There’s a fun storytelling device in Susan Seidelman’s Sex and the City pilot that greatly added to the casual, Gen-X appeal of the show’s early seasons, before being dropped from its format entirely: the direct-to-camera confessionals. In early episodes of Sex and the City, main characters and single-scene players alike were introduced to the audience via street-interview soliloquies, adding to the show’s simulated confessional candor about modern New Yorkers’ sex lives. I used to assume that Seidelman staged those documentary-style interviews as a way to mimic the blind-item anecdotes of Candace Bushnell’s original “Sex and the City” newspaper column, maybe borrowing some visual language from reality TV in the process. In retrospect, that device may have been borrowed from an entirely different early-90s Gen-X relic, separate from the MTV Real World confessionals that they coincidentally recall. Structurally, Cameron Crowe’s 1992 grunge-scene dramedy Singles is a major stylistic precursor for the initial Sex and the City aesthetic, profiling the sexual & romantic lives of lovelorn slackers in the same confessionals-and-vignettes rhythms that Seidelman helped establish for the show. The differences between them are matters of perspective & tone. Singles is set in Seattle instead of New York, it’s cuter than it is raunchy, and its characters are idealistic twentysomethings looking for love instead of jaded thirtysomethings looking to settle.

The core friend group profiled in Singles are connected through the exact kinds of cultural hubs you’d expect to find in early-90s Seattle: warehouse concert venues, hipster coffee shops, and the single-bedroom apartment complexes that give the film its title. All of its characters teeter between remaining single forever and halfway committing to serious relationships, unsure whether they can trust each other or if their hearts are being played with in pursuit of sex. The women are universally adorable: Bridget Fonda as the plucky optimist, Kyra Sedgwick as the cynical pessimist, Sheila Kelley as the A-type stress magnet. The men are varying levels of dopey: Campbell Scott as the careerist yuppie, Jim True-Frost as the dorky wannabe, Matt Dillon as the true-believer grunge scene burnout. They clumsily mix & match as best as they can while struggling to maintain that classic Gen-X air of apathetic cool that shields all raw emotion behind untold pounds of oversized sweaters, flannels, denim, and leather. The story’s scatterbrained vignette structure sets it up to function as a kind of backdoor sitcom pilot à la Sex and the City or Melrose Place, appealing specifically to teens just a few years younger than its characters, itching to move out of the suburbs and live adult lives in The Big City. Instead, it had to settle for reaching those kids through its tie-in CD soundtrack, which was such a successful cash-in on The Grunge Moment that it’s much better remembered than the film it was commissioned to promote.

Singles is so performatively laidback & low-key that it’s easy to underestimate its accomplishments as a Gen-X rom-dram. Consider it in comparison with 1994’s Reality Bites, for instance, which is so overly concerned with signaling its rebellion against Corporate Phonies and the sin of Selling Out that it becomes a kind of phony corporate sell-out product in its own right. Crowe’s handle on the era is much more humanist, recognizing that no matter how much Gen-X pretended to not give a shit about anything, they were still just lonely kids like every other generation before them. Where Reality Bites cast Ethan Hawke as a hunky poster-boy for disaffected slackerdom, Singles cast Matt Dillon as a goofball parody of the same burnout musician archetype, inviting the audience to lean in and search for the lovable lug below his jaded surface instead of shoving his charms in our faces. Crowe’s background as a music journalist doesn’t hurt Singles‘s credibility either, as it allowed him to include progenitors of “The Seattle Sound” like Pearl Jam & Soundgarden onscreen to vouch for the movie’s authenticity. Having his characters awkwardly flirt at an Alice in Chains concert gives the movie just as much cultural & temporal specificity as having Carrie Bradshaw order a Cosmopolitan at a swanky NYC nightclub. Their desires & behavior are universally relatable, though, even if you weren’t around for grunge’s first wave; anyone who’s ever suffered through an uneasy situationship in their 20s is likely to see themselves in it, no matter where or when.

-Brandon Ledet