Chelsea Alexandra
I find myself having more and more conversations about dating. Mainly about how it is so difficult living in a social media-driven post-COVID world. Dating apps can become exhausting, having to post three fun facts and what you think are possibly the only half-decent pictures of yourself. Then, when you actually meet someone who rises above all the noise, instead of feeling calm, you start overthinking everything. Every text gets reread, every silence feels meaningful, and mixed signals seem everywhere. The more you care, the more your mind tries to protect you by imagining every possible outcome, even the bad ones. Then you press play on a rom-com from any decade, and it makes love look easy, effortless. Nobody worries about whether a text sounds too eager or replays a conversation in their head at 2 a.m. Any real stress or anxiety is portrayed as quirky. Watching it, you almost forget how hard and stressful real dating is, especially when you care. Sometimes, it feels self-destructive.
As I get older, I understand the genius of Albert Brooks more clearly. Brooks was ahead of his time because he combined keen observation of human behavior with emotional honesty. We are all just a ball of anxieties that come from past experiences. One of my favorite films by the director is Modern Romance, which, when it comes to modern dating and the emotional rollercoaster of it, is a timeless tale. On the first viewing, it can be cynical. The character of Robert Cole isn’t very likeable: he compares his relationship to the Vietnam War, saying that his relationship is a “no-win situation”. It is a jarring, almost ridiculous metaphor. However, on a second or third watch, Robert stops feeling less unlikable and starts feeling more human. Modern Romance doesn’t shy away from the messy, human side of dating and relationships. It leans into the awkwardness, the overthinking, the compulsive need for reassurance.
Dating is one of the most vulnerable things a person can do, and vulnerability is never simple or neat. Being vulnerable is hard. Brooks understood that the real comedy of love lives in the brain, not the meet-cute. He did not dress insecurity up as charm, whereas most rom-coms will display it as a quirky trait of either two leads. He let it sweat. And somehow, in doing that, he made a film that feels more at home nowadays than it may have done then.
Released in 1981, Modern Romance follows Robert Cole (Brooks), a successful but deeply insecure film editor living in Los Angeles. Professionally, Robert is meticulous and confident. Personally, however, he is unraveling. When the film begins, Robert has recently broken up with his girlfriend, Mary Harvard (Kathryn Harrold). Almost immediately, it becomes clear that Robert cannot handle the breakup in a mature adult way.
Almost immediately, Robert regrets the decision. He becomes fixated on Mary, convincing himself that the relationship can be repaired if he approaches it correctly. He begins calling her repeatedly, sometimes under the pretense of casual conversation, other times he will go on long-winded rants about his feelings. He hates that she begins dating or that other people show interest in her. At work, Robert edits scenes from a science-fiction film, obsessively adjusting small details to create emotional clarity for the audience. These moments subtly mirror his personal life. In the editing room, Robert can control outcomes and structure meaning. In his relationship with Mary, however, he cannot shape events to his liking.
Eventually, Robert and Mary reconcile and begin dating again. Robert appears calmer, enjoying the familiarity of the relationship. What could possibly go wrong, right? His insecurity resurfaces in the form of jealousy, suspicion, and an overwhelming need for reassurance. He questions Mary constantly, which ultimately makes him question himself. He recognizes his own patterns but feels powerless to stop them. Robert’s behavior becomes increasingly exhausting, both for Mary and for himself. Robert seeks certainty and control, while Mary desires emotional stability and space.
By the end of the film, Modern Romance avoids a traditional romantic resolution. There is no dramatic transformation or clear lesson learned. Robert and Mary remain together, but Robert’s anxiety lingers. In fact, it doubles down on the vicious cycle of Robert’s actions.
Modern Romance is definitely not the love story we’re used to. Robert is not sweeping Mary off her feet; there are no grand gestures to win her back after their breakup. In fact, there is no sense that love magically conquers everything. At first glance, Brooks seems to be rejecting the very idea of romance. But calling it anti-romantic misses the subtlety in what he’s actually doing. The film doesn’t dismiss love; it exposes it in its most fragile, human form. Robert’s fear of losing her drives every choice, every phone call, every overthought conversation. Brooks captures the delicate balance between wanting affirmation and needing it to feel secure. Brooks turns this over-awareness into the central drama of the film, highlighting how love, when filtered through anxiety, can feel precarious. The result is a story where the emotional stakes are heightened not by external obstacles but by Robert’s inner conflict.
The genius of Modern Romance lies in its understanding that romantic anxiety is not just a quirky trait but a lens through which love is experienced. If we were to map Robert Cole’s behavior onto contemporary relationship psychology, he would be the textbook example of someone with an anxious attachment style. The simultaneous craving of intimacy and fear of rejection, the constant oscillation between hope and panic, everything that Robert is going through is textbook. Brooks never pathologized Robert’s anxieties. He isn’t the villain, although it is easy to see him in such a way. He is human. These anxieties feel more human when connecting Modern Romance to modern dating, almost like it anticipated the digital dating era, where reassurance is sought through texts and social media.
Unlike most romantic comedies, where the male lead’s flaws are softened into charm or “growth” is guaranteed by the end. Robert doesn’t suddenly become confident, emotionally fluent, or effortlessly likeable. He continues to grapple with self-doubt. Brooks’ film acknowledges that male vulnerability exists, but it isn’t always tidy like most romantic films by the end. By denying Robert a traditional redemption arc, Modern Romance captures a more realistic story.
Brooks’ film dismantles the idea that love naturally brings clarity or emotional stability. If anything, real romantic relationships get harder the longer and deeper the relationship grows. It’s scary, and certainty isn’t a given. No amount of explanation, planning, or proof can erase the inherent ambiguity of human connection. In Robert’s mind, silence, delayed responses, or ambiguous gestures are evidence of danger. His anxiety amplifies every small moment or non-moment into a crisis. For anyone who experiences the constant nagging of anxiety, this is a real emotion. The demand for absolute clarity to calm anxiety down can warp perception and magnify every possible fear.
Robert’s career as a film editor in Los Angeles mirrors his romantic anxieties in almost every way. As an editor, he is in control. He spends his days meticulously dissecting footage, obsessing over timing, pacing, and the perfect cut. That same need for control spills into his personal life. In love, he tries to “edit” his relationship with Mary. Brooks uses this professional lens to amplify the comedy and tragedy of Robert’s behavior. His relationship with Mary cannot be cut, re-timed, or smoothed over. Mary’s feelings, reactions, and desires are out of his control. Editing reaffirms that things can be perfect if he moves his pieces in a certain way. However, in love, that perfection is impossible. That is the scariest part about relationships: you cannot control what another person does. You can only control your own actions, your own responses, your own boundaries.
Love is giving up some control and allowing yourself to free-fall. The uncertainty is what makes it thrilling and terrifying at once. It’s the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach that is only felt when something matters so much. Brooks reminds us that love is not a perfect narrative to be edited or a guarantee to be secured; it’s a leap, a continual negotiation between desire and doubt. And perhaps that is what makes his work so easy to connect with. He allows the mess of being a human to exist. Love is a brave act. It is hard; dating is hard. Enjoy the fall.
