Celine Song’s The Materialists is being sold like a swoony rom-com: Will Lucy, a single matchmaker, choose Harry, a charming businessman (Pedro Pascal), or John (Chris Evans), the struggling actor and ex-boyfriend who’s now a cater-waiter? But beneath the shiny poster and designer outfits is a film that wants to explore how class, capitalism and vanity shape modern love—it just never fully commits.

Spoilers ahead!

Lucy (Dakota Johnson) is a former struggling actor-turned-successful matchmaker. With a working-class upbringing and financial baggage to match, she’s sworn off dating entirely, at least until she finds a rich man she can marry.

Then, at a client’s extravagant wedding, she meets Harry (Pedro Pascal), a wealthy financier who’s single, charming and emotionally available (cheekily referred to as “a unicorn”). She’s trying to recruit him for her agency, but he wants to take her out.

Mid-flirt, John unexpectedly appears at their table with her favorite drink order (he’s working the event, ofc) and there’s a flicker of old chemistry. But their past is complicated and going back to him is not an option for Lucy. He is financially anxious and unmotivated, and their relationship crumbled under that pressure.

So she begins dating Harry. He’s warm, generous and lives in a $12 million apartment(a detail she casually asks about while they’re in bed). But she keeps him at a distance. She never lets him in emotionally, and then we learn a random secret about Harry: He used to be short and had leg-lengthening surgery, which is treated as Lucy’s a-ha moment that he’s not “the one” because they don’t really know or love each other. They don’t, but the reveal feels more like a plot device than a meaningful turning point.

Harry checks every box she once claimed mattered. And yet, she doesn’t love him. Because—as the film insists— love is more than numbers.

So she walks away from Harry on the eve of their Iceland trip and rekindles things with John, the same man she swore she’d never return to. The movie frames this as growth. But it plays like a hard reset with no foundation.

And that’s where Materialists unravels.

Lucy talks about money constantly, so the idea that she’d leave a nearly flawless millionaire for an ex she once saw as a financial liability feels like a leap, especially since John hasn’t changed. Not his finances, not his attitude, not his circumstances. We’re never shown what makes him worthy of her return. There’s no emotional turning point, no moment of earned connection. Just a vague, unearned longing.

She once broke up with John because he was broke and money-obsessed. If the film wants us to believe she’s now ready to build a life with him, we need to see their love or flash back to a point where they were in love. We needed something to explain why this man, at this moment, is suddenly the right choice. Without it, her decision doesn’t feel romantic. It just feels like a step backward.

And that’s part of a larger disconnect: Lucy has an extremely complicated relationship with money, but we never actually see her live like someone who’s struggled with it. She makes $80K a year (pre-tax), lives alone in a spacious New York apartment, wears head-to-toe designer looks, takes cabs instead of the subway, and never shows any financial strain. There is no mention of roommates or the kind of financial anxiety that shapes decision-making. She’s even had 2 elective surgeries, so there should at the very least be some fretting about credit card debt.

For a character supposedly shaped by scarcity, she lives with remarkable ease and that undermines the emotional stakes the film wants to build.

Meanwhile, John, who has three roommates, a used Volvo, and $2,000 in the bank, is portrayed as a cautionary tale. But that level of financial “instability” is incredibly common. Nearly 40% of Americans can’t cover a $400 emergency expense with cash, and many would cry happy tears if they woke up to a $2,000 bank balance. 

The film wants to use John’s status as a reflection of the working-class struggle, but it never grounds that in anything real.There are no scenes of real financial stress or moments of scraping by. (He asks for receipts at the bodega and doesn’t want to pay $25 for parking, which is valid!) His “broke” status is more aesthetic than lived-in, and the film never invites us to actually sit in his struggle.

What’s missing is the internal reality of someone shaped by financial trauma. The fear of lack. The compulsive calculations. The need to feel safe. Lucy talks about money, but we never see her stress over it. There are no signs that she’s ever had to stretch a dollar. For someone who supposedly came from so little, she lives like money’s never been a question.

In the end, Lucy didn’t need to choose between two men—she needed space. A chance to process her past, unpack her financial anxiety, and figure out who she is outside of a relationship. Instead, the film rushes her into a choice that feels more like avoidance than growth.

Ultimately, Materialists is trying to say that love can’t be quantified, but that message would hit harder if it actually accounted for how deeply money impacts relationships. 

You can’t talk about poverty without showing what it costs. And Materialists never really pays up.