Picture a man. Now give him all of the worst, most awful (non-violent) possessive traits you can imagine. Now picture a movie all about this man, and you might have something approximating Albert Brooks’ sophomore feature, Modern Romance. This damning indictment of the modern dating man was written decades before terms like “toxic masculinity” entered our everyday vocabulary, and for that reason it has an almost timeless quality to its satire. In between groaning over this man, we also discuss the fun meta filmmaking scenes, the terrible DVD cover, and how much Henry’s couch looks like the one in the movie.

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