I Couldn’t Help But Wonder… Where Did the Rom-Coms Go?

From big gestures to algorithmic angst: how film has shaped our view of love.

The other night I was rewatching episodes of Sex in the City and And Just Like That… and I couldn't help but feel moved by how the show has shifted. It no longer centers around just dating, drama, and designer shoes — it’s become a portrait of love in all its forms: romantic, platonic, familial, and most importantly, the love we try to offer ourselves.

It got me thinking about how I view love

and in true Carrie Bradshaw fashion, I had to ask: has love on screen changed, or have we changed how we tell the story? So if you don’t mind, I’m going to channel a little Carrie energy and talk about it.

I miss love stories that let love be the main event. The ones that had soundtracks, city skylines, misunderstandings, big gestures, and perfectly timed rain. The 2000s rom-com era gave us characters who believed in magic, timing, and the kind of chaos that always ended in a kiss. But lately, love in movies feels different — quieter, darker, or shoved into a subplot. What happened?

Thinking back on the 2000s era of rom-coms had me analyzing all the different versions and eras we've had with love on screen — from its earliest depictions to the way it evolves with every generation. So let's rewind for a second.

A few disclaimers before I dive in:
None of my top five favorite movies are romantic comedies. But — and this is important — it is still my dream to make one. Not because I think it’ll win awards or change lives, but because I want to create something that exists purely for the vibes. The drama. The soundtrack. The color palettes. The banter.
I may not live and die by the rom-com… but I’ve always loved the genre. And maybe that’s why I have so many thoughts about it.
Also — I’m fully aware this is a biased exploration. I’m mostly referencing films I’ve actually watched, loved, or vividly remember. So yes, it’s personal. But love stories usually are.

A Note on the Origins

It’s worth remembering that cinematic love didn’t start with rom-coms. Early Hollywood gave us sweeping, dramatic, capital-R Romance: Gone with the Wind, Casablanca, It’s a Wonderful Life, Roman Holiday. These were grand, emotionally charged stories often centered on sacrifice, wartime separations, or moral dilemmas. Love was fate, destiny, tragedy — not something you swiped into. The emotion was big. The lighting was soft. The orchestras swelled. And while not always joyful, these stories shaped the template for what love could look like on screen.

In the 1950s and ‘60s, romantic narratives began to diversify — both in tone and subject. Films like An Affair to Remember, West Side Story, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s leaned into idealism, but also hinted at complication. Love wasn’t always about happy endings — sometimes it was bittersweet, incomplete, or stifled by society. The 1970s introduced a more grounded, sometimes cynical take on romance (Annie Hall, The Way We Were) — stories that reflected a generation wrestling with gender roles, independence, and the aftermath of cultural upheaval.

Then the ‘80s and ‘90s hit, bringing both whimsy and wit. You got When Harry Met Sally, Say Anything, Pretty Woman, Clueless, and Jerry Maguire — films that reintroduced the idea that love could be funny, sexy, flawed, and fate-driven, all at once. The rom-com structure as we know it was perfected here: the meet-cute, the miscommunication, the airport dash. These decades set the stage for what would explode in the 2000s: the glossy, feel-good, endlessly quotable golden era of romantic comedy.

That template evolved over decades — from the melodramatic to the manic pixie, from Meg Ryan to multiverses — but the thread has always been there: love on screen teaches us how to dream. Or at least it used to.

The 2000s — The Golden Era of the Rom-Com

My favorite rom-com of that era will always be How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. Please—two highly successful people knowing the game, understanding their role in it, using it to their advantage, and still being surprised by love??? Iconic. And don’t get me started on the others: 13 Going on 30, The Wedding Planner, Brown Sugar, The Holiday, The Proposal, Love & Basketball, Notting Hill, 10 Things I Hate About You, Deliver Us From Eva. These films featured a kind of naive optimism: love at first sight, enemies to lovers, “just in time” endings.

They were escapist, aspirational, messy, and emotionally satisfying. Love was the entire plot and you knew it from the start. You knew how it ended and still wanted to watch it unfold. There was a whole culture around it — going to see a rom-com with the girls while the guys saw the new action movie (or got “dragged” to the chick flick and pretended to hate it but definitely cried at the airport scene).

Enter the 2010s: Love in a Survival World

Then came the shift. The Hunger Games, Divergent, Twilight, Ender’s Game, The Maze Runner. Romantic subplots were no longer the main event — they were tangled inside stories of rebellion, dystopia, and survival. Love became a tool for protection or resistance. It was partnership over passion. Basically: trauma bonding.

And don’t get me wrong — I EAT THAT UP every single time. But this wasn’t just a genre pivot. It was a cultural mirror.

