in this story the love of your life is also the answer to all your practical problems,” she told Curzon in the Area.
Just as this year’s Best Picture winner, Anora, was widely seen as a controversial woman for perpetuating the fantasy of rich guys’ sex-worker-and-whiskey-who-are-on-their-head-from-poverty-on-their-head, materialists act as a kind of anti-primite and prejudice. As the song notes, Austen’s beloved novel offers a similar fantasy: that the man you love could also be the answer to your practical financial problems.
Materialistically, as in Anora, fantasy doesn’t quite play out. Not that Lucy is naive enough to expect it. No, this character is all practicality and sense. “I’ll die alone or marry a rich man,” she says with resignation early in the film. This businesslike approach to love doesn’t just come from her day job: She’s been burned by passionate love in the past: Her ex-boyfriend, John, is a 37-year-old waiter who, despite having the face of Chris Evans, seems to be making it as an actor.
She gets a chance at a dream marriage when she meets Harry, an Uber-rich guy who seems nice enough and has a $12 million apartment. Her co-worker is, enviously, a “unicorn.” This is another unexpected echo of Anora – when Ani, a sex worker looking for a way out of poverty, meets and marries a wealthy young Russian, Vanya, her co-worker, also envious, hisses, “Oh, you caught your own whale.”
Each of these reverse fantasies is driven by heroines who are not interested in romance. It marks new territory. Even in Austen’s day, heroines clung to the fantasy of a love match, despite the practical realities of their time. And we progressed from there. The early screwball novels of the 1930s and 1940s brought us head-turning heroines, while the screen romances of the 1980s and 1990s were filled with “working girls” who were independent, self-sufficient women. Now, it seems, we are beginning a new era, defined by heroines who openly, proudly proclaim their desire for practical play—an era of young women who have given up on love.
Aizraujoši, ka tas tiek spēlēts arī reālajā pasaulē. Jaunu heteroseksuālu sieviešu paaudzei “vienradzis” vai “valis” tiek uzskatīts par galveno balvu. “Materiālistu vērošana, kad uzvar nabadzīgā cilvēka propaganda, un Lūsija izvēlas salauztu 37 gadus vecu neveiksmīgu aktieri par bagāto, mīlošo Hariju, kurš viņai dotu pasauli,” viens cilvēks rakstīja tiktokā video Reaģējot uz materiālistiem, kuri ieguva vairāk nekā 22 000 patīk. “Es darīšu ne Kritums par Broke Guy propagandu, viņa nomurmināja smagiVēl viens rakstīts – arī patika vairāk nekā 22 000 reizes. Es nevaru palīdzēt, bet atceros pagājušā gada “Meklēju vīrieti finansēs” tiktok tendenci.
Jaunas sievietes arī pārvērtē noteiktas sievietes rakstzīmes, kuras savulaik tika vērtētas par viņu praktisko pieeju mīlestībai. Meredith Blake, 1998. gada zelta rakšanas nelietis. Vecāku slazds, kurš draud stāvēt patiesas mīlestības ceļā, tagad ir jauns jauno fanu karaspēks, kurš domā, ka viņa ir “ikona” patiesībāApvidū “Nodošana saprot, ka Meredita vienkārši zināja [sic] ko viņa ir pelnījusi un nesamierināsies ar mazāk ” – Tiktok atkal. Pēc tam notiek pieaugošā uz naudu orientētā Amija marta elkošana, kuru Kickstarted Greta Gerwig 2019. gada adaptācija mazajām sievietēm. Gervigs ielika varoņa motivāciju vārdos: “Nesēdiet tur un sakiet, ka laulība nav ekonomisks piedāvājums, jo tas ir. Tas, iespējams, nav jums, bet tas noteikti ir man.”
Bet pagaidiet. Mazas sievietes un lepnums un aizspriedumi tika uzrakstīti pirms gadiem, kad sievietēm bieži patiešām vajadzēja precēties labi, lai izvairītos no viņu apstākļiem. Kāpēc tas tagad rezonē ar jaunām sievietēm? Vai mēs neesam pārcēlušies tālāk? Vai feminisma gadu desmitiem nebija paredzēts mūs izrakt no šīs paļaušanās uz vīriešiem un laulībām? Kāpēc Lūsija un Ani un, šķiet, desmitiem tūkstošu jauno sieviešu uz Tiktok, domājot un darbojas tā, it kā viņi būtu Viktorijas laikmeta romāna varoņi? Kas, citiem vārdiem sakot, notiek?
Dziesmai ir dažas idejas. “Es domāju, ka tam ir tik daudz sakara ar to, cik dziļi salauza mūsu ekonomiskās sistēmas, it īpaši ASV,” viņa sacīja nesenā Guardian intervijā. “Kā mēs esam iemācījušies, amerikāņu sapnis nav sasniedzams. Jūs nevarat lēkt savu klasi. Bet kāds ir viens no nedaudzajiem veidiem, kā jūs joprojām varat pārlēkt savu klasi? Nu, laulība.”
It’s all rather cold and depressing. Fortunately, while these films may reflect a real, somewhat disturbing cultural shift, they challenge the philosophy that romance is just a business transaction. They stand for love. Lucy finds her “unicorn,” and Ani gets her “whale”—but each “love” story ends in disappointment. Lucy has to face the fact that she really does need a little love, for real—even if it means giving up the nice restaurants.
Meanwhile, Ani faces the reality that Vanya doesn’t love her or even respect her enough to stand up for their marriage when his oligarch parents come to break them up. In every film, the third act provides relief in the form of real human connection. Love matters—even, and perhaps especially, in our increasingly money-obsessed world. And cinema is still fighting for it.
