General Overview
This past semester, I collaborated with my local theater, The Guild Cinema, in collaboration with my UNM Honors College Course, The Legacy of the Romantic Comedy, to host a double feature of two iconic romantic comedies, The Shop Around the Corner (1940) and Christmas in Connecticut (1945). Before each screening, I offered a brief lecture that explained:
Why romantic comedies are worthy of serious study,
How they both shape and reflect their cultural and historical moment, and
What they teach us about life, love, and relationships.
Readers, the three-day event felt worthy of a holiday montage in a cheesy made-for-TV holiday romance. But instead of saving Christmas, organizing the town’s annual holiday market in five days, or entering a gingerbread-making contest, I gave short lectures, watched two of my favorite festive films on the big screen, and enjoyed a few nights of friends, family, and community. I tell you, there’s nothing like the healing pleasure of watching a movie in a darkened theater with people who are eager to enjoy good stories as much as you are. Bonus if they let you nerd out a bit about romantic comedy history and film analysis.
I then had the pleasure of recording an episode on Christmas in Connecticut for Every RomCom podcast. Jennifer Howell, the podcast host and author of “Cheek to Cheek” with the Rom-Com Genre: The Musicals of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, invited me to speak after seeing my double-feature posted on Instagram. I am so excited to share our fantastic conversation with you! Check out our conversation here.
Below is the transcript of the event, with a few additions, including my works consulted. To quote Alexander Yardley at the end of Christmas in Connecticut, I found myself thinking after the event wrapped and the podcast episode was recorded, “What a Christmas! Ho, ho, what a Christmas!”
Romantic Comedies, History, and Holiday Fantasy
These silver screen rom-coms do much more than give us a case of the warm and fuzzies—although that pleasure is important, too.
But before diving into a quick overview of these films, we first have to answer one important question: why are romantic comedies important? Romantic comedies reveal a great deal about the social norms and historical conditions that produced them, dramatizing the reciprocal relationship between cultural ideals and lived experience—what we often shorthand as “life imitates art and art imitates life” (Neale and Krutnik 12–15). At the same time, they explore the human condition through the lens of love, treating romance not simply as emotion but as an ethical and philosophical problem about how to live well with others (Cavell 1–7).
Romantic comedies also promise a HEA—a “Happily Ever After”—and that promise matters. As Stanley Cavell famously argues, the genre’s endings restore equilibrium and reaffirm the possibility of mutual recognition and companionship (Cavell 39–41). Tamar Jeffers McDonald similarly notes that romantic comedy offers emotional reassurance and narrative closure, a feature that becomes especially meaningful in times of cultural anxiety (McDonald 8–11). It is no coincidence that romantic escapism flourishes during periods of crisis; I personally wasn’t surprised to see that Emily in Paris and Bridgerton were two of the top shows in the dark days of the early pandemic.
Sometimes we simply need froth, levity, and lightheartedness.
Finally, romantic comedies often dramatize the tension between inner identity and outward social performance. Characters are frequently divided between who they are privately and who they must appear to be publicly—a theme that structures both The Shop Around the Corner (1940) and Christmas in Connecticut (1945), two films that effectively bookend World War II and offer contrasting visions of romance at moments when the meaning of home, love, and community was undergoing profound change (Cavell 27–33).
The Shop Around the Corner (1940)
This film has inspired several remakes, including In the Good Old Summertime (1949) and You’ve Got Mail (1998). Although both of those later versions clearly reflect the sensibilities of their own eras, The Shop Around the Corner remains a remarkably timeless classic, still emotionally resonant to audiences today.
The Shop Around the Corner represents what we might call the working person’s romantic comedy (Paul 97–120). Unlike some of Ernst Lubitsch’s more glamorous films, there is no frothy affluence here; instead, we encounter ordinary people, like Klara (Margaret Sullivan) and Alfred (Jimmy Stewart), trying to get by and, with a little luck, find love (Paul 97–120).
Much of the film’s tension lies in the characters’ need to simply survive the daily grind and their yearning for something more—whether that means being seen as a better version of themselves, engaging with loftier ideas, or experiencing tenderness and intimacy in a world that can feel indifferent (Toles 109–21). The story makes everyday consumerism and economic instability part of the emotional landscape, reminding us that even romance cannot be separated from the pressures of the workplace (Poague 144–56). These feelings are heightened with the looming war. In other words, many external forces shape a relationship—and yet, as the end of the film shows, love will always find a way, even in the most unassuming circumstances.
The film is also very much a holiday-in-the-city story. Christmas magnifies the characters’ loneliness and financial anxiety. Still, the holiday also offers the possibility of genuine connection and prosperity. In the end, the protagonists manage to have the best of both worlds. They achieve a form of financial and emotional security while also obtaining the swoon-worthy romantic fulfillment that their epistolary identities promised.