The 2010s were marked by global financial instability, mass political disillusionment, racial uprisings, climate anxiety, and the early effects of our hyper-digital world. The rom-com optimism of the 2000s started to feel naive — even dangerous. Escapism now meant resilience, not romance. You didn’t fall in love and figure it out — you fought alongside someone and hoped to survive. Love became about safety. Or strategy. Or someone who wouldn’t leave you behind when the world burned down. But were there exceptions? Of course.

Even in a decade dominated by chaos, a few films tried to hold onto that big-screen love energy: About Time (2013), Crazy, Stupid, Love (2011), La La Land (2016), The Big Sick (2017), Beyond the Lights (2014), Think Like a Man (2012). These weren’t necessarily rom-coms in the traditional early-2000s sense — but they kept the heartbeat going. They held onto the idea that love still mattered, even if the world was shifting. They were playful, emotionally rich, deeply human. And some of them slipped under the radar, not because they weren’t brilliant, but because we were collectively re-centering what kinds of stories "mattered."

2018 and the Brief Return of the Rom-Com

In 2018, we were blessed with To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before. A sweet, coming-of-age, love-centered film about a girl figuring it out. It was a little unrealistic, very dreamy, and completely charming. It worked because it felt familiar — not just to the teens it was made for, but to the millennials who grew up watching rom-coms in tank tops and low-rise jeans.

It reminded us of when love felt fun. It brought back the heart-pounding simplicity of the genre. And it proved there was still a hunger for love stories… if they were done well.

Then came The Kissing Booth — which tried to replicate that energy but ended up feeling like a fast, formulaic, shallow version of the real thing. Pretty people. Not much spark. We were ready for love again… but not just any kind of love.

Now: Love as Subplot, Symbol, or Suspicion

And across the board, love in film has shifted again. A24 and indie cinema now give us love stories like Past Lives, Aftersun, Call Me By Your Name, The Photograph, Sylvie’s Love — meditative, slow-burning portraits of longing, impermanence, and the emotional complexity of being seen. Beautiful, yes… but emotionally devastating.

Meanwhile, the social commentary era is in full swing. Promising Young Woman, Barbie, Saltburn, Poor Things, Don’t Worry Darling. In these, love is suspicious. Weaponized. A trap. Something to escape. Even when romance appears, it’s rarely trustworthy. It comes with terms and conditions.

Recently, we've also seen the rise of a new kind of fantasy: the older woman/younger man romance. The Idea of You(2024) with Anne Hathaway and A Family Affair (2024) with Nicole Kidman both explore desire, autonomy, and love from the perspective of women who are often sidelined in romance stories. What does it mean when the fantasy becomes an emotionally available younger man and a woman who's finally choosing herself? These stories feel like a cultural correction — less about forbidden love and more about deserving it. They challenge ageism, shame, and the outdated idea that women "age out" of passion.

Then there’s the new wave of cynical romance — films like The Materialists, where love is less about connection and more about capital. It’s sleek, detached, and steeped in irony. You’re not really rooting for the couple to make it… you’re watching them unravel. It's less “happily ever after” and more “what even is love when status and power run the show?” And that’s very much the question a lot of modern dating is asking, too.

And of course, Black Mirror, which gives us algorithm-fueled, swipe-based dystopias where love is filtered, rated, and ultimately disconnected from real intimacy. It’s love — but with a tech-induced existential crisis attached.

Love, Gamified

And then, the rise (and rise) of reality dating shows: The Bachelor, Love Is Blind, The Ultimatum, Too Hot To Handle, Love Island. Here, love is entertainment. A competition. A storyline. A six-week sprint to “forever” under LED lights and tropical backdrops.

These shows reflect our current relationship with love: hopeful but skeptical, emotionally invested but low-key terrified. We want the fairy tale. But we also know the producers are cutting the footage. So… can we even trust it?

So the question becomes: Can we still trust love? And what does that say about the rom-com — and about us?

This got me thinking about my own relationship to love. And no, I will not go into how that’s going because please — it is every genre twist wrapped into one single girl trying to create, build, and become (fill in the blanks however you want).

But what have I been consuming that shaped my idea of love? What did I internalize without realizing it? Am I chasing the chaotic charm of 2000s love? Living in the survival-mode reality of 2010s love? Getting stuck in the algorithmic awkwardness of now?

We all want the 2000s version — even if we won’t admit it. But we’re living in a world shaped by the 2010s and surviving with a side of “is this even real?” Am I showing up as myself, or a version I think someone would swipe right on?

Am I giving Andie Anderson? Or am I secretly more of a Michelle (Kathryn Hahn’s character)? You know — the funny, emotionally intelligent, often overlooked best friend who’s actually doing all the real work in the background?

I don’t know. But what I do know is:
I want the kind of love that’s worth writing about.
And if that love just so happens to involve a bookstore, a missed flight, or a best friend’s wedding… well…