‘I didn’t know hearts could do that’: To All the Boys and a feminist look at love
Psst: spoilers for the latest To All the Boys movie ahead! Venture at your own risk.
Lara Jean Song Covey loves love. We learned this almost immediately about her in the 2018 film To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before — or even earlier, in the pages of the novel upon which the movie is based. By the third movie, Always and Forever, released this past weekend, she loves love no less, and why would she, when she finds herself in such an idyllic high school romance? As she and Peter coo and make eyes at one another through the first fifteen minutes of the film, she doesn’t have the faintest clue, the way the audience does, that her love story is about to hit some major roadblocks.
Always and Forever, in a word, is what I would call indulgent — and I mean that in only the most loving of terms. The montages, the giddiness of the characters, the bright colors and sprawling scenes of New York and Seoul: it’s all crafted to feel like a modern day fairytale, wrapped in a bright pink bow. The aesthetic works for the gooey romance between our heroes LJ and Peter, as well as for the sweet cheesiness of other relationships in the film, familial and friendly. But while the film would have been visually enjoyable with just that, it goes the extra mile in the care of its subject matter. This is a love story, and even as it’s sweet like cotton candy, the film knows it’s also not a subject to be laughed at.
Since the dawn of civilization (or thereabouts), romantic comedies have been continually dismissed as trivial. Though we worship the men who whine love songs on the radio, any romantic story or song crafted by and for women is often dismissed as “not real art.” And, well, let’s be honest, there are plenty of atrocious rom-coms that do us more harm than good, that convince us to place romance on a pedestal and never interrogate what that romance should look like or whether it really should be held in higher esteem than everything else. But let’s be honest: that’s not why we, as a culture, disdain romantic comedies. We disdain romantic comedies because they’re for women. And we disdain women.
As a younger feminist (and I say “younger” here not in terms of age but in terms of the growth of the feminist understanding), I scoffed at romance. I still do, sometimes; it’s a hard habit to break. Romance, when you’re attempting to criticize the patriarchy, can look very easily like the tool of the oppressor, something women have been given as a distraction to keep us from seeking real power. It’s not an absolutely bonkers statement, especially when you do take a cold, hard look at traditional heterosexual relationships, which are based on the maintenance of a gendered power dynamic that, when disrupted, often leads to miscommunication and dissatisfaction at best and violence and abuse at worst. (I could go further and claim that traditional heterosexual relationships are fundamentally built upon abuse, but that breakdown would likely require a whole different essay.)
It’s precisely this problem with romance that makes love stories such an important facet of feminist literature.
In the first chapter of All About Love, bell hooks lays out her own journey to writing about the topic of love. Originally, she writes, she rejected writing about the subject because everyone seemed to think women’s writing about it was frivolous, but over time she found her way back to the topic. Throughout the book, hooks writes clearly, candidly, and beautifully about how deeply important the act of loving is to our human nature — and how overwhelmingly we fail at it. All About Love was one of the first experiences I had in understanding that love wasn’t something to be rejected by a good, thoughtful feminist. In fact, it’s necessary we all think deeply about the subject. As hooks writes, “A woman who talks of love is still suspect. Perhaps this is because all that enlightened woman may have to say about love will stand as a direct threat and challenge to the visions men have offered us.”
I don’t know if Jenny Han intended to write a piece of feminist literature when she wrote the To All the Boys trilogy any more than I know if Jane Austen intended it when she wrote Pride and Prejudice, but sometimes intent is not the same as impact. I draw the comparison purposefully here because we see Pride and Prejudice sprinkled throughout the Always and Forever film: twice, we see the book actively being read and once, at prom, LJ asks Peter, “Do you dance, Mr. Kavinsky?” to which he responds, “Not if I can help it” — an obvious allusion to Mr. Darcy’s reluctance to dance in the Austen classic.
The weight of this comparison should not be lost on us. Pride and Prejudice may have no direct feminist preachings, but it goes perhaps a step further than any overt statement could have by offering up a relationship centuries ahead of its time. Everyone loves the romance between Lizzy and Darcy, but pop culture often boils down our adoration to something easily consumable. Mainstream romantic tropes would have you believe that Darcy is beloved for his Regency broodiness, but it’s an estimation that misses the mark. Darcy holds up as a romantic icon not because he’s Tall, Dark, and Handsome (though I’m sure those things help) but because he takes the criticism Elizabeth offers him after his botched proposal and instead of turning any bitterness on her, strives to correct his grievances. The revelation of Pride and Prejudice, even to a modern audience, comes from witnessing a romantic hero who actually respects the woman he claims to love, enough so that he walks away and works on himself. When the two lovers do find their way to each other, it’s a slow procession that ends with them meeting in the middle, ready to fall in love as equals. Even by 2021 standards, it’s a rare find in a romance, fictional or real.
The hints at Pride and Prejudice in Lara Jean’s final chapter feel almost like a wink at the audience, a subtle hint that we should pay attention to this story. And we should. The To All the Boys trilogy, both in movie and book forms, contains an honest exploration about what it means to love, not just a romantic partner but your friends, your family, and even yourself. The question of the final movie seems to be, “Can you love yourself and someone else at the same time?” Ultimately, the film decides, yes, of course you can, but it doesn’t shy away from the complications that arise when what’s best for you puts space (metaphorical or physical) between you and your partner. LJ struggles with the fear that following her heart might hurt Peter, and Peter himself struggles with the way LJ changing their collective college plans feels like abandonment, especially in the wake of his absent father suddenly making a reappearance. But other characters deal with this feeling too: Kitty selfishly hides that LJ has made it into NYU, out of fear of losing her; the Covey girls confront the discomfort of their father remarrying, an action both joyful and painful, as it feels a bit like replacing their mom. The movie handles each conflict in ways that feel like actual, human problems we’ve all faced, without getting over-dramatic about it all.
This addition to the public discourse on love shouldn’t be overlooked. Like Elizabeth Bennet’s disinterest in marrying simply for the sake of marriage, Lara Jean thoughtfully navigates her way through relationships in a way that’s a blessing to watch in a teenage girl, and Peter, like Darcy, has an equally vital role to play. In this day and age, when discussions about how to be a good man are so prevalent, Peter Kavinsky lends a necessary example for teenage boys everywhere. Not only does he shower LJ with genuine affection, he also learns from her, considers her perspective, and does his best to take responsibility for his actions in a way that’s occasionally jarring to witness. There’s a moment in the final movie when LJ confesses that she’s been lying to him — that she didn’t get into Stanford and their college plans are ruined. My roommate and I both winced, certain Peter’s reaction would be anger. Instead, he reaches across the table, grabs her hand, and asks, “Are you okay?” He does exactly what everyone in a caring, committed relationship should do, and the way my roommate and I both braced for something worse exemplifies how important it is that we keep seeing that kind of respect and care on display until we believe it’s not a fantasy.
(How long will that take? Pride and Prejudice came out in 1813. Is that no longer a fantasy?)
In a world where heterosexual relationships are often fraught, Lara Jean and Peter have lessons to teach us, about respect and care, about how to make mistakes in relationships without creating lasting harm. Personally, I believe that some of the hardest work of the feminist movement lies in love stories. When we tell good love stories, we teach people — especially women — how they’re meant to be treated, how to not just notice the red flags but the green ones too. And when we tell good love stories, we teach people — especially boys — how to be the green flags.
Sam Auch is a writer, actor, and visual artists based in Brooklyn. She co-hosts a podcast called Revenge of the Final Girl which breaks down misogyny in sci-fi and fantasy.