Consumerism and economic instability are part of the emotional landscape of the film, reminding us that romance unfolds within material conditions rather than outside them (Poague 144–56). This is also a holiday-in-the-city film. Christmas magnifies loneliness, financial anxiety, and emotional vulnerability, while still holding out the promise of connection and prosperity (Horak). There are darker themes here, too. As critics have often noted, Lubitsch understood that you need darkness to emphasize the light—romantic fulfillment feels earned precisely because it emerges from economic precarity and emotional frustration (Paul 97–120). In the end, the protagonists get the best of both worlds: they achieve financial stability and also the swoon-worthy romance promised by their epistolary identities (Toles 109–21). The characters start the film in a state of scarcity—of money, of love, of community—and end in a state of abundance.
Much like Pride and Prejudice, this film invites viewers to look beyond first impressions—and perhaps to be cautious about the kind of advice we take from romance novels.
As Klara explains at the end of the film—tiny spoiler here—she modeled her romantic behavior on fiction, which is what set off their whole antagonistic workplace relationship in the first place:
“All my knowledge came from books, and I’d just finished a novel about a glamorous French actress from the Comédie Française… When she wanted to arouse a man’s interest, she treated him like a dog… My mistake was I didn’t realize that the difference between this glamorous lady and me was that she was with the Comédie Française and I was with Matuschek and Company.”
This moment crystallizes the film’s critique of romantic idealism and its insistence on emotional realism (Toles 113–16).
The dialogue throughout the film likewise reminds us that people are more complicated than they appear. Alfred Kralik observes that “people seldom go to the trouble of scratching the surface of things to find the inner truth,” a sentiment the film spends its entire runtime proving (Toles 109–11).
It’s also worth pausing for a moment to consider that The Shop Around the Corner was made at the height of the Hollywood Production Code, which strictly regulated depictions of sex and desire. Films of this era could not show overt physical passion, so directors had to develop more subtle—and often more inventive—ways of conveying sexual attraction (Karlyn 69–86). Lubitsch, famously associated with what critics called the “Lubitsch Touch,” specialized in innuendo, implication, and suggestive dialogue rather than explicit display (Paul 97–120).
In this film, desire is expressed through letters, witty sparring, and metaphor rather than physical contact. Klara’s epistolary enthusiasm is unmistakable when she writes, “I took you out of your envelope and read you, read you right there.” That single line does far more erotic work than an on-screen kiss could have accomplished under the Code (Karlyn 76–79).
This is echoed later in Alfred’s confession when he finally reveals himself as her secret pen pal: “My dearest, sweetheart Klara—I can’t stand it any longer. Take your key and open post office box 237, and take me out of my envelope and kiss me.” Desire here becomes linguistic, psychological, and imaginative rather than visual (Cavell 45–48).
This reliance on implication rather than explicit sexuality allows the film to feel surprisingly modern. We lean in, participating in the erotic tension by noticing what remains unsaid. Desire then becomes something linguistic, psychological, and emotional, not just physical, which gives the romance a depth and intimacy that transcends its era—and makes that final kiss all the more rewarding.
There’s even a moment at the end where Klara asks to see Alfred’s legs before she commits. He pulls up his pants and shows off his well-turned calves and sock garters. It’s played for laughs, but under the surface it also foregrounds the female gaze and an appreciation of the male form—about as far as the Production Code would allow (Karlyn 82–85; Toles 118–20). And yes, sock garters are sexy stuff!
When our two enemies-to-lovers finally come together, identities revealed, Klara’s confession—“Psychologically, I’m very confused… but personally, I don’t feel bad at all”—beautifully summarizes the film’s blend of romantic longing, comic self-awareness, and emotional maturity as lofty ideals give way to embodied desire (Toles 120–21).
It also reminds us of the enduring value of a well-written letter, lively banter, and yes—showing off those sock garters—as pathways toward love.
Christmas in Connecticut (1945)
This film is deeply invested in domestic performance and rethinking gender roles in the postwar period (May 153–77; Spigel 43–60). Elizabeth Lane (Barbara Stanwyck) is a chic, urban career woman who quite literally cannot cook, while Jefferson Jones (Dennis Morgan) is a returning soldier whose domestic competence far exceeds hers. The film reverses traditional expectations in a playful way, showing us a heroine whose public success depends precisely on her ability to perform the homemaking she never actually does (May 162–70).
At the same time, Christmas in Connecticut anticipates what we now call “trad-wife culture,” a performance of traditional family values that is, ironically, a commercial enterprise. Elizabeth’s entire career depends on selling domesticity to her readers, and even her editor encourages her to “have another baby” in order to boost magazine circulation. Domesticity in this film is not simply a private virtue—it’s a business and a lucrative one (May 162–70; Radner).
Because the film was made in the immediate aftermath of World War II, it also participates in a larger cultural project of re-imagining national peace through the comforting image of home (May 153–77). In many ways, the film feels like an early prototype of the Hallmark holiday movie: sentimental, escapist, rooted in small-town fantasy, only not above a little titillating flirtation and sexual innuendos. When soldier Jones remarks that Elizabeth “doesn’t act married,” and she replies that she doesn’t “feel married,” it shows how the film flirts with ideas that were a touch daring for 1945, and indeed, even today (Karlyn 69–86). Of course, we know that Elizabeth is not married, but the more time she spends with the sailor, the more marriage with the right man is on her mind.
