After Ashley (Adria Arjona) asks for a divorce, good-natured Carey (Kyle Marvin) runs to his friends, Julie (Dakota Johnson) and Paul (Michael Angelo Covino), for support. He’s shocked to discover that the secret to their happiness is an open marriage, that is until Carey crosses the line and throws all of their relationships into chaos.
Cinema has always been a mirror of the cultural questions of its time. In the 1960s, it was free love. In the 1990s, it was divorce and blended families. Today, one of the topics being openly debated is non-monogamy; open relationships, polyamory, and what it means to define commitment in new ways. Michael Angelo Covino’s Splitsville, co-written with Kyle Marvin, takes this question and flips it into a comedy of errors. Rather than delivering a solemn lecture about jealousy, desire, and infidelity, the film chooses slapstick, screwball timing, and chaotic set-pieces to expose just how messy human connection can be when lofty ideals collide with raw emotions.
At its heart, Splitsville is about Carey (Kyle Marvin), a good-natured but slightly hapless man who is barely a year into his marriage to Ashley (Adria Arjona). The cracks in their relationship are revealed in the most absurd fashion: while Ashley attempts intimacy as Carey drives, the distraction causes a fatal accident. The tragedy is undercut by Ashley’s blunt honesty; she admits she is miserable, has been unfaithful, and wants out. It is both shocking and darkly comic, setting the tone for a film that thrives on abrupt shifts between devastation and humour. Carey, stunned and broken, bolts into the wilderness before ending up on the doorstep of his best mate Paul (Michael Angelo Covino) and Paul’s wife Julie (Dakota Johnson). Here he discovers another blow to his conventional worldview: Paul and Julie have embraced an open marriage.
From this moment, the film spirals into escalating mayhem. Carey is caught between heartbreak, male friendship, and the awkward education of being introduced to the “rules” of an alternative lifestyle he barely understands. The film cleverly weaves the so-called “bro code”, that unwritten rule that nothing could be more treacherous than sleeping with a mate’s partner, into a narrative where betrayal and loyalty blur. What might end friendships in real life becomes the starting point for Covino and Marvin’s exploration of absurdity.
What makes Splitsville memorable is not its message alone but the physicality of its comedy. Covino, who also directs, leans heavily on slapstick, drawing from a tradition that stretches back to Chaplin and Keaton, but with a modern, bruising twist. There is one fight scene in particular that deserves mention; a comic brawl between Carey and Paul that piles up injuries, pratfalls, and escalating absurdity. It stands as one of the most inventive comic fights in recent memory, a sequence where emotional wounds are expressed through literal punches, kicks, and grapples.
The film does not always maintain that level of manic brilliance. At times the pace slackens, and the humour leans into illogical circumstances. But even when realism is stretched thin, the buoyant tone and the cast’s sheer commitment carry the audience through. There is a looseness to the storytelling that feels intentional, as though the absurd exaggerations are part of the joke: love and jealousy rarely make sense, so why should the story?
Dakota Johnson brings a blend of grounded warmth and subtle provocation to Julie. She plays the role with restraint, showing both conviction in her choice of open marriage and a playful allure that explains why she has such a magnetic pull on those around her. Unfortunately, the script does not fully flesh her out. For a film where women’s decisions drive the plot, such as Ashley asking for divorce, or Julie demonstrating an open relationship, it is surprising how much narrative space is ultimately given to the two men. Johnson shines in the time she has, but her character is underutilised.
Adria Arjona is given more material as Ashley, and she attacks the role with fiery intensity. Still, the writing risks typecasting her into a familiar mould; the passionate but volatile partner reminiscent of a younger Salma Hayek. It is entertaining, but it leaves little room for nuance.
By contrast, Carey and Paul are deeply explored. Carey’s desperation to cling to love, even as it slips away, is played with both sincerity and comic cluelessness. Paul, on the other hand, is an embodiment of bravado, a man whose confidence in his open arrangement masks the same insecurities Carey struggles with. The imbalance in character depth highlights one of the film’s weaknesses: Splitsville is most invested in examining male friendship, competitiveness, and vulnerability, while the women are treated more as catalysts than co-equals in the emotional journey.
The film’s structure divides into five chapters, each with its own comedic style and focus. This episodic rhythm makes the chaos feel ordered, almost like case studies in modern relationships. One chapter shows Carey stumbling into the concept of open marriage through Paul and Julie’s example. Another chapter expands into one of the film’s most inspired sequences: an extended shot where Carey encounters each of Ashley’s new lovers. In a bizarre twist, Carey not only accepts them but befriends them, inviting them to live in his home, helping them with jobs, and effectively creating a commune with his estranged wife and her partners.
This absurd generosity speaks to the film’s satirical edge. Splitsville does not mock open relationships outright, nor does it champion monogamy. Instead, it presents both the promises and pitfalls, leaving viewers to see how noble ideals unravel under the weight of jealousy, ego, and neediness. The comedy lies in the characters’ conviction that they are evolved enough to manage jealousy, when every scene proves the opposite.
In this way, the film becomes both parody and critique. It pokes fun at the cultural moment where “ethical non-monogamy” is increasingly discussed in dating apps and think-pieces, yet it also acknowledges the genuine appeal of seeking freedom and honesty in relationships. The contradiction is never resolved, which may frustrate some, but it reflects reality: there is no universal answer, only messy human trial and error.
Beyond the high-concept theme, Splitsville works as a straightforward comedy of entanglements. Partners swap, friendships are strained, jealousy erupts, and misunderstandings spiral. The humour shifts between dry, deadpan exchanges and full-throttle mania. Timing is key, and the cast deliver with precision. The physical comedy, in particular, is staged with care. Scenes of violent, chaotic tussles sit alongside moments of quiet awkwardness, such as Carey’s attempts to win Ashley back by adopting her own lifestyle choices.
Interestingly, for a film centred on sexual openness, it is not especially sensual. Moments that might veer into eroticism are either cut away from or deliberately undercut with jokes. The laughter comes not from titillation but from the awkward human fumbling around intimacy.
By its conclusion, Splitsville does feel safer than its setup might suggest. The plot drifts into predictability, with certain resolutions unfolding as expected. Yet the journey there is consistently entertaining. The combination of heart, charm, and inventive staging makes up for the narrative familiarity. It is a film filled with “controlled chaos,” where even the most outrageous scenarios feel emotionally truthful in context.
At its best, the film uses humour to highlight the vulnerabilities men try to hide: the competitiveness between friends, the fear of being alone, the posturing of confidence that barely masks insecurity. Carey and Paul may be ridiculous, but they are recognisable. Their comic failures mirror real human weaknesses.
Splitsville is both a farce and a reflection of our times. By placing open relationships under the microscope of slapstick, it avoids preaching and instead invites laughter at the gap between ideals and reality. It is not flawless, as the women’s roles deserved more depth, and the pacing occasionally falters, but it is filled with wild physical comedy, clever satire, and an undercurrent of emotional truth.
In a cultural moment where relationship structures are being questioned and redefined, Splitsville offers a comedy that is not afraid to wrestle, literally and figuratively, with jealousy, desire, and friendship. It may be chaotic, uneven, and even predictable, but it is also warm, funny, and surprisingly heartfelt.
Splitsville will be released in NZ cinemas from September 11, 2025.
Find your nearest screening here