For nearly 15 years, the romantic comedy has existed in a state of cultural limbo, too unserious to be taken seriously, too sincere to survive irony, too “feminine” to justify large budgets, and too risky to anchor theatrical releases. Once a dominant force of popular cinema, the rom-com was quietly sidelined, flattened into streaming fodder, or treated as a nostalgic relic of the late ’90s and early 2000s.
And then Eternity arrived.
Produced by A24, directed by David Freyne, and starring Elizabeth Olsen, Miles Teller, and Callum Turner, Eternity accomplishes something few recent films have managed. Romance is treated with intellectual seriousness, emotional weight, and aesthetic intention, while still preserving humor and pleasure. The film does more than revive the rom-com. It reshapes the form.
In the ‘80s, ‘90s, and early ‘2000s, romantic comedies were released with astonishing regularity. Films like When Harry Met Sally, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, 27 Dresses, and 10 Things I Hate About You embraced predictable structures and unapologetic sentimentality, and audiences loved them for it often turning them into cult classics. Their power came from reassurance. Viewers returned to them knowing exactly how they would end.
Then, over the last decade and a half, those films all but disappeared.
One explanation lies in the industry’s turn toward spectacle. The rise of superhero cinema, particularly Marvel’s dominance, reshaped theatrical priorities around guaranteed returns. In 2022, more than half of the theatrical market share went to action films, while romantic comedies accounted for just 1.4 percent. As theatre attendance declined and streaming platforms rose, studios grew increasingly risk-averse, directing resources toward IP-driven blockbusters.
The medium-budget film was an early casualty. Cinema fractured into two poles: massive franchise spectacles and small-budget streamers. Rom-coms, long dismissed as unserious and feminized, were largely pushed into the latter category, where they often lost the resources and visual ambition that once defined them.
As the genre migrated to streaming, its aesthetic shifted as well. Many rom-coms became associated with what most people now call “Netflix lighting,” a bright, flat visual style optimized for clarity across devices rather than mood or depth. Romance, once heightened through texture and atmosphere, began to feel visually interchangeable and disposable.
Attempts at revival followed. Most failed.
Anyone But You leaned heavily on nostalgia and star power, but critics pointed to weak writing, shallow character development, and an overreliance on familiar beats. More recently, Materialists, directed by Celine Song, arrived with considerable anticipation after Past Lives, only to land as a tonally confused entry, marketed as a light rom-com but operating as something far bleaker.
These misfires revealed not a lack of appetite for romance, but uncertainty about how to tell romantic stories now. Familiar tropes no longer satisfied, yet detachment and irony proved equally alienating.
Eternity finds its footing by refusing both extremes.
Set in the afterlife, the film unfolds in a purgatorial waiting zone known where souls are returned to their happiest physical age and given one week to choose where, and with whom, they will spend eternity. The available destinations range from “Beach World” to “Studio 54 World,” each offering its own vision of forever.
Joan, played by Elizabeth Olsen, arrives shortly after the death of her longtime husband Larry, played by Miles Teller, intending to choose eternity with him. The plan unravels when Luke, her first husband, played by Callum Turner, reappears. Killed decades earlier in the Korean War, Luke has waited 67 year for Joan’s arrival.
Joan’s dilemma is emotional rather than moral. She must choose between the intensity of a youthful, idealized love and the quieter intimacy built over a lifetime. When she tests eternity with Luke, what lingers is not regret but absence. Her eventual escape, risking annihilation to reunite with Larry, underscores the film’s central insight: love is shaped less by perfection than by accumulation.
The couple ultimately chooses a discontinued eternity modeled after their ordinary suburban life.
The effect is quietly devastating. It is also deeply funny, and unmistakably attuned to the present moment.
Rather than centering suspense around whether two people will end up together, Eternity turns its attention to commitment itself. The collapse of time, and the visibility of all possible lives at once, transforms romance into a question of responsibility rather than fate.
That framing resonates with a generation shaped by apps, endless choice, and decision paralysis. Love appears as something built through selection and endurance rather than destiny.
The film’s visual language reinforces this seriousness. Saturated colors, particularly Joan’s recurring yellows around Larry and blues around Luke, communicate emotional allegiance more effectively than dialogue. Even during Joan’s time with Luke, traces of yellow persist, signaling the residue of a shared life that cannot be erased.
A24’s influence is central here. The studio has reshaped audience expectations around tone and ambiguity, making room for discomfort, silence, and unresolved emotion. Applied to romance, that sensibility allows for intimacy that feels fragile and deeply human.
In Eternity, the emotional payoff lands because the film resists sentimentality. The ending is restrained and deliberate, grounded in recognition rather than triumph.
Rom-coms have not disappeared. They are evolving. We are watching the pioneers of modern-day rom-coms lay the groundwork for what it now means to create a rom-com that resonates with today’s audience.
Contemporary romance on screen now foregrounds grief, uncertainty, and emotional complexity. Love emerges as an ongoing question rather than a tidy solution.
The sobbing audiences circulating on TikTok are not incidental. They reflect a genre finally given permission to return, and return in a way that packs a punch the way it used to
Written by: Lauren DiBenedetto