It kind of sounds pretentious, but a film I find deeply romantic

The words of Jim Sturgess—“It kind of sounds pretentious, but a film I find deeply romantic is Buffalo ’66, which is a film by Vincent Gallo. It’s about how you break down all those barriers and expose yourself and open yourself up to ultimately being hurt”—carry with them a truth that resonates through the ages. For here he speaks not of love’s sweetness alone, but of its peril, its vulnerability, its demand that we strip away the armor of pride and fear. In his reflection, romance is not shallow laughter or fleeting attraction, but the brave unveiling of the soul, knowing that such nakedness may invite both joy and sorrow.

The origin of this insight lies in the timeless paradox of love. From the ancient poets of Greece to the mystics of the East, love has been understood not as safety but as risk. To love is to lower the walls we build against the world; it is to confess that another holds the power to wound us. Yet, in this very risk lies the essence of romance. Without vulnerability, there is no intimacy, no true union of spirits. Sturgess perceives in Buffalo ’66 this same eternal truth: that love’s beauty arises not in its perfection, but in the trembling courage of exposure.

Consider the story of Héloïse and Abelard in medieval France. Their love, though brilliant and passionate, defied the conventions of their age and brought upon them scandal, exile, and heartbreak. Yet through letters that endured the ages, their affection revealed a profound tenderness, born from wounds as much as from joys. They broke down the barriers of their time, exposed themselves to love, and in doing so, were indeed hurt. And yet, history remembers them not for their suffering alone, but for their courage to love despite the cost.

The film Sturgess names is but a modern parable of this eternal truth: the heart longs for connection, but connection requires surrender. The walls we build—of pride, of fear, of cynicism—seem to protect us, but they also starve us. To tear them down is terrifying, yet only then can we taste the fullness of human experience. As the ancients taught, the greatest victories are not won upon battlefields of stone and steel, but within the silent chambers of the heart, where one dares to be seen as fragile, flawed, and real.

The lesson, then, is this: romance is not about perfection—it is about courage. It is not about securing certainty, but about stepping willingly into uncertainty for the sake of love. To open yourself is to risk pain, yes, but also to allow joy that cannot be reached in any other way. Love asks us to live dangerously, not with weapons or conquest, but with tenderness, humility, and openness.

Practically, this means we must learn to put aside the masks we wear. Speak honestly with those you love, even if your voice shakes. Show affection, even when you fear rejection. Take the small, vulnerable actions: writing a letter, sharing a memory, admitting your weakness. Each of these is an act of bravery, an act of exposure, a breaking down of barriers that allows intimacy to blossom. Do not mistake armor for strength; true strength is found in the courage to remove it.

Thus, Sturgess’s words are not pretentious at all—they are prophetic. In his embrace of a film that reveals the painful, trembling side of romance, he reminds us of the ancient truth: that love’s path is not smooth, but it is sacred. To open oneself is to risk the wound, but it is also to invite the miracle. Let this truth be handed down: do not fear to be hurt, for it is only in risking pain that you discover love’s deepest beauty.

And so, to all who listen, remember: love is not for the timid. It calls us to tear down the walls of our own making and step forth, vulnerable yet unafraid. For in this holy exposure, we touch the eternal, and in our openness, we discover the greatness of the human heart.