Director: Michael Angelo Covino
Stars: Dakota Johnson, Kyle Marvin, Adria Arjona
I’m on record bemoaning the relative disappearance of the romcom from cinema spaces, but between Celine Song’s depressive mislead Materialists and Michael Angelo Covino’s new effort Splitsville, I’m starting to feel like I was wrong, and consigning the genre to it’s ’90s/’00s heyday is probably for the best. Out of sheer coincidence both these examples boast Dakota Johnson in a top-billed role (her web truly does connect them all…), but in fairness to the oft-maligned actor, she’s far from the problem in either case. If Materialists was an example of terminally misrepresentative marketing, Splitsville reveals itself as a throwback of a different sort, resurrecting the crude pratfalling exercises of the Farrelly brothers. So it’s good news if you’ve sorely missed scenes of grown men trapping their penises in their zippers.
Fresh from watching a woman die at the roadside due to their frisky horseplay behind the wheel, Ashley (Adria Arjona) calls time on her marriage of 14 months to husband Carey (Kyle Marvin). Distraught, Carey runs/staggers/swims to the home of his rich besties Paul (Covino) and Julie (Johnson) for consolation. He’s shocked to learn that the couple practice an open relationship, although when Carey crosses a boundary with Julie it leads to a monumental Looney Tunes fracas between him and Paul. Inspired by the (mis)adventure, Carey returns to Ashley to propose that they pursue their own polyamorous adventure, but soon finds himself inexorably drawn back to Julie.
Splitsville is co-written by its two male leads, and one can well imagine the two of them rehearsing the elaborate, slapstick fight that proves a showboating early highlight. Speaking of showboating, Covino is clearly eager to flex what one might formally expect from a romcom, peppering the film with elaborately choreographed in-camera montages, roaming ‘one-ers’ and generally seeking to frame the majority of the movie in picturesque, distancing mid-shots.
But, just as with the constant name-dropping of bands and movies, it projects the withering hipster mentality of a filmbro bore*. As if he’s trying to invent the ‘elevated romcom’, or perhaps more revealingly, the ‘romcom for boys’ (not to mention a blatant opportunity for Covino and Marvin to place themselves in romantic scenes with the likes of Johnson and Arjona). Marvin keeps flashing his junk, too, and the film is otherwise peppered with references to its size. Cinema needs more wang, generally, one might well argue. But this just feels like an exhibitionist sending multiple unsolicited dick-picks to their entire audience. Splitsville exudes a manspreading ick factor whenever it’s men boast about themselves. Covino’s Paul actually isn’t that bad looking and he’s been working out, you know. Granted, this facade is allowed to break down on screen in the film’s second half, but again it feels as though it’s primarily in service of the bumbling menfolk.
There are other weird tendencies that stick out. Two pope jokes in the space of five minutes. Two huge set pieces that centre on terrible mishaps with pet fish. These are eccentricities as opposed to highlights, when more broadly the movie unfurls on a perpetual flat line. But not a flatline. It isn’t that bad. Nicholas Braun’s offbeat children’s birthday party magician is a small, awkward showcase all of it’s own (so much so that you kind of wish that level of self-deprecation existed elsewhere in the mixture). Johnson and Arjona are undeniably good sports, both playing second fiddle to the creatives who have spearheaded this project. You end up wishing there was more dimensions to both of them. That the picture exhibited some genuine equality. The third act tries to build the patter and cadence of a classic screwball comedy (and Braun comes close to stealing it all over again), but Julie’s outspoken frustration that these situationships are “never going to end” only mirrors our own sentiments by this point.
Unfortunately for Covino, I don’t remember Vanilla Sky all that well, and The Fray sound objectively terrible. Regardless of the relatives failures at reconfiguring the genre exhibited by Song and now Covino, part of me still wants a true, classic romcom revival. If these examples are part of a new ‘post-romcom’ cycle, here’s hoping it’s over before it’s begun. Gimme the stuff that requires – nay demands – a full pint of ice cream.
*I may be a bore but I hope I’m no filmbro
The Lost Highway Hotel 