When I watch a classic rom-com — think Bridget Jones’ Diary, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, or When Harry Met Sally — I feel like Nicole Kidman at AMC, inspired and reverent. Despite the “romantic” in its name, the genre’s heart lies in the women at its center. Rather than reducing women to love interests waiting to happen, protagonists are honored as full people before romance enters the frame. In this way, romantic comedies are a branch of feminist gospel. Familiar, comforting, and optimistic stories are merely a format; ultimately, the modern rom-com naturalizes female independence.Â
Before the love story kicks off, the classic rom-com protagonist is a fully realized human being — active, passionate, and alive, with abounding ambition and joy. More than that, these traits aren’t questioned; they’ve come to be an expected trope. “Rom-com” jobs have entered the cultural zeitgeist — journalists, bookstore owners, and designers come to mind (The Holiday, You’ve Got Mail, The Parent Trap, and more). Moreover, these characters are overall fulfilled by and passionate about their work. Personhood is celebrated before partnership.    Â
Beyond professional success, female leads in rom-coms are supported and loved. They aren’t missing something — they have meaningful platonic and familial relationships, and romantic love is additive rather than foundational to their emotional world. Before protagonists enter romantic entanglements, they’re well established as someone’s baby, someone’s sister, someone’s best friend. The first heartbreak of 13 Going on 30 doesn’t have to do with Matt at all — Jenna’s low point is acute homesickness, mourning the self she left behind.Â
Being desired doesn’t equate to being loved. Nia Vardalos, who wrote and starred in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, illustrates this by turning the makeover trope on its head — the main character, Toula’s “glow up” begins with her taking control of her life and enrolling in computer courses at school. She gains confidence, experiments with her style, starts curling her hair and wearing makeup, not necessarily to look better, but because she’s finally allowing herself to be seen. Her autonomy manifests in her approach to her appearance, but doesn’t stem from it.Â
On their first date, Toula’s romantic interest, Ian, realizes that they’ve met before, when Toula waited on him at her family’s restaurant. She feels exposed and self-deprecatingly lets him know she’s mortified by the old Toula, too, joking that she was going through a phase “up till now.” For a moment, Vardalos’ trope subversion threatens to succumb to clichĂ© — until Ian breaks the illusion. Gently, he corrects the misunderstanding: “I don’t remember frump girl, but I remember you.” He sees her, not her transformation. Along with Toula, the audience remembers the initial meeting that seemed so awkward before — and there’s Ian, laughing at a joke she made. Their connection was there in the first place. Landing Ian wasn’t her goal and wasn’t driving the changes she made to her life. Romance comes in after, a bonus, as the result of self-assurance and the happy accident of meeting each other again. Self-realization is what’s central, and romance is merely additive.
Romantic comedies are intertwined with slumber party memories and spending time with my best friends. Although these movies are often dismissed as silly, I like to think of them as spiritual: they taught me that the best love stories really don’t have much to do with romance at all. The older girls get, the more ferociously the world attacks the completeness you hadn’t questioned before. There’s an ever-growing insistence that your supreme goal should be romantic love. Rom-coms challenge that assertion head-on, without alienating romantics: they establish a divine right to independence, autonomy, and love on equal footing.Â
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