As of a few days ago, Down with Love, 2003’s overlooked masterpiece of a rom–com, has become my most rewatched movie. This recent addition to the Criterion Channel is a perfect picture, and that’s no exaggeration. Or, well, maybe it might be, just a little. It would have been even better were it a musical, and it’s shocking that it isn’t, considering it stars Renée Zellweger straight off the heels of Chicago, and Ewan McGregor fresh from Moulin Rouge!

That aside, though, this send–up of 60s rom–coms, directed by Bring It On’s Peyton Reed, is the best movie whose Letterboxd reviews reference Gone Girl since Gone Girl was released. Down With Love has everything a good rom–com needs: hot people, sexually ambiguous secondary characters played by gay actors, well–executed commentary, stylish sets and costumes, and a New York City setting. Best of all, it’s all about how sexy publishing and journalism can be.

Down With Love follows feminist author Barbara Novak (Zellweger) and her journey through the misogynistic publishing industry of the 60s, as she attempts to sell a book convincing women they don’t need men in their life to have pleasure. Her bestseller lauds masturbation, casual sex, and mass consumption of chocolate—to say that men, especially womanizers like journalist Catcher Block (McGregor), are threatened by this is the understatement of the movie’s stylized, pastel–painted decade.

Catcher decides he’s going to go undercover to prove Barbara wrong. He’ll dress up like a nice Southern gentleman (complete with a typical shitty American accent from McGregor), call himself Zip, wine and dine Barbara, then leave her high and dry. Women need men, and women can’t do casual. This he’s sure of. 

After a fabricated run–in at a laundromat, his plan kicks into gear. And so does hers—her book becomes a bestseller, convincing women worldwide to ditch the men who just aren’t doing it for them and find pleasure without love. 

It seems to be working out perfectly for them (and for their extremely gay seconds in command, played by the extremely gay Sarah Paulson and David Hyde Pierce, who are settling into a relationship that’s something between femdom and bearding). Barbara can have success and still get a man to go out with her, despite the fact that she’s generally persona non grata to all men because of her book, and Catcher is drawing Barbara further into his trap. And it seems like he has her—they go back to his place for a date, and he gets her on tape admitting that she, Barbara Novak, needs a man and can’t do casual sex the way men can.

It’s at this moment that Barbara reveals that this is all one massive long con. She once worked as Catcher’s assistant—until he broke her heart, and she quit. She orchestrated everything to get Catcher to actually fall for her—to “gain the respect that would make you wanna marry me first and seduce me later,” as Zellweger puts it in a masterful two–and–a–half minute monologue to a jaw–dropped McGregor.

But there’s a hitch. Barbara’s feminist facade has become the real her—she cares about female liberation, about equal rights, and about women having the ability to say “down with love” if they so choose. She tells Catcher not to write the exposé he was planning when he first went undercover, and she leaves him in the dust.

He comes running after her, of course, donning a pink button–up and a new understanding of female liberation. He throws his success and womanizing away for the privilege of sitting at her feet—or, rather, her secretary’s desk. He’s happy as long as she’s happy, and what makes her most happy is having it all. They kiss, the music swells, and the credits roll.

Down With Love is great for a lot of reasons. It’s feminist, sexy, and fun. It’s ridiculously stylish; Zellweger and Paulson wear a series of fantastically–crafted, colorful pieces, and McGregor’s checkered suit is a million times more interesting than what most men wear to the Met Gala. The sets are beautifully crafted as well (there’s a gag where Zellweger says her intricate, gorgeous, massive 60s apartment is “adorable”), and there’s the perfect amount of comedic sound design to make the viewer feel like they’re watching a movie from the 60s.

And McGregor and Zellweger have undeniable amounts of chemistry. They’re both fantastic on their own, of course, but together, they’re electric. It’s a legitimately hot movie with zero sex (other than a great scene where they split–screen a phone call to make it look like they’re going down on each other), because every little look the two give each other is collar–tug–inducing.

Down With Love is a rom–com that has something to say, and says it well. It’s far too easy for rom–coms, especially the older ones that Down With Love is a loving parody of, to be misogynistic cesspools if you look at them for longer than a second—and it’s far too easy for movies about women’s liberation and the relationship between love and career to become preachy and idealistic.

Down With Love operates by classic rom–com rules, which dictate that the most improbable situations become everyday, and everyone ends up happy in the end. This lets the movie bypass a couple of boring, concrete, and logistical setbacks to Barbara’s success and happiness and lets the message come through—that women can have it all, that they absolutely should try for whatever they want, and that the men in their lives should support them every step of the way.

The plot twist is shocking but well–integrated (rewatches are lots of fun), and Barbara’s subsequent turnaround to realizing that scheming for a man isn’t worth her time if he isn’t going to support her feels realistic and earned. Down With Love takes the fun and craft of rom–coms of yore and updates it with politics that are appropriately modern without feeling preachy.

Ultimately, the movie is so stellar because it’s so singular. It’s super weird, both in premise and execution, but it leans into the camp and zaniness in a way that brings the viewer completely into bizarro, hammed–up 60s New York—a world full of bright yellow taxis, dense grey smoke clouds, and vibrant multicolored dresses. It makes mag writing and journalism seem legitimately sexy which, hey, no complaints. It says that success is out there for everyone—and true love is, too.