I watched Before Sunrise on a first date. We streamed it on my laptop, sitting on my couch, barely touching. And by the end, we were holding hands, and I was thinking: this is what I want. This. Exactly this.
The film is almost absurdly simple: two strangers meet on a train, decide to spend a night walking around Vienna together, and talk. That’s it. No plot twists, no dramatic conflicts, no manufactured obstacles. Just two people talking for ninety minutes.
And it’s one of the most romantic films I’ve ever seen.
Jesse is American, cynical, recently heartbroken. Céline is French, idealistic, full of ideas. They’re both in their early twenties, both at that age where you think you understand everything but you’re really just beginning to understand how little you know. They talk about love, death, reincarnation, relationships, their fears, their dreams. And the conversation never feels forced or pretentious. It feels real.
There’s a scene in a listening booth at a record store. They’re listening to Kath Bloom’s “Come Here,” and they’re not talking, just standing close, stealing glances at each other. The sexual tension is unbearable. And it’s all just… looking. No touching. Just the awareness of another person’s presence, the electricity of proximity.
I remember glancing at my date during that scene, and they were already looking at me. And we both smiled, embarrassed, and looked away. And I thought: Linklater gets it. He understands that romance isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about these small moments of recognition, of seeing and being seen.
What I love about Before Sunrise is how it captures the specific magic of a night that exists outside of normal time. Jesse and Céline know they’ll probably never see each other again. So they’re free to be completely honest, completely themselves. There’s no future to worry about, no relationship to maintain. Just this one night, this one conversation, this one perfect moment.
They talk about how people are always performing, always presenting a curated version of themselves. But in this liminal space—between trains, between lives—they can drop the performance. They can just be.
The ending kills me every time. They’re at the train station. They have to say goodbye. They make a pact: no phone numbers, no addresses. They’ll meet again in six months, same place. If it’s meant to be, they’ll both show up.
And then they walk away from each other. The camera follows each of them separately, and you can see them both fighting the urge to look back. And then the credits roll. And you’re left with this ache, this question: will they come back? Will they keep the promise?
(I know there are sequels. I’ve seen them. But in the moment, watching it for the first time, not knowing—that uncertainty is perfect.)
My date and I didn’t talk much after the film ended. We just sat there, still holding hands, processing. And then they said, “Want to go for a walk?” And we did. We walked around my neighborhood for two hours, talking about nothing and everything, trying to recreate the magic of Jesse and Céline’s night.
It didn’t quite work. Real life never does. But it was still good. Still real. Still ours.
Before Sunrise is a film about the possibility of connection, about the way a single conversation can change your life, about the courage it takes to be vulnerable with a stranger. It’s a film that makes you want to talk to people, to take chances, to say yes to unexpected detours.
It’s a film that makes you believe in love, not as a destination but as a moment. A series of moments. A night in Vienna. A walk through a neighborhood. A hand held in the dark.
