I would like to do maybe a smaller romantic comedy.

“I would like to do maybe a smaller romantic comedy.” Thus spoke Linda Fiorentino, and though her words seem modest, they hold within them the weight of longing for simplicity, intimacy, and truth. For in an age when art is often measured by scale, spectacle, and grandeur, there is a quiet nobility in the desire for something smaller, something that speaks not with thunder, but with the voice of the heart.

The romantic comedy has always been a mirror of human tenderness. Its essence is not in vast armies or great kingdoms, but in the gestures between two souls—the misunderstandings, the laughter, the small acts of courage that bring people together. To say one wishes to make a “smaller” romantic comedy is to wish for the art stripped of ornament, reduced to its purest form: the human heart revealed in all its vulnerability.

The ancients, too, honored such simplicity. Aristophanes, in his comedies, filled his stage not with kings and battles, but with lovers and fools, neighbors and dreamers. His plays were not grand epics, yet they endured because they spoke to the daily lives of his people. The laughter of the crowd was not born from spectacle, but from recognition—they saw themselves in the characters, and thus the play became eternal. So Fiorentino’s yearning for a “smaller” tale reflects this same truth: that intimacy can be more enduring than grandeur.

History gives us countless examples. Consider Jane Austen, who wrote not of empires rising or falling, but of small gatherings, country dances, whispered confessions, and the quiet dignity of love discovered amidst ordinary life. Her works are, in essence, “smaller” romantic comedies—focused not on the scale of events, but on the scale of hearts. Yet they have outlasted the thunderous novels of her age, precisely because they carried the eternal weight of truth in human affection.

To call a work “smaller” is not to call it lesser. It is to recognize that greatness often lies hidden in the ordinary. A whispered “yes” at the end of a story may be more powerful than the loudest declaration of war. The romantic comedy, especially in its humble form, reminds us that the most heroic act may be the courage to love, to risk rejection, to hope against doubt. This is not weakness—it is strength clothed in tenderness.

And so we learn from Fiorentino’s words that not every dream must be vast, nor every story grand. Sometimes the true art lies in restraint, in choosing to focus on the fragile details of life rather than the roaring spectacle. To live this way is to honor the sacredness of the small moment: a shared glance, a gentle smile, a reconciliation after quarrel.

Practical action is clear: cherish the small in your own life. Do not wait for grand gestures or sweeping dramas to make your story worthy. Find meaning in the daily kindness, in laughter shared with a friend, in the courage to speak your heart honestly. In doing so, your life itself becomes a “smaller romantic comedy”—not lesser, but infinitely human, and therefore infinitely profound.

So, children of tomorrow, remember this: the greatness of life does not always come from what is vast. Sometimes it comes from what is smaller—but true, tender, and eternal. For love, in all its quiet forms, will always be the greatest story of all.