The absence of comedies is alarming, and it's not a result of conspiracies about “cancel culture” or "political correctness run rampant.” Rather, the dwindling of the theatrical model has resulted in films that necessitate some sort of "experiential" component to gain an audience; why go to an overpriced theater when there are dozens of hidden gems within any streaming service? The result has been a generation of comedies that try to say something meaningful, tap into unrealized potential, or buck expectations. Splitsville is the year’s best comedy because it’s avoided those trappings, and is a sly satire of how confusing the laws of attraction can be.
The writer-director team Michael Angelo Covino and Kyle Marvin previously worked together on The Climb, a whimsical comedy about the evolution of a male friendship. Splitsville is only slightly more complex, as its focus is on a pair of unhappy couples who reach a decisive point in their respective relationships. Covino’s character, Paul, is a successful architect who’s in an “open marriage” with his younger wife, Julie (Dakota Johnson). On the flipside, Marvin’s character Carey is shocked that his new bride Ashley (Adria Arjona) has admitted to being unfaithful, and has suggested that they proceed with a divorce.
Both couples have made short-sighted decisions about their feelings towards one another, as they’ve confused physical attraction for meaningful bonds. Paul’s convinced he’s unworthy of Julie, and that the installation of a free-spirited attitude towards sex would negate the possibility of an emotional affair. Likewise, Ashley doesn’t see the value in a continued relationship with Carey, as she doesn’t want him to feel ashamed and jealous. It’s Carey and Julie, both of whom have gotten the rough end of the bargain, that forge the unlikeliest relationship. Sex is secondary to them; Carey has fulfilled the role of a caregiver, best friend, and loving father that Paul has ignored. Paul’s plan didn’t account for the concept that Julie would fall in love with someone else, and Ashely didn’t consider she’d miss the warm presence that Carey provided.
Although the formal staging and observational whimsy of Splitsville is evocative of 1960s Italian comedies, it's also indebted to the frank American films of the “New Hollywood” era, in which plainspoken conversations about sex felt radical. If the plot’s reminiscent of the cross-couple intimacy of Bob & Carol & Ted and Alice, there are also hints of the emotional mundanity within Carnal Knowledge. Splitsville’s only gimmick is the unbridled honesty of its characters, each of whom can’t completely deceive any of the people they care for. The moments of jubilation are fleeting, as none of the characters see a potential status quo in their secretive hookups. While flirtatious looks at the dinner table may feel exciting, the prospect of a prolonged relationship would mean Julie, Carey, Ashley, and Paul would have to accept one another.
Romantic-comedies often have clear-cut villains or point towards an obvious conclusion to the relationship hijinks, but Splitsville is reflective of how intolerable each of these characters would be at their most insular. Paul’s professional success can’t mask that he’s needy, materialistic, and rarely willing to cast the same judgment on himself that he would on others; Julie’s similarly resistant towards confrontation, which has left them both to speculate endlessly when an honest conversation would work wonders. Similarly, Carey’s boundless energy can be exhausting, especially for someone like Ashley who doesn’t apply rigorous analysis towards momentary interactions. Ashley’s also too flippant; she’s so quick to act on her impulses that she’s taken for granted how other people feel. The cast has chemistry so natural that each conversation feels authentic, even if it’s peppered with the type of witty one-liners that could never be made off the cuff.
A film like Splitsville doesn’t require major set pieces or “trailer gags,” as there’s a consistent supply of laughs that has made each breakdown, argument, or stilted instance of silence rewarding in some fashion. However, Corvino and Marvin have proven themselves to be athletic filmmakers; an extended brawl between Paul and Carey is one of the best fight scenes of the year. When compared to the painstakingly choreographed brawls in Mission: Impossible-The Final Reckoning or From the World of John Wick: Ballerina, the fight in Splitsville doesn’t feel like it was executed by seasoned stuntmen who trained for a balletic exchange of fists and fury. Rather, Paul and Carey are so consumed by reactionary motivations that they become blissfully ignorant of the destruction and chaos that their feud has caused.
Splitsville could be easily translated to a stage performance, but the film doesn’t exist in a vacuum. Ashley’s series of part-time lovers is a platform for a fun collection of character actors to shine, with Charlie Gillespie’s role as the enthusiastic handyman Jackson being the scene-stealer. There’s also the matter of Paul and Julies’ son, Rus (Simon Webster), who’s caught between warring adults that give him counterintuitive advice. The film’s remarkably unsentimental about the notion of rearing a child, as its added responsibilities are yet another wrinkle in the messy web of desire and repulsion.
While at times silly, Splitsville isn’t too smug for its own good, and has empathy for the perspective of each of its leads. Splitsville is able to get away with a surprising amount of shenanigans without ever breaking the suspension of disbelief. In a summer that was frustratingly devoid of strong comedies, Splitsville is funny without any asterisks attached.