Before a single frame of the finished Marry Me film was seen, it was already iconic. The trailers and marketing materials proudly proclaim that, with this movie, the Queen of the Rom-Com Is Back. OK!
No one is credited with the crowning of Jennifer Lopez as said queen. It’s unclear if Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock were considered for the title.
It is fair to surmise that it is the producers, which is to say Lopez herself, who have made the proclamation. It doesn’t matter if it was earned or true, or how it was bestowed. Perhaps, then, it’s more of a dictatorial pronouncement than any sort of monarchal branding. Nonetheless, it is fantastic behavior—and in line with everything this movie is and does.
Not to harp on it, but I just want to live in a world where we all are in charge of our own grand superlatives. J. Lo is the self-appointed Queen of the Rom-Com, and who are we to question it? Let’s embrace those vibes. It is I, the King of Falling Asleep on the Couch While Watching Real Housewives. The King of ‘Being on a Health Kick Right Now’ and, After Three Days, Ordering a Pizza and Downing Two Bottles of Wine. The King of Refusing to Write Anything Bad About Jennifer Lopez.
Because this is the thing about J. Lo, regardless of her royalty status: With Marry Me, a mediocre yet entirely miraculous movie, she understood the assignment.
In this case, she’s not a queen. She’s a doctor. Dr. Frankenstein, to be exact, and Marry Me is her creation, a stitched-together wonder composed of the most famous set pieces and tropes from the greatest of romantic comedies past, a sum of disparate parts that only work together because of the sheer will of its creator. But Marry Me isn’t a monster to be feared. This is J. Lo, folks. It’s putting on the ritz.
Marry Me is both not that good and also the greatest piece of pop culture I have seen in years.
It is about a famous singer (Lopez) whose messy and very public track record with relationships continues when she discovers that her fiancé (Maluma) cheated on her right before they were supposed to be married in front of a sold-out arena. After an emotional speech, she impulsively proposes to a fish-out-of-water nobody (Owen Wilson) in the crowd, whose daughter dragged him to the concert even though he had no clue who this singer is.
They get married on stage and, instead of weathering the media hullabaloo of “famous lady makes rash decision to marry not-famous stranger and immediately divorces him,” they strategically invite the media hullabaloo of “famous lady makes rash decision to marry not-famous stranger and now they’re staging photo ops as they get to know each other and pretend to see if it will work out.”
I need not explain one more scene or plot point, as you could tell me every single thing that happens next without even seeing the movie. That isn’t cookie cutter, or lazy, or cliché. That is the glory of this endeavor.
Marry Me is art. It is about the art of being Jennifer Lopez. It is about the art of Jennifer Lopez’s wizard-like media manipulation skills. It is about the art of Jennifer Lopez’s image. It is Jennifer Lopez through the looking glass, reflected on a funhouse mirror, spun through the metaverse, and beamed onto screens for our viewing pleasure. It is the role only Jennifer Lopez could play, because she is basically playing Jennifer Lopez—or, rather, “Jennifer Lopez,” the tireless entertainer who only shares just enough about her life for us to feel like we know her.
It is “Jennifer Lopez,” the person who tells us she is the Queen of the Rom-Com, goddammit, and we nod hurriedly in agreement. Who proclaims bravery in returning to the genre that paid the bills but maybe ruined her critical cred, despite finally earning the awards recognition she deserved for her acting chops in Hustlers. Who accepts the credit for shouldering the burden of reviving the mid-budget, tried-and-true romantic comedy by spearheading Marry Me, even though it’s unclear if anyone ever offered her that credit or even asked her to revive it in the first place.
There is a nefarious genius to it all. Jennifer Lopez creates a throne, tells us there’s a throne, and then ascends it.
In the film, she plays an alternate version of herself filtered through the glow of a romantic-comedy lens so that we might empathize deeply with her, our heroine. (There is an entire plotline about her never getting the accolades she deserved for her art even though she’s the hardest-working person in show business.) She created an entire soundtrack of new music that her character, Fake J. Lo, performs throughout the film, with the script informing us that these are the greatest and most popular songs to hit the airwaves in years. Gaslit, you agree. (The songs in reality? Meh! Though “Church” is a bop. Look out for that one.)
It has come to my attention that there are people who have seriously reviewed Marry Me and, more, panned it. To those I say: Who hurt you? Why are you damaged?
The point of Marry Me was never whether or not it was “good,” whatever that means. It is that it exists at all. It doesn’t matter what happens in Marry Me. It follows the outline ripped from the first page of How to Write a Romantic Comedy 101 fastidiously. A person who buys a ticket—or, I guess, subscribes to Peacock?—has done so with that checklist in hand. They want to see every box checked, and they want to see Jennifer Lopez checking it.
They will say to themselves, “This is so average,” and they will not care! They will relish in the unflappable charisma of Jennifer Lopez. They will reflexively smile so big their cheeks hurt when the final act grand romantic gesture unfolds. They will shed a tear for love. For what is fake cinematic romance, if not the greatest love of all?
For that, and for J. Lo, our self-appointed queen, we are grateful.
