APHAM: Netflix’s The Half of It—Queering Teen Rom Coms

CONTENT WARNINGS: spoilers ahead

The Half of It opens with an animation voiced-over by Ellie Chu, our protagonist, explaining her dislike of Plato’s idea of soulmates being two halves of a complete whole: “If you ask me, people spend far too much time looking for someone to complete them.”

After the pro-catfishing dumpster fire that was Sierra Burgess is a Loser, I thought Netflix would be done producing Cyrano de Bergerac-inspired teen romcoms. Luckily, I was wrong.

The protagonist of director Alice Wu’s (Saving Face) sequel film is Ellie Chu (Leah Lewis), a Chinese-American high schooler in her mostly white town of Squahamish. In addition to operating the local train station, she runs an essay-writing business to make ends meet. Football player Paul Munsky (Daniel Diemer), however, doesn’t hire her to ghostwrite an English paper—he wants her to write love letters to Aster Flores (Alexxis Lemire), the most popular girl in school and Ellie’s crush.

Unsurprisingly, the film has drawn comparisons to To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, another Netflix original centered on an Asian-American lead. The latter was popular because it was your typical, run-of-the-mill teen comedy; it was refreshing to see a female Asian character be treated like any of her white contemporaries. The Half of It, however, is a more self-aware and nuanced take on the genre.

The film employs many high school rom com tropes: love triangles, jock-nerd relationships, etc. But instead of rethreading familiar plotlines, Wu reinterprets them to create a film that explores themes of otherness, friendship, and love.

Ellie Chu may be quiet and bespectacled, but that is where her similarities with other “quiet girl” romcom leads ends. She’s made fun of by “popular” types, but it’s the first time I’ve seen a protagonist deal with the same name-mocking taunts I heard at the playground: “Chugga chugga chu chu!” yells a car of boys as they pass Ellie by. It’s the little things that show what separates her from her peers: making phone calls for her non-English speaking father, her love for Yakult yogurt drinks, the casual racism she faces on the daily. 

Characters from marginalized groups are usually reserved as sidekicks—think the gay best friend or the token mean girl of color in virtually all post-2010 high school movies—and at first, Ellie is just a wingwoman for Paul. It’s through the growth of their unlikely friendship that we see her take control of her narrative.

Even her father is treated with the nuance usually unreserved for side characters. Rather than being the stock strict “immigrant father-who is unable to express love,” Ellie’s dad is a quiet man who loves old films (“Shh,” he says watching Casablanca. “Best part”). His sadness comes from grieving over his wife, as well as his stagnant position as a train station manager (“Turns out speaking good English trumps having a PhD”). He’s not just sad, though. He and Paul become unexpected friends as he teaches him how to make traditional Chinese food.

The romance is undeniably sapphic. There are no brash, sweep-your-off-your-feet scenes. Instead, there are many moments where Ellie silently stares at Aster, her yearning palpable. In one scene, the two women float in a small spring, a love song crooning in the background. Even her letters have a homoerotic subtext—confessional and epistolary literature has long been a popular format for queer stories.

However, the main subversion of tropes isn’t the queer romance. What makes the film stand out is the fact that its core love story isn’t romantic—it’s Ellie and Paul’s friendship.

Unlikely friendships aren’t a revolutionary concept. What’s rare is finding a film that is centered on a platonic relationship. As they work together to set Paul up with Aster, the duo progress into a mutual understanding and love for the other. Again, we’ve seen world-weary Character A soften for clumsy but well-intentioned Character B before, but it never feels trite. Their natural dialogue, as well as the actors’ convincing performances, make their friendships one of the most realistic depictions I’ve seen in both YA movies and books. Their affection blooms slowly but surely over TV dinners and thrift store trips. It’s all the more heartbreaking when we realize Paul has fallen in love with Ellie. The jock falling for the nerd isn’t the movie’s climax—it’s a gut-wrenching twist that almost ruins their friendship.

In my opinion, the film’s “best part” is when Aster’s boyfriend proposes to her during Sunday service. Similarly to “I object!” scenes in other romantic comedies, Ellie speaks out in front of a shocked crowd. Instead of confessing her feelings to her entire church, she subliminally pleads with Aster to reconsider her engagement and reveals her identity as the true letter writer. She preaches her newfound discovery: “Love is messy and horrible and selfish…and bold.” Paul shares his own realizations about how there is more than “one right way to love”. He implicitly accepts Ellie’s queerness and declares his love for her without outing her to their conservative town.

The ending of the film is just as subversive. Aster and Ellie get their grand kiss, but for all the clever callbacks Wu makes throughout the film, the ending isn’t as tidy as one might expect. Both women decide to go to college, but we have no confirmation that they will end up happily-ever-after. Aster doesn’t come out to her religious family, nor does Ellie to her father. Some could find the conclusion unsatisfying, but it feels like a positive, organic end to the film. It’s refreshing to see a movie that doesn’t end with the queer character giving a long speech about their identity to everyone they know. Sure, those scenes can be cathartic, but it’s not super realistic for many teens in unsafe environments. The film’s more modest ending legitimizes the identities of queer youth who might not be out of the closet. The movie was never just about grand announcements or “getting the girl”; it’s about embracing the uncertainty of love and the wild reward and risk it brings.

The Half of It is a thoughtful, funny, and earnest exploration of love—familial, romantic, platonic, and otherwise. Under Wu’s careful direction, all of her characters and relationships shine. This coming-of-age romantic comedy is her response to the cut-and-dry films that clog up the mainstream.

When we see Paul chase Ellie’s college-bound train, we feel just as elated as when she kisses Aster. Ellie Chu might dismiss the idea of soulmates, but if it were true, Paul might just be hers.

by JINHEE HEO