More Than Market Value: 'Materialists' And The Math Of Modern Love

When the film Materialists first began its promotional circuit, it was advertised as the must-watch romantic comedy of the summer. I was expecting something in the same spirit as Legally Blonde, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, or Clueless. Films where charm, wardrobe, and witty one-liners culminate in a feel-good romance.  However, this film turns out to be more in line with the humor of White Lotus than Sweet Home Alabama, and more Breakfast at Tiffany’s than Bridget Jones’s Diary. It’s sharp. It’s stylish. And it’s far more biting than expected. Directed and written by Celine Song (best known for her Oscar‑nominated Past Lives), the film stars Dakota Johnson as Lucy, Chris Evans as her ex‑boyfriend John, and Pedro Pascal as Harry Castillo.

The comedy lies in the absurd confidence and odd perceptions of modern dating culture, in the way people quantify love like it’s a hedge fund investment. This is not to say the film lacks humor, it’s definitely funny, but not in the overt way that characterizes early-2000s rom-coms. There’s no bend-and-snap moment here and no makeover montages. Instead, think of subtle takedowns of wellness influencers, finance bros, self-help junkies, and the out of control egos that seem to be the reason why some of the clients seeking matchmaking services have been struggling to find dates on their own. 

The Math of Dating

At its core, Materialists explores the commodification of romance through the lens of Lucy, a failed actress who transitioned into a successful role as a matchmaker at a high‑end agency called Adore. Earning around $80K a year, she dresses impeccably and has a near‑perfect track record: nine marriages among her clients. Yet when she meets Harry, an ultra‑wealthy “unicorn” at a client’s wedding, and reconnects with her down‑to‑earth ex John, she finds herself in the kind of love triangle that prompts both comedy and introspection.

If that sounds like trouble, it is, but Materialists delivers its drama delicately. No overly dramatic tragedies but more of a series of vulnerable moments that challenge our perceived notions of the characters and dating itself. The film is visually chic: minimalist New York City apartments, elegant hotels, silk blouses, rooftop bars with panoramic views. The dialogue is polished, the lighting is soft, and the outfits are on point. This particular aspect of the film kept reminding me of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The impeccable aesthetics and the brunette running around New York City with a very controlled approach to love. Chef’s kiss.

But what saves Materialists from becoming too cold or cynical is its emotional undercurrent. Lucy is not immune to the market she is constantly tracking. Her own romantic life is… complicated. She’s haunted by a past trauma (handled with grace and subtlety, no spoilers here) that colors her view of intimacy and risk. Without being heavy-handed, the film explores how experiences like assault, rejection, betrayal, and cultural expectation affect our willingness to "re-enter the market." It recognizes how being measured and judged can lead us to withdraw entirely. In Lucy’s world, vulnerability is not just a personal risk, it's a statistical liability.

This brings us to the most intellectually stimulating element of the film: the question of formulas. Is love quantifiable? Can compatibility be reverse-engineered? Are some people objectively “worth more” in the dating economy? Materialists never answers these questions outright, but it dares to ask them with startling clarity. Through Lucy’s job at Adore, the high-end matchmaking agency where clients are filtered through income brackets, education levels, BMI, and even social media polish, the film holds up a mirror to the quiet calculations we all make when dating. The difference is, in Lucy’s world, these calculations aren’t just subconscious, they’re institutionalized, codified, and sold at a premium price tag.

Is Dating Worth the Trouble?

Through all of this, Materialists never forgets that it’s a film about people. Not perfect people, not even particularly good people, but people trying. The film acknowledges the harsh truths of modern dating: ghosting, transactional intimacy, emotional burnout, and the pressure to package yourself as a product. It even covers the sad reality many women have faced in their attempts to simply put themselves out there. No spoilers here, but the movie makes reference to why websites like "Are We Dating The Same Guy?" have become crucial safe spaces for women to do unofficial background checks on the men they go out with.

Importantly, Materialists also addresses what discourages people, especially women, from even attempting to date again. Without getting graphic or overly dramatic, the film touches on the aftermath of rape, the silence that follows it, and how trauma reshapes trust. It does this through implication and performance rather than plot exposition, but it’s there.

Lucy’s growing ambivalence toward her job at Adore is more than a personal career crisis. It’s a mirror for the quiet, unresolved questions so many of us carry in modern dating. As she listens to clients list their requirements, dismiss potential matches over arbitrary data points, or spiral after heartbreak, she begins to sense that the very system she’s mastered might be broken. This creeping doubt reflects a broader, almost spiritual disillusionment: What if the formulas we cling to—height brackets, salaries, curated aesthetics—don’t actually lead us to love? What if our trust in algorithms, apps, and compatibility matrices is more about avoiding vulnerability than pursuing connection?

But it also allows for small moments of real connection. Moments that defy logic and the math Lucy keeps running in her head. 

The brilliance of Materialists is that Lucy’s consultations often feel like internal monologues—conversations we might have silently with ourselves. When a client insists she wants a “high-value man,” or when another demands someone who won’t outshine her, Lucy’s responses are nuanced, not judgmental. She walks the tightrope between empathy and detachment, guiding clients while privately wrestling with the same insecurities they confess. In this way, her sessions become a kind of mirror maze: every question she asks echoes back on her own life, and by extension, onto ours. Through her, the film invites us to confront the tension between what we want and what we believe we deserve, and whether either of those can really be calculated.

It would be easy to criticize Materialists for not delivering the kind of escapism rom-com fans might expect. There’s no grand confession in the rain, no impromptu airport scene, not even a court case won. But this film isn’t about escape. It’s about exposure. It shines a spotlight on the ways we’ve let capitalism shape our understanding of love and desirability. It also highlights how we protect ourselves in the often wild world of dating. The film also reinforces the fact that marriage is a business and a financial decision, but one that must always include love. More than once Lucy references dowries as in what am I bringing to the table? It questions the myth that the right data can protect us from heartbreak, and instead suggests that maybe the real power lies in what we choose not to calculate.

Materialists dares to say: the system is broken, the formulas are flawed, and you are more than your market value.