A love letter to Rob Reiner: What his work taught me about humanity.

When my sister and I talk, we don't really talk – at least, not in the usual way.

Instead, we communicate in in movie dialogue, lines lifted from movies of the 80s and 90s that feel etched directly into our bones.

If I call her and she answers with 'Hello, Dyan,' in a broad New York accent, I don't say 'Hi, how are you,' because I know my line is, 'Take a look at these swatches.'

If she signs off with, 'I'll see ya,' in a soft, boyish American drawl, my reply is always: 'Not if I see you first.' It's like a call-and-response game we just can't quit.

I'm sure it's massively annoying for other people. Imagine we're out shopping: we park the car and she lags behind. I yell, 'You didn't get out of the cockadoodie car!' She scrunches up her face and wails, 'Oh, I love you, Paul. Oh, I love you!'

Whole scenes from When Harry Met Sally regularly spill out of us; our most uncanny impressions come from The Princess Bride ('Inconceivable!').

And my favourite retort to any favour she asks is: 'Elise, if I give you any more collagen your lips are gonna look like they got stuck in a pool drain.'

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And what unites all these quotes? Rob Reiner – the legendary actor, director, producer, screenwriter, and political activist whose films shaped not just our conversations, but, for me, my thinking, my creativity, my politics, and my compassion for others.

And now he is gone.

Rob Reiner, 78, and his wife, Michele Singer Reiner, 68, were found dead at their Los Angeles home on December 14, 2025, in what authorities are investigating as an alleged homicide. 

Ever since I heard the news – a full day after the shooting at Brown University and just hours after gunmen opened fire at a Hanukkah celebration at Bondi – I've been dealing with my grief.

I'm processing my disbelief and despair by raking through my treasured memories of Reiner's work.

Possibly as a distraction from the unthinkable acts of terror, but also because the loss of someone who gave me so much joy, who shaped so much of my thinking around friendship and love and conflict and comedy, and who fought so hard to keep the world anchored to kindness and basic human rights, felt like harbinger of actual doom.

A sure sign that we had plummeted to brand new depths of hell. 

For me, Reiner's work is so tightly stitched into the tapestry of life that — despite having never met him — I feel like he was somehow part of my extended family.

His writing peppered my speech, his ideas moulded my world view.

The characters he created on screen — Goldie Hawn's plastic surgeon in First Wives Club, Billy Crystal's literary agent in Throw Momma From the Train — still feel like people I know personally.

So, in a weird way, his loss feels like a personal bereavement because he taught me how to see the world, and others.

Image: Getty.

Reiner's career began in front of the camera, most famously as Michael 'Meathead' Stivic on the groundbreaking sitcom All in the Family, a role that won him Emmy Awards but which I missed, probably because I was too young and too British.

But it was behind the camera where he found his truest voice – and where I discovered him age eight – a director with the range to leap between genres, from mockumentary to rom-com to horror, always with an uncanny ability to capture something fundamentally human.

Born March 6, 1947, in the Bronx, he was the son of comedy legend Carl Reiner and actress Estelle Lebost.

After acclaim as an actor, he moved into directing with This Is Spinal Tap (1984), a film that essentially helped invent the modern mockumentary.

He went on to direct classics across genres: Stand By Me (1986), a tender coming-of-age story; The Princess Bride (1987), a fantasy that became a cultural touchstone; When Harry Met Sally… (1989), a rom-com that redefined the genre; A Few Good Men (1992), a courtroom drama that became a defining 90s hit; Misery (1990); and a horror adaptation that turned the genre inside-out. 

He co-founded Castle Rock Entertainment, helping bring to life not only his own films but supporting creative projects across cinema and television, including the iconic Seinfeld.

Reiner married photographer Michele Singer during the making of When Harry Met Sally, and their partnership enriched both his personal life and his creative vision. 

In an industry that doesn't tend to like creatives who deviate from their lane, Reiner swung from adventure features to rom-coms to horror to courtroom drama to coming-of-age classics, and in every genre managed to create a definitive and enduring benchmark.

And what was his special magic? He was notoriously hands-on with his scripts (Aaron Sorkin credits Reiner with the tight structure of A Few Good Men); he defied pressure to make surefire hits and focused instead of making films that felt exciting and interesting to him.

Films which explored things he cared about, the result of which were movies that captured hearts and stood the test of time even if they weren't instant box office hits. 

