There’s a moment in “Splitsville” where, after pantsing – and subsequently injuring – one of his classmates, Russ (Simon Webster) is waiting on a bench outside of the principal’s office with his dad, Paul (Michael Angelo Covino). Ahead of the principal’s inevitable interrogation, Paul only has one piece of advice: deny, deny, deny. When Russ’ mother Julie (Dakota Johnson) shows up, her advice is a little more refined, but fairly similar: Don’t say anything, she tells Russ. Let the adults handle it.
But Carey (Kyle Marvin), Russ’ PE teacher and a close friend of his parents’ – although, that’s a little bit awkward now because Carey slept with Julie, and Paul is living with Carey and Carey’s estranged wife Ashely (Adria Arjona) because Julie kicked him out – has some other advice.
It’ll be okay, he assures Russ. Just tell the truth.
“Splitsville,” directed by Covino from a script he wrote with Marvin, is about the very concept of honesty – when to tell the truth and how – taken to the extreme. The advice that these three adults impart onto Russ in this moment is emblematic of their differing approaches to relationships and a microcosm of how those approaches have led them astray thus far (Russ, caught in the middle, ends up expelled).
Covino and Marvin’s sensibilities feel like a cross between Judd Apatow and Elaine May – think a joke-a-minute extravaganza about a group of people who all feel a little bit like Charles Grodin’s Lenny in “The Heartbreak Kid” (Okay, maybe they’re not that terrible). It’s over the top, but the comic anxiety in “Splitsville” stems from the very real insecurities that plague any 30-or-40-something attempting to navigate romantic relationships. What sets “Splitsville” apart from other movies about those insecurities is that it’s not so much about the act of finding your person, but rather what happens when you do. It’s not the fear of being alone that drives these characters to absolute lunacy, but the fear of being honest – with each other and with themselves.
Brutal honesty sets our story in motion. When Ashley’s attempt to give Carey a handjob on the way to Paul and Julie’s vacation home ends in a fatal car accident, the truth comes spilling out – she has been unfaithful, and she wants a divorce. After quite an amusing credits sequence, Carey seeks solace in Paul and Julie, who offer him another nugget of truth. They have an open marriage, and it’s the key to their healthy relationship. That is, until Carey’s often too open and honest tendencies blow it all up.
“Splitsville” is a movie about people breaking up, moving on, and then eventually ending up right back where they started. In that sense, it’s not about the characters learning new lessons, but rather coming to conclusions about themselves that they already sort of knew. That lack of forward momentum could have been a little dull, but the thing about the “Splitsville” is that everyone is a little nuts – so a dull moment, there is not. If everyone in this movie went to therapy, none of this would have happened. But then, we wouldn’t have “Splitsville,” and that would be a real travesty.
The comedy in “Splitsville” stems from the fact that, when it comes to how and when to be truthful, nobody ever makes the right decision. Unsurprisingly, Julie and Paul’s open relationship isn’t nearly as healthy as they’d like to pretend it is, and it’s also sort of non-existent. It’s unclear if, before Carey, either one of them ever took advantage of this ostensibly relationship-saving failsafe, both too afraid of losing the other to tell them they don’t really want it (deny, deny, deny). Carey’s problem, on the other hand, is that he’s a little bit too honest – he immediately tells Paul that he slept with Julie, and latches onto Julie like an emotional support koala.
Carey’s too nice, too uncool, too ready with a pun at any given moment – at least, that’s how Ashley sees it. But Ashley (a slightly underutilized Arjona – when she’s on the screen, she steals the show), for as much as she’s afraid of settling down and afraid of being boring, isn’t quite as cool as she’d like to pretend. The movie takes great pains to remind us, multiple times, that she and Carey met at a Fray concert. As someone who once loved The Fray, I can confidently say they are not cool.
As much as “Splitsville” is silly and clever, it’s also one of the best looking comedies to come around in quite some time. When Paul finds out about Carey and Julie’s sexual interlude, the two have an argument that devolves into a wrestling match. That fight takes place within one still shot, the fight choreography between the two actors taking center stage. When the scrapping turns into an all out throwdown, the camera follows Paul and Carey around the house as they crash into furniture, breaking bones and set pieces in real time. The brawl feels like exactly what it is – a release of energy as the camera finally starts to move, capturing that feeling of utter chaos.
“Splitsville” is proof that comedies can be both funny and visually interesting. Shot on 35mm by Adam Newport-Berra, there’s a beautiful sort of grain to “Splitsville,” evoking the 1970s far more than the 2020s. When Julie finds Carey and Paul post fight, both battered and worse for wear, the camera stays in closeup on all three actors as she lectures them. When we finally see the wide shot of where this serious conversation is taking place – a formerly beautiful, now mangled kitchen table – it’s a visual punchline, set up through nothing but solid camera work. “Splitsville” doesn’t just use the camera for coverage, but as a visual language for storytelling and, most importantly, jokes.