Someone Great 〈BEST〉

This is the film’s most innovative concept. Jenny, Blair, and Erin describe their favorite feeling as "pre-apocalyptic"—the moment right before disaster, when everything is still possible, the music is loud, and the doom hasn't arrived yet. The entire film exists in that space. The breakup has happened, but the finality hasn't set in. The move is scheduled, but the plane hasn't left. The friendship is changing, but they are still in the same room.

Someone Great works because it understands a specific, modern truth: grief and joy are not opposites; they are roommates. You can sob to a Lorde song while simultaneously feeling the most alive you have in years. It is a film for anyone who has ever looked at a person they love and realized that love isn't enough to stop time. It is messy, loud, deeply funny, and unexpectedly profound. It isn't about finding "the one." It’s about realizing, with terrifying clarity, that you have to become "the one" for yourself. And that, the film suggests, is the messiest and most worthwhile journey of all. Someone Great

The film’s thesis is not about getting over a specific person, but about outgrowing the self that loved them. The titular "Someone Great" isn't just the ex, Nate (Lakeith Stanfield); it’s the version of Jenny who was young, scared, and needed the safety of that love. The film’s genius lies in its narrative structure, which fractures the present (the chaotic, drunken odyssey) with flashbacks (the tender, slow-burn romance). We aren't just watching a breakup; we are watching a post-mortem. Every euphoric club dance is juxtaposed with a quiet morning in bed. Every angry scream is a ghost of a laugh. The editing doesn’t just tell us Jenny is in pain; it makes us feel the jarring ping-pong between nostalgia and now. This is the film’s most innovative concept

Unlike the rom-coms of the 90s and 2000s that used New York as a magical, G-rated playground ( You’ve Got Mail , Serendipity ), Someone Great presents a grimy, expensive, anxiety-inducing, yet still electric city. The iconic subway dance sequence isn't whimsical; it’s a desperate, fleeting seizure of joy in a city that is actively pricing Jenny out. The film’s climax isn't a grand gesture at an airport; it’s Jenny getting on a subway alone, headed to her new life in San Francisco. The city doesn't give her a parting gift; it just keeps moving, as she must. The breakup has happened, but the finality hasn't set in