The Materialists (2025) Movie Review

So I wandered into this film with absolutely no expectations, no preamble, no safety net of synopsis or trailer. I was a blank canvas, an empty vessel — and let me tell you, the first thing they threw onto that canvas was cavemen. Yes! Cavemen! A prehistoric engagement, a sort of Neanderthal proposal — and immediately I thought: “Ah… this is no ordinary romcom. This is not boy meets girl, cue Taylor Swift, fade to IKEA furniture.” This is mythic! Archetypal! Humanity in its primal state! A love story chiselled on the walls of Plato’s cave!

And visually, it was astonishing. None of that sterilised, algorithm-approved, Netflix gloss where everyone’s skin looks like it’s been ironed flat by a robot beautician. No — this had grit, this had grain, this had the pulse of cinema! Like stumbling into an old cathedral after years of watching church services on Zoom.

Now at first, the characters — shallow, vapid, like Instagram influencers at a philosophy lecture. But here’s the trick: the film knew it. It dangled them in front of us like baubles, and then it said: “Wait, watch closely. They’re going to change. They’re going to grow. And in their growth, perhaps you, too, might grow.” And against all odds… I did.

And of course, what a cast! Chris Evans, a man so handsome he could walk into a morgue and get the corpses blushing. Pedro Pascal, who exudes charisma the way a bonfire throws sparks. Dakota Johnson — yes, at times stiff, like she’d been dipped in starch — but that restraint became its own kind of allure, like a tightly wound violin string ready to sing.

But the best bit? I didn’t know where it was going. And in an age when you can predict the ending of most films before you’ve finished your popcorn, that is a revelation. The uncertainty was intoxicating. I was leaning forward like a pilgrim waiting for prophecy: “What will she choose? Where will this lead?”

And then — the leg extension thing. Men surgically stretching their shins like medieval torture victims just to gain a few inches of height. What a metaphor! The madness of our dating culture, the commodification of bodies, the desperate search for worth measured in centimetres. As someone long out of the dating game, married, tethered, and grateful — I found it both absurd and oddly poignant.

Now, yes, I struggled to believe Chris Evans as a penniless actor. Come on. He looks like Michelangelo sculpted him on a good day. The idea of him living in a dingy apartment is like telling me the Mona Lisa works part-time at Greggs. But then my wife reminded me: Dakota Johnson’s hardly average either. Hollywood deals only in demigods — struggling, apparently, only in the metaphorical sense.

Some critics complain the film doesn’t know its genre. And to that I say: neither does life. Comedy, tragedy, romance, thriller — sometimes all in a single day. That’s not a weakness, that’s honesty.

Towards the end, I was worried it might go dark, might betray me with some tragic ending. But no — it lifted. It soared. It left me floating out of the cinema as though someone had spiked my popcorn with ecstasy. And most beautifully, it left me reflecting on my own relationship, on love, on gratitude, on the miracle of finding someone who feels like your twin flame in a world so often fractured.

And here’s what it didn’t do: it didn’t serve me reheated clichés. No big sweaty fistfight over the woman, no Bridget Jones pratfalls, no “we were on a break!” nonsense. It gave me something different, something alive.

And the soundtrack — glorious. The score wove itself like silk through the story, and the needle-drops were chosen with taste, intention, resonance.

So overall — this film is not perfect. But it is vibrant, surprising, soulful. It is a mirror held up to love, ego, culture, and chaos. It’s cinema as sermon, as celebration. And I recommend it wholeheartedly. Because sometimes you don’t want tidy. You want messy, unpredictable, joyous. And that’s what this gave me.