Thirty-six years later and that laugh still melts the screen. Julia Roberts walks into a glittering NYC Christmas gala in a red gown that could stop traffic on Fifth Avenue, locks eyes with Richard Gere across the room, and boom: every butterfly from 1990 comes rushing back.
They’re older, richer, wiser, and a little broken. Vivian’s built an empire out of the boutique Edward once bought her clothes from. Edward’s got the penthouse but nobody to share the view. The chemistry? Still ridiculous. The banter? Sharper than ever. When he says “I messed up the fairy tale” and she hits him with “Then write me a better ending, handsome,” theaters are gonna need new seats from all the swooning.
It’s funny, sexy, and shockingly tender: ice-skating at Rockefeller, slow-dancing to “It Must Have Been Love” (yes, they went there), and one perfect kiss under the snow like time never passed.
Garry Marshall’s spirit is all over this. Bring tissues and champagne.
Verdict: the rare sequel that feels like coming home for Christmas.

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