He was also a grade-A collaborator, understanding innately the importance and value of his creative teammates, from writers and directors to cast and crew.

He put his heart and soul into his films, sometimes to an almost literal extent.

For example, the ending of When Harry Met Sally change from a sadder, more cynical close, to one of triumphant love.

This was a direct result of Reiner meeting his future wife of 36 years Michele Singer while filming. It made him rethink his previous conviction that post-divorce love and happiness couldn't and didn't exist.

The iconic deli scene was also inspired by a real life conversation between Reiner and Nora Ephron, and Reiner's mother is the actor who delivers the line "I'll have what she's having."

His portfolio is so diverse that some may struggle to find a cohesive thread — but for me it's easy.

The thing that unites all his work, above even things like love, hope or friendship, is humanity.

Reiner loved people, he believed that we were all intrinsically good. He was infatuated with difference, idiosyncrasy, contradiction, eccentricity and vulnerability.

From Walter Gibson in The Sure Thing to Sydney Ellen Wade in The American President, and even the cast of rock spoof This is Spinal Tap, there's a sincerity to all the performances he coaxed from his actors.

A sense that they were free to be who they really were because Reiner loved them, flaws and all. 

As a director, he gave actors the space to tell the truth and characters the chance to grow organically from a place of sincerity.

It was a quality that stood out in an industry that, at the time, prioritised agenda, cynicism and big bucks. Each film is suffused with the care he brought to them, and the value he placed in each individual human experience. 

He was the king of tonal complexity too, never afraid to mix nostalgia with suspense, realism with theatrics, or horror with humour.

As Rolling Stone put it in a recent article, "Reiner's best movies are all about the lightning captured in a bottle when performers, interactions, scripts and capital-M movie moments come together."

Which is exactly what I want to do as a storyteller, and have always wanted to do. From a little girl who thought she might want to be a journalist, to an actor who sought to spread magic from the stage, to an author who strives to ground my stories in genuine emotion above all else.

Through the stunning clarity of his work, Reiner taught me that stories can and should platform relationships, memories and and lived experience over spectacle, even where spectacle exists.

We don't love The Princess Bride for its swordfights or Shrieking Eels, we love it for the bedtime story vibe, for the enduring love between Buttercup and Westley, and Inigo Montaya's deeply-felt quest to avenge his father's death.

We don't love Stand By Me for the dead body or the leeches, but for the tender depiction of childhood friendship, those first few turns into maturity and the lasting impact of our formative years.

The New Year's Eve party climax of When Harry Met Sally wouldn't work without the preceding layers of loneliness, companionship, disappointment and self-delusion.

"If you have tapped into something that is real for you," he once said,

And so, among all the quips and quotes and impressions and iconic moments ("You can't handle the truth!") that's my creative mantra.

Tap into what's real. Listen to people. Trust them. Speak your truth. And stay true to your core values.

Because ultimately all the best creative work stems from the self, and ripples outwards to the hearts of others. Which Reiner did — time after time, over many decades. 

And let's not forget, he also fought hard to support same-sex marriage and various health campaigns, as well as keep democracy's head above water, because he believed that no one person's life intrinsically matters more than anyone else's — a conviction grounded in the desire to make life better for the vulnerable and marginalized.

You can understand, then, why the news of his brutal murder was so deeply affecting — similar to a glimpse of the four horsemen.

Right, I thought, that's it then. If he is gone then clearly evil has won and good has lost and we're all doomed. 

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But even while scenes of unimaginable horror flood our homes, minds and hearts, even as I'm tempted to throw my hands to the sky and give up all hope, I choose instead to hold tight to Reiner's legacy and the things he has taught me about humanity.

I choose sincerity and generosity over aggression and violence.

I choose connection and compassion over hatred and fear.

I choose Harry and Sally, Chris Chambers, Gordie Teddy, Lt Daniel Kaffee, Buttercup and Inigo. 

Because, like Reiner, I love people. I love us. And, yes, I'm scared and confused and angry in the wake of recent atrocities.

But instead of crumpling in a heap I'm going to get back to work, watch Spinal Tap for billionth time, and write another story. After all, in the words of the Westley the farm boy, "Death cannot stop true love. It can only delay it for a while."

And love, in all its nuance, is worth holding onto. 

Feature image: Getty.