Dinner in America has had a resurgence of popularity long past its fifteen minutes of online fame, warranting theatrical rereleases two years after its initial release. It’s a deservedly–praised movie with chaotic energy and an unorthodox love story, and though the romanticized clips going viral on TikTok might lure you in, they’re not reflective of the full story.
The movie follows Patty (Emily Skeegs), a neurodivergent “weird girl,” and Simon (Kyle Gallner), the not–quite–redeemable punk who chain–smokes like it's an Olympic sport. At its heart, Dinner in America tells the story of two people who should never have met, let alone found love. Simon is a punk rocker and anarchist on the run after torching a local pharmacy. His life is about as chaotic as you'd expect, rejecting every societal norm like it’s a reflex. Then there’s Patty, a socially awkward woman who’s mocked relentlessly by her peers and infantilized by her overbearing family. She’s stuck in a suffocating suburban bubble that tells her to smile and nod while her parents make all her decisions for her.
Patty has a secret obsession: she’s a huge fan of a local punk band called PsyOps, especially its masked lead singer. She’s been sending him Polaroids of herself along with letters, totally unaware that the very same mysterious frontman is Simon, the brash punk who just crashed into her life. Their worlds collide—quite literally—when Simon, on the run after torching a pharmacy, finds himself hiding out in her suburban home. What starts as an awkward, tense arrangement slowly transforms into something unexpectedly tender. As they bond over their shared disdain for their suffocating environments—her controlling family and his rebellious lifestyle—their connection deepens in a way that’s messy and strangely beautiful.
But Dinner in America isn’t just another offbeat indie rom–com with a dash of weirdness. It’s a movie that takes the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope and rips it apart.
Let’s be honest, we’ve all seen the MPDG—the whimsical woman who swoops in to show the male protagonist how to live again. She’s the quirky girl who listens to vinyl, says mysterious things, and teaches him that life can be fun as long as you’re different enough (but still conventionally attractive, obviously). She doesn’t exist for herself—her personality is just there to serve as a plot device for the man’s journey. She’s a quirky girl with mismatched socks and a love of obscure bands (in these cinematic universes, the Smiths are obscure) who helps the male protagonist get his life together. Think of the women in 500 Days of Summer, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and Ruby Sparks.
Patty, on the other hand, is a breath of fresh air in this regard. She’s not here to make Simon better, nor is she quirky for quirkiness’ sake. Patty’s awkwardness is uncomfortable, sometimes painfully real, but that’s what makes her so relatable.
Though it’s never explicitly stated, it is heavily implied that Patty is neurodivergent, and the film doesn’t sanitize that or present it as something for Simon to fix. Her “weirdness” is her reality, and the film doesn’t shape it for the male gaze. There’s no cutesy transformation where she becomes the “perfect girl”. She’s off–putting at times, awkward, and sometimes even hard to watch because the film embraces the truth of what it’s like to feel out of place in a world that infantilizes you.
Patty’s family treats her like a child who needs to be controlled under the guise of care, while her peers reject her outright. But Simon? Simon sees her for exactly who she is, and he loves it. He doesn’t try to change her. He revels in her genuine self. When Simon tells her that she’s “a total punk rocker,” he’s not just saying it to build her up—he means it. In Simon’s eyes, Patty is more punk than anyone in the film, simply by being unapologetically herself in a world that constantly tries to stifle her. For the first time, Patty is allowed to be defiantly herself, without anyone hovering over her, or trying to “fix” her.
Simon, on the other hand, is a character built out of defense mechanisms. He’s rude, loud, and abrasive, constantly rejecting the world before it can reject him. His punk persona is a suit of armor—peacocking with a cigarette in hand—but it’s Patty’s unfiltered weirdness that finally starts to peel away his layers. Their relationship isn’t about making Simon a better man. It’s about two people—each messy in their own ways—who find comfort in the mess.
One of the most unforgettable scenes in Dinner in America unfolds in an arcade bathed in neon lights, set to the dreamy, melancholic tones of Mac DeMarco’s “My Kind of Woman.” This song choice isn’t just background music—it’s the perfect soundtrack for the moment when Simon, who has spent the entire film shielding himself from vulnerability, finally lets his guard down. What makes this scene so powerful, and why people fell in love with it, is that it strips love down to something simple and honest. There’s no need for grand gestures or big declarations; it’s in the way Simon quietly lets himself melt into Patty’s presence, getting lost in the comfort of just being with her. It’s a love that thrives in quiet moments, where music, neon lights, and the soft glow of understanding between two people are enough to say everything.
Another high point comes with the "Watermelon" song—a love letter to all things weird and wonderful. It’s where Patty performs a song she wrote for Simon. And if the audience wasn’t already rooting for her, this is the moment they start to. The lyrics—"Am I dreaming or did you just kiss me? You don't know it, but you already miss me"—are as much a confession as they are a declaration of confidence. In her own way, Patty is saying: “I’m here, and you’re going to want me around.”
What makes this moment even more special is that the song is born out of their creative process together—Patty sings over instrumentals Simon had been working on, literally combining the two of them in song form. It’s a bonding moment, where their connection moves from unspoken to tangible, blending his punk rebellion with her awkward sincerity. The “Watermelon” song becomes their shared creation, a manifestation of their growing feelings.
In this moment, Patty also introduces Simon as her “music boyfriend”—a term she’s coined to describe him because, well, he’s not her real boyfriend (at least, not yet). He’s the guy she’s been dreaming about through headphones, plastering her walls with Polaroids, and writing songs about—someone who only existed in her fantasy world as the masked punk lead singer she idolizes. But now, standing right in front of her, he’s real, and the lines between fantasy and reality start to blur. This performance is more than just a song for Patty—it’s her way of manifesting something more, turning Simon from the distant figure behind the music into someone she’s ready to pull into her life for real.
The punk movement he embodies is all about rebellion, rejecting societal norms, and finding freedom in chaos. His relationship with Patty becomes a way to escape the suffocating expectations of their respective worlds. Together, they create a space where they can both exist without being judged or controlled by others.
At its core, the film is an authentic and awkward love story between two outcasts who find solace in each other. It subverts the MPDG trope by giving us a neurodivergent woman who isn’t there to fix anyone and a love story that feels messy and real, rather than idealized. Dinner in America is a raw, uncomfortable, but ultimately heartfelt exploration of love, rebellion, and what it means to truly accept someone, weirdness and all.
