On her cover of the Lynyrd Skynyrd staple “Sweet Home Alabama,” recorded for its namesake romantic comedy, Jewel sings a bridge not heard on the original: “You don’t gotta be from down here to get along just fine/ Being Southern is a state of mind.” The song was, of course, written in response to Neil Young’s 1970 “Southern Man,” which scolded the Southern United States for its history of slavery and racism. While neither the song nor the film addresses this harsh but real bit of history, Jewel’s version is enough to foster the flawed but loveable, down-home environment that Sweet Home Alabama inhabits. Given how much a Reese Witherspoon rom-com vehicle from the early aughts continues to surge in popularity in the streaming age, it speaks to a fantasy of a welcoming Southern atmosphere where acceptance exists beneath the redneckery and conservatism—one that many viewers most likely did not experience in their own lives. And because Reese gets it done in fabulous boots and garments of her character’s own design, we are of course along for the ride in the pickup truck.
Sweet Home Alabama opens with a childhood flashback of Melanie (Witherspoon) kissing her hometown sweetheart Jake (Josh Lucas) on a beach during a thunderstorm, where he taught her that lightning never strikes the same spot twice. Cut to present day Manhattan, where Melanie Carmichael is living out her “Sex and the City”-inspired dream career as a fashion designer. She’s also on the fast track to joining the city’s upper-class elite, since she’s dating Andrew Hennings (Patrick Dempsey), son of New York City mayor Kate (Candace Bergen). When the couple becomes engaged, what starts as a private moment almost instantly explodes in tabloids–and by Kate’s anxieties over her son’s choice. But Melanie is one step ahead of the mayor’s worries, returning to Pigeon Creek, Alabama to take care of one crucial detail: she’s still legally married to Jake, who has refused to divorce her.
Despite taking its name from a song that has long symbolized racism, Sweet Home Alabama, doesn’t have to work overtime to make the state feel like home. This is clear from the moment Melanie forces her way into their old house and Jake calls the sheriff, a childhood friend; in other hands this could have been a rude homecoming, as Melanie’s return leads to one familiar face after another, captured best by bank teller Dorothea (Mary Lynn Rajskub): “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” As Melanie has her social and philosophical differences with the folks of Pigeon Creek (“I mean, how do you people live like this?” she drunkenly proclaims), the viewer knows this unfinished business won’t resolve itself neatly. And small-town mores are never far away, given that the studio and screenwriters were generous enough to include a gay character in the form of Melanie’s childhood friend Bobby Ray (Ethan Embry).
Any nostalgic homecoming is quickly blown to smithereens as Andrew comes down to surprise his fiancée at the luxurious Carmichael home, where he’s given to understand Melanie grew up. But alas, she lied about her background; her last name is in fact Smooter. The couple are initially able to make peace by agreeing to move the wedding to Pigeon Creek, the event is crashed when her lawyer reveals that while Jake eventually signed the divorce papers, Melanie did not—and cannot. “You see, the truth is, I gave my heart away a long time ago, my whole heart, and I never really got it back.” Who did she give her heart to exactly? Jake, of course, but also the Southern roots that she had spent years trying to escape.
Sweet Home Alabama opened to lukewarm reviews at the time, with many critics praising Witherspoon’s performance but labelling the script bland and predictable. Since the ‘90s and ‘00s were a cornucopia of such fluff, it was easy to see how this didn’t distinguish itself. But now, in an era where the closest we seem to get to this level of rom-com perfection is a Netflix original, it stands out high among the rest.
The film doesn’t seek to resolve or fully address the South’s controversial history, nor should a romantic comedy try. It’s quite a queer portrayal of how we try so hard to distance ourselves from our background, but reluctantly learn that where we come from made us who we are. “You and I are different,” Andrew tells his mother earlier on. “We’re not better, not worse… we’re just different.” It’s these differences that Sweet Home Alabama tries to celebrate, emphasizing humanity in a world that seldom has a chance to acknowledge it.
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