The opening stretch of Splitsville, directed with a steady, watchful gaze by Michael Angelo Covino, begins with a jolt on the highway and never fully releases its grip. Dakota Johnson, as Julie, enters the story through the shockwave of Carey and Ashley’s unraveling marriage, and the film uses that rupture as its guiding rhythm. The crash on the roadside becomes the hinge for everything that follows, a moment that sends each character into a search for a new version of themselves.
The film’s early scenes carry a charged tenderness as Ashley confesses her desire for divorce. Her admission sends Carey into the refuge of Paul and Julie’s beach house, where friendship becomes a fragile shelter. Covino leans into the tension between comfort and longing, giving Carey’s grief a raw, wandering energy. The film’s lyric strength emerges in these passages, where the characters drift through rooms filled with unspoken desire.
When Paul and Julie reveal their open relationship, the film shifts into a study of boundaries stretched thin. Johnson brings a quiet radiance to Julie, a woman balancing loyalty, fatigue, and a growing pull toward Carey. Their night together unfolds with a soft ache, a moment that feels suspended in its own fragile air. The film treats their intimacy as a turning point, a place where friendship and longing merge into something neither of them fully understands.
Carey’s jealousy at the carnival deepens the film’s exploration of emotional drift. His reaction to Brent’s flirtation with Julie reveals a hunger he can no longer disguise. Julie’s response carries a gentle firmness, urging him toward clarity. These scenes give the film its richest emotional texture, where desire becomes a mirror for everything the characters fear and crave.
Ashley’s agreement to an open relationship adds another layer to the film’s exploration of love stretched across too many fault lines. Her lovers drift through the apartment with breezy confidence, while Carey befriends them with a strange, cheerful ease. The film turns these moments into a portrait of a marriage searching for a new shape, even as its foundation continues to shift.
Paul’s return brings a storm of resentment and confusion. His fury at Carey, his unraveling business, and his own insecurities create a volatile mix. Julie’s confession that she never pursued anyone else during their open marriage lands with a heavy tenderness. Johnson delivers the line with a steady calm that deepens the film’s emotional stakes.
The film’s final act gathers all four adults into a swirl of longing, regret, and unexpected tenderness. The birthday party becomes a stage for every unresolved desire. Ashley’s attempt to reclaim Carey, Paul’s attempt to provoke Julie, and Carey’s confession of jealousy all collide in a burst of emotional heat. The fire sparked by Russ’s birthday candles becomes a small, glowing metaphor for the chaos they carry.
The reconciliation between Paul and Julie carries a bittersweet warmth. Their renewed intimacy feels earned, shaped by years of shared history. Carey’s stunned reaction to finding them together becomes one of the film’s most piercing moments, a reminder that love rarely follows a clean path.
The epilogue brings a gentle sense of renewal. Carey and Ashley, now parents, move through their shared life with a calmer rhythm. Paul and Julie remain tethered through desire and memory, their separation softened by affection. The final confrontation with the Airbnb owner echoes the earlier jet ski fight, turning the film’s themes of loyalty and chaos into a closing gesture of unity.
Splitsville becomes both an unromantic comedy and a romantic one, a story where love bends, fractures, reforms, and continues. Covino guides the ensemble through a landscape of jealousy, longing, and fragile hope. Johnson anchors the film with a luminous steadiness, giving Julie a presence that lingers long after the final frame.
Grade: B. On Hulu.
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