In fact, the film deliberately emphasizes the supposed scandals, such as infidelity, sex out of wedlock, and child-kidnapping, to diminish Elizabeth’s shocking secret: she can’t cook. Pretending to be a domestic goddess isn’t all that big of a deal in light of the other, larger messes Yarldey thought he would have to clean up. At the end of the day, domesticity is a business, and Elizabeth doesn’t have to change who she is to get her happy ending (which includes a hefty pay raise).
Barbara Stanwyck is “dazzling,” as Nancy Meyers’s The Holiday famously points out, and one of the pleasures of this film is watching her be the leading lady of her own life. She is glamorous, funny, and self-possessed, yet vulnerable enough to make the romance feel earned (Negra).
The film is ultimately about recognizing the difference between the “good on paper” partner and the person who is actually right for you. John Sloan, Elizabeth’s fake husband and wannabe suitor, looks ideal, but he is deeply narcissistic and interested primarily in the picture-perfect fantasy Elizabeth sells to her readers (Cavell 45–48). He even ruins a kiss by talking about plumbing—a mistake the movie makes sure we remember.
In a moment where she is clearly regretting her decision to marry him, she says, “John, when you’re kissing me, don’t talk about plumbing.”
He asks her, “What should I talk about?”
To which she practically responds, as any woman of sense should, “Well…do you have to talk?”
The real romantic partner, of course, is the young serviceman who appreciates Elizabeth exactly as she is—the one who knows how to handle her rocking chair, so to speak, who can literally roll up his sleeves and get the work done, and who shows his generosity of spirit not only in the way he treats her but even in how he tips the driver (Cavell 45–48).
It’s also important to remember that Christmas in Connecticut was made under the Hollywood Production Code, which heavily restricted the way films could portray sex and desire. Just like The Shop Around the Corner, this film has to get creative. Instead of explicit physical affection, Christmas in Connecticut uses domestic metaphors, suggestive banter, and flirtatious misunderstandings to convey erotic desire (Karlyn 69–86; Williams 2–8).
What we get, essentially, is sexuality disguised as wholesome Americana. The cozy fireplace, the shared meals, the holiday festivities, and the idyllic farmhouse setting become code-era symbols of desire, turning domesticity itself into a romantic spectacle. This is why the movie feels “sexier” than it looks—everything that can’t be shown is implied, and the pleasure comes from reading those implications. The Code wanted to protect audiences from “improper” ideas, but as this film demonstrates, repression often produced more interesting and playful forms of erotic expression (Williams 2–13).
Take the moment when Jefferson Jones shows Elizabeth that he knows how to “handle” her rocking chair just right—we all know we’re not really talking about furniture anymore. Nothing remotely explicit is happening on screen, but the movie winks hard enough for everyone to get the message. On the surface, he’s teaching her proper rocking technique, but come on—the scene is clearly about chemistry, closeness, and a certain physical confidence (Karlyn 69–86; Williams 6–9).
In other words, it’s all in the hips, baby.
We see echoes of this later when Elizabeth is rocking on the chair alone, clearly thinking of Jones with a suggestive smile on her face, and earlier in the film when she lovingly fingers the piano keys he’d just been playing—a clear stand-in for his male form (Williams 6–9).
In many ways, Christmas in Connecticut is a movie about becoming the leading lady of your own story. It suggests that happiness is not found in the fantasy of domestic perfection, but in the recognition of who actually supports your joy, your desires, and your sense of home (Cavell 45–48).
And if you take only one thing from this film, it is that you should never, EVER marry a person who talks about plumbing while kissing you.
Works Consulted
Cavell, Stanley. Pursuits of Happiness: The Hollywood Comedy of Remarriage. Harvard University Press, 1981.
Karlyn, Kathleen Rowe. The Unruly Woman: Gender and the Genres of Laughter. University of Texas Press, 1995.
May, Elaine Tyler. Homeward Bound: American Families in the Cold War Era. Basic Books, 1988.
McDonald, Tamar Jeffers. Romantic Comedy: Boy Meets Girl Meets Genre. Wallflower Press, 2007.
Neale, Steve, and Frank Krutnik. Popular Film and Television Comedy. Routledge, 1990.
Paul, William. Ernst Lubitsch’s American Comedy. Columbia University Press, 1983.
Poague, Leland. The Cinema of Ernst Lubitsch. A. S. Barnes, 1978.
Radner, Hilary. Shopping Around: Feminine Culture and the Pursuit of Pleasure. Routledge, 1995.
Spigel, Lynn. Make Room for TV: Television and the Family Ideal in Postwar America. University of Chicago Press, 1992.
Toles, George. Acting Ordinary in American Cinema. University of California Press, 1997.
Williams, Linda. “Film Bodies: Gender, Genre, and Excess.” Film Quarterly, vol. 44, no. 4, 1991, pp. 2–13. https://www.jstor.org/stable/1212758.
Alt text: Two classic holiday movie posters under a festive Christmas-themed design with decorative holly and gift boxes. Transcribed Text: What a Christmas! What Two Iconic Holiday Romantic Comedies Teach Us About Life, Love & History
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