What does it mean to dress like a woman who makes a living out of love? In Materialists, the answer isn’t flashy or loud. It’s not about red lips, five-inch stilettos, or sweeping declarations in designer gowns. It’s about something quieter, more intentional—and maybe even more powerful.
Lucy, the New York City matchmaker at the heart of Celine Song’s new film, doesn’t just wear clothes—she communicates through them. She’s a modern romantic in a very pragmatic world, and every outfit tells us exactly where she stands in her own emotional tug-of-war.
Costume designer Katina Danabassis—who also worked with Song on Past Lives—returns to give Lucy a wardrobe that doesn’t just fit the body, but the story. “We aimed for naturalism,” Danabassis says. “The moment it feels loud, it starts to distract from what really matters.”
The first time I truly felt Lucy’s clothes were more than just pretty visuals was during the opening scene. She's striding through the city in knee-high Paris Texas boots and a razor-sharp skirt suit from Aritzia, trench coat tossed over her shoulder like an afterthought. She’s not walking—she’s arriving. The whole look gives off major Working Girl vibes, with a wink to Melanie Griffith and a nod to some impossibly cool stranger you might catch crossing Bowery and never forget.
Then there's the bar scene. Lucy, John (Chris Evans), and Harry (Pedro Pascal) are deep in conversation over drinks. Lucy’s in a long black leather coat, a simple white tee, and faded jeans. It’s the kind of outfit that feels like a quiet scream. Yes, it evokes Notting Hill. Yes, it leans into the rom-com canon. But it doesn’t feel like nostalgia cosplay—it feels lived-in. Danabassis herself admits, “It’s not not a nod,” and that’s exactly the charm: the subtle homage without the overstatement.
In fact, that’s Lucy’s entire fashion ethos. She’s the kind of woman who could crush a boardroom pitch in a silk blouse, then disappear into a crowd in a cotton button-up and beat-up jeans—and still somehow look like the most interesting person in the room. When she shows up at a black-tie wedding in a cerulean Proenza Schouler gown, the dress doesn’t scream romance. It whispers restraint. The back is stunning, but the front is business. It’s heartbreak in eveningwear.
But Lucy’s best-dressed moments? They happen off-duty. Picture her at home in an oversized striped shirt from Treasure & Bond, Zara jeans, Nike sneakers. It’s morning-after realness with just enough polish. Or later, on a road trip, when she’s in a white cotton blouse so airy it looks like it could float out the car window. These aren’t clothes that try too hard. They’re clothes that understand: real romance happens between the lines.
Silver plays its own quiet role in Lucy’s story. Her necklaces, rings, earrings—they’re delicate, vintage, meaningful. Celine Song had a clear vision: “This is a silver movie. Lucy’s a silver girl.” Her love interest, Harry, is a gold man. The engagement ring she’s shown is gold. It’s all deliberate—Lucy’s always circling something she doesn’t quite belong to. She’s stylish, but never flashy. Grounded, but yearning.
And then there’s that buttercream Dôen dress. Ruffled, floral, impossibly romantic. Lucy originally packed it for a dreamy trip to Iceland with Harry. That trip never happens. But she wears the dress anyway—while spending time with John. The moment says everything. “She’s trying to get in touch with the lover in her,” Danabassis explains. And suddenly, it all makes sense. When she’s with Harry, it’s clean lines and sharp tailoring. With John, it’s softness, heart, mess. One is mind. One is heart.
That’s what makes Materialists so quietly powerful. The fashion isn’t just aesthetic—it’s emotional language. Lucy doesn’t just pick an outfit. She feels her way into it. You don’t need to know the brand or the trend. You just know when it’s right. Or more heartbreakingly, when it isn’t.
Because sometimes, the most memorable dress isn’t the one worn for the grand entrance—it’s the one she puts on knowing the story might already be over.
And that, dear reader, is the most romantic kind of style there is.