MATERIALISTS finds Céline Song widening her cinematic lens beyond the tender intimacy of her debut PAST LIVES. This time, she offers a sharper, more scornful critique on modern romance and personal branding. Set against the lavish backdrop of New York’s Upper East Side, the film follows Lucy (Dakota Johnson), a luxury real estate agent navigating a string of romantic entanglements with a studied detachment. However, beneath the glossy exterior, MATERIALISTS uncovers something emptier, a world where desire is shaped more by wealth and image than real feeling.
The film opens with confidence, establishing a rhythm that mirrors the transactional nature of Lucy’s life. The creative team nails the quick cuts, deliberate pacing, and tight framing to capture how modern dating can be less about connection and more about image. Lucy’s pool of “suitable” partners ranges from a wealthy financier to a wistful screenwriter, each embodying a different aspirational identity. Dakota Johnson’s performance is well-calibrated to her character; Lucy remains emotionally distant but not unreadable, hinting at past disappointments or ambitions too repressed to surface.
Lucy’s romantic entanglements aren’t just plot devices; they function as mirrors reflecting her guarded state and the broader social forces at play. Pedro Pascal’s client-turned-lover, Harry, introduces a rare moment of softness and vulnerability in Lucy’s otherwise smooth world. His affection hints at an authentic connection, but even this relationship is framed within transactional boundaries .Lucy remains measured, maintaining control rather than opening up. Harry embodies a form of aspirational vulnerability, someone who bridges the gap between professional and personal, yet ultimately remains contained within Lucy’s crafted bubble.
In contrast, John (Chris Evans), originally Lucy’s ex, embodies the class divide that underpins the film’s social commentary. Their breakup stems from Lucy’s prioritisation of money over their relationship, a tension highlighted in a flashback of their anniversary. Lucy’s irritation at wanting to park anywhere in the city clashes with John’s reluctance to spend beyond his means, exemplified when she suggests how they could have taken a car to dinner and he responds, “I’m not spending $50 on getting a car into the city to spend $200 on a meal.” This scene represents their conflicting values, and the interference of the financial status as a blocker of closeness. The refusal of John highlights the idea that Lucy is not only defensive in being cold but influenced by capitalist ideology that distorts connection. Where Pascal’s character is a desirable, controlled presence in her life, John represents the past she actively disowns.
These dynamics reveal Lucy’s struggle to reconcile the need for true feelings with relentless performativity expected in her social rank. Her distancing of herself is both shield and prison, enabling her to navigate a world obsessed with image but also isolating her from authentic connection. Through these relationships, MATERIALISTS creates a portrait of love that is both conceived and strangled by the cold calculating logic of capitalism.
“…[the] language of wealth & power [and] focus on aesthetics underlines the film’s critique: wealth has become the currency of desirability, especially in intimate relationships.”
Visually, MATERIALISTS is gorgeously shot by Shabier Kirchner; the cinematography bathing luxury apartments and romantic dinners in soft, golden hour lighting. The camera lingers on details like interiors, jewellery, and wardrobe choices, inviting us to read these as visual cues rather than mere set dressing. These carefully framed elements act as extensions of the characters themselves, reflecting their cultivated tastes and social status. The gleam of the designer necklace or the pristine minimalism of a penthouse isn’t just pretty to look at, it’s a language of wealth and power that shapes how the characters see themselves and how they are seen by others. This focus on aesthetics underlines the film’s critique: wealth has become the currency of desirability, especially in intimate relationships.
While Song’s screenplay begins with fresh, pointed dialogue, it eventually strains under the weight of its own ideas. What starts as a promising exploration of identity and ambition gradually gives way to stylized monologues, making the depth of the characters’ relationships harder to grasp. This tonal shift contributes directly to the film’s own emotional detachment. The script also introduces a subplot involving one of Lucy’s clients, an attempt to challenge her own emotional state. But this darker storyline, though introduced with weight, is then largely abandoned. The lack of development reduces its impact, leaving Lucy’s transformation feeling contrived.
As Lucy moves between partners, both she and the people around her feel less like real individuals and more like vehicles for the film’s larger ideas. In reimagining romantic bonding as a language of aspiration, compatibility and self-image, Song critiques how capitalism reshapes intimacy into something strategic and transactional. It’s sharp in theory but cool in tone. The clarity of vision could be admirable, but lacks a deeper sense of human warmth. Rather than simply diagnosing the cost of curated identity, the film might have resonated more if it allowed its characters to push back, break form, or surprise us.
“In reimagining romantic bonding as a language of aspiration, compatibility and self-image, Song critiques how capitalism reshapes intimacy into something strategic and transactional. It’s sharp in theory but cool in tone.”
At moments, the film begins to develop a profound emotional core, especially in how the film links aesthetics to intimacy. It shows how self-image, from the clothes we wear to the language we use, can become both a kind of protection and a trap. Lucy’s carefully crafted persona gives her control, but it also creates barriers between her and others. That tension could have built into something more raw and revealing. Instead, MATERIALISTS holds its glossy veneer, keeping the audience just out of reach. It asks sharp questions about love, power, and performance, but stops short of confronting the vulnerability beneath them. The result is a film that’s sleek and stimulating, but too carefully composed to fully resonate.
There’s a lot to admire in MATERIALISTS, especially in its confident and clear examination of identity and desire under capitalism. Celine Song captures a world obsessed with image and status, but the composure contributes to a certain chilliness that limits audience connection. While the film anchors its intelligent ideological exploration with strong performances and evocative visuals, it keeps its characters at arm’s length. This leaves the viewer observing an intellectual exercise rather than experiencing a fully lived drama. Still, despite failing to quite connect its thoughtfulness with significant feeling, MATERIALISTS marks a promising step in Song’s developing cinematic voice, hinting at greater possibilities should future work deepen its narrative power alongside its critique.