‘Marry Me’ Is J. Lo in All Her Cheesy Rom-Com Glory

Everything we can’t stop loving, hating, and thinking about this week in pop culture. [Manage newsletters]( [View in browser]( [Image] with Kevin Fallon Everything we can’t stop loving, hating, and thinking about this week in pop culture. This week: - It’s finally J. Lo’s New Rom-Com Weekend. - Nathan Chen saves the Olympics. - I think I miss Che Diaz? - The most exciting film news in years. - Another reason to question the value of the Super Bowl. Marry Me Is Not Good At All, Yet It Is a Masterpiece. 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 attributed 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 both is 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 showbusiness.) 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. When Did the Olympics Get So Depressing? It was the shock of a lifetime to learn that the Olympics were this week. I can’t be alone in having less than zero awareness that the world’s greatest sporting event was upon us until roughly the moment people were spinning on ice and dominating the news cycle. A marketing issue? Growing apathy about the Olympics? An inability to discuss [anything but Wordle](? Who could say. Nonetheless, as a non-sports fan who, against character, lives and breathes for all things Olympics, hinging every hope and dream for two weeks on the shoulders of Brody McTwist, Surprise Driveway, and Twizzle Skateperson, only to promptly forget their names and existence the moment Closing Ceremonies wrap, this is a thrilling time for me. I have such fond memories of staying up late to watch Americans snag gold and gushing with friends and colleagues over the Games that this experience stands in such stark relief. When did the Olympics become so depressing? It’s not just the lack of attention. It’s the human rights issues in China that make you queasy to even participate in any jubilation. It’s the Russian figure skater who made history for landing quad jumps who is now at the [center of a drug-test scandal](. It’s the abusive stepfather [tenor of NBC’s coverage]( of icon Mikaela Shiffrin’s disappointing performance. It’s the killjoy monitoring of [Leslie Jones’ ecstatic online commentary](. It’s the ridiculous and distracting technical score tracker taking up half the screen in figure skating events, like anyone watching is interested in monitoring the triple lutz stock market. It’s the crushing realization that you are geriatric when you watch these athletes and hear analysis about it being historic that a 25-year-old is skating in the Olympics, the oldest woman to do so in 95 years. But since there’s so much to be depressed about elsewhere in the world, I’m making the bold decision to choose to embrace the elements that have brought me joy. Chloe Kim’s superstar warmth and charisma is infectious. It’s a strong year for those in the habit of googling “______ shirtless” after each male figure skater performs. (My flannel-wearing Canadian king Keegan Messing produces particularly fruitful results.) I can only strive to one day have the energy of the American skater Jason Brown, who’s like, “I’m not going to do any quads, but I am going to be goddamn GORGEOUS.” And then, of course, there’s gold medalist Nathan Chen, redeeming himself after he was branded a failure at the ripe old age of 18 for falling at the Olympics four years ago. As an American, I could not be prouder of his talent, his fortitude, and his absolutely stunning head of hair. The force of Chen’s Olympic victory was electric. There has never been a more rousing response to something on television in my living room. (I softly clapped to myself on the couch and whispered a soft, “Yay!”) This is the Olympics experience I’ve been missing. These are real people doing some of the most superhuman feats of athleticism the human body has ever accomplished. It shouldn’t be so hard—reviving high school arithmetic to decipher when the hell events are airing, ignoring the ugliness that has pervaded the discourse, braving the harrowing streaming waters of Peacock—to discover the rush of positivity that the Games are meant to produce. But this is 2022, after all. Happiness is a chore. I’m Craving Me Some Che As everyone knows, time is traditionally marked as B.C. or A.D. As in, Before Che and After Diaz. The [arrival of Che Diaz]( was a biblical event. Their existence caused a stir. There were doubters. There were brave supporters. The human race was fundamentally changed in ways that would reverberate for centuries. Their teachings, gospel via comedy concert, were a spiritual direction for the entire human race. The father, the son, and the holy Rambo. The Sex and the City sequel series And Just Like That… dominated water-cooler discourse in ways that just doesn’t happen anymore, even if the attention wasn’t always positive. Still, I am living my best life out on the limb of those who relished every single moment of the show—and especially among those who found [the making-of documentary]( that was released alongside [last week’s finale]( to be incredibly poignant. (I… cried?) But just because it’s over doesn’t mean it needs to be over. I gotta admit it, folks: It’s the first week without an And Just Like That… episode, and I’ve been craving me some Che. And thankfully, one of the best things to happen so far in 2022—Che Diaz memes—have shown no signs of slowing down. I hope they never end. Here are some of my recent favorites: The Greatest News There’s Ever Been Let me tell you about the best day of my life. It was a Wednesday. I was off because I had recently worked an entire weekend covering an award show or a film festival or something or another. As soon as it opened, I went to the closest movie theater, purchased a ticket, ignored the confused raised eyebrow of the cinema worker, and settled in my seat for the weekday matinee screening of Paddington 2, at which I, a grown male, was the only person in the theater. I’ve been chasing that high ever since. The perfect movie. On the big screen. No one around to bother me. I’ve been so worn down by the last few years that I’ve resigned myself to hopelessness. Surely, I’d peaked. As much as the world wants—it needs—another Paddington movie, the forces of the universe would somehow keep it from happening. But then this week I read [the most beautiful words]( that have ever been arranged in the English language: “Production of Paddington 3 is expected to start by the end of the year, according to Ben Whishaw.” We are blessed. On the One Hand, $10K Could Get Me Out of Some Jams… I demand a six-part Netflix docuseries about what led to—and what will happen Monday after—[this tweet](. As Evan Thomas [posted in response](, “Every day we stray further from His heavenly light.” What to watch this week: Marry Me: It’s a J. Lo rom-com. Don’t overthink it. (Fri. in theaters and on Peacock.) Bel Air: A revival of Fresh Prince…, but it’s a drama? It’s not a 30 Rock joke, and it’s not bad! (Fri. on Peacock) Jeen-yuhs: A Kanye Trilogy: Since we’re apparently all talking about Kanye anyway, why not? (Wed. on Netflix) What to skip this week: Inventing Anna: Why isn’t this scam more fun? (Fri. on Netflix) Super Bowl: What if we all just didn’t watch? (Sun. on NBC) Love Is Blind: See above. (Fri. on Netflix) Advertisement [Daily Beast]( [Facebook]( [Twitter]( [Instagram]( @copyright 2022 The Daily Beast Company LLC I 555 W. 18th Street, New York NY, 10011 [Privacy Policy]( If you are on a mobile device or cannot view the images in this message, click here to [view this email in your browser](. To ensure delivery of these emails, please add emails@thedailybeast.com to your address book. If you no longer wish to receive these emails, or think you have received this message in error, you can [safely unsubscribe](.