Materialists: If Regret Were a Love Language
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"Materialists" (2025) is the kind of movie that sneaks up on you. It’s charming, witty, and brimming with emotional depth—but there's a catch. At first glance, it might seem like a glossy romance about choices, fate, and the paths we take. But if you look closer, it’s a sharp, sometimes devastating commentary on the idea that we can have it all—especially when we don’t, and how we reconcile our unmet desires with the regret that often follows. If regret were a love language, this film would be the dictionary.
The movie is the brainchild of Celine Song, a writer-director whose work leans into the emotional intersections of "what if"—those hypothetical scenarios that play out in our heads when we’re stuck at a crossroads, wondering what our lives might’ve been like if we’d taken that one crucial turn. In her second film, she delves into this theme with an almost melancholy finesse that channels the best of Billy Wilder ’s sharp wit and emotional nuance.
"Materialists" takes us to a familiar yet unique world: the love triangle. But not the love triangle of passion and drama. This one is about regret, desire, and the haunting realization that the paths we choose—or don’t choose—define us far more than we’d like to admit. The film is grounded in the modern dilemmas of career, love, and self-fulfillment, but it layers on the existential weight of "what could have been." At its heart, it’s a story of two people trying to live the lives they thought they wanted, only to find themselves confronting a past that won’t let them go.
There’s an almost Jane Austen-esque quality to the way Song plays with the idea of marriage and love, where the stakes are less about romantic passion and more about societal expectations and self-discovery. The characters, each with their own set of insecurities and desires, are caught between these two conflicting forces: the hope of future happiness and the regret of past choices.
The film’s central characters are beautifully flawed, like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit but somehow form a picture. You have Ella (played with bittersweet grace by the lead), who has everything she thought she ever wanted—success, wealth, a partner who fits the mold of what society says she should want. But there's a gnawing emptiness she can’t shake. Then there’s Alex, a charmingly disheveled artist, who embodies the romantic ideal of following your passion, but he’s also emotionally unavailable in a way that both draws Ella in and keeps her at arm’s length. They’re both searching for something, but what they really need might not be what they think.
The tension of "Materialists" arises not from external conflict, but from the inner battles the characters face. It’s less about choosing between lovers or career opportunities and more about coming to terms with the consequences of what’s been left behind. The regret isn’t just a backdrop; it’s woven into the very fabric of the film, making it a love story about something that doesn’t get much screen time—failure. The way these characters wrangle with their decisions, and how their regrets seem to linger like shadows, is something we all relate to.
What sets this film apart is its insistence on confronting that unspoken grief, the kind we often push down and pretend doesn’t exist. "Materialists" isn’t about finding redemption or some great epiphany at the end. Instead, it asks us to sit with the uncomfortable reality that maybe, just maybe, regret is the price we pay for living the life we thought we wanted.
And yet, in all this emotional turmoil, the film never lets go of its humor. There’s an absurdity to it all, one that echoes the golden-age Hollywood screwball comedies, where the characters are caught up in farcical situations but the comedy is always tinged with sadness. It’s as if Song is reminding us that, even when things don’t go the way we expect, there’s always something absurdly beautiful in the mess.
What’s most compelling about "Materialists" is how it reflects the reality of modern-day relationships, especially for women. In a culture that promises women the fantasy of "having it all," the film throws a cold, hard slap of reality. You can’t have it all, and sometimes, it’s the thing you thought you wanted the most that you’ll end up regretting the most. "Materialists" doesn’t offer solutions or neatly wrapped-up endings. It simply invites you to embrace the discomfort, to recognize the beauty in our broken choices, and, in some strange way, to find peace in the regret itself.
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