Splitsville is the latest comedy from the filmmaking duo Michael Angelo Covino and Kyle Marvin, both of whom star and co-write, with Covino also directing. They’re back at Cannes after their well-received 2019 debut The Climb, this time with a project that tries to modernize the romantic comedy by diving into contemporary relationship dynamics. The film boldly champions open relationships as exciting and liberating—while also attempting to show the emotional fallout that can come with them.
The plot centers around four characters. Carey (Kyle Marvin) is a Jason Segel-type—easygoing, risk-averse, and maybe a little too comfortable in life. His wife Ashley (Adria Arjona), a life coach, becomes fed up with their stagnant relationship barely a year into their marriage and asks for a divorce. Carey turns to his close friends Julie (Dakota Johnson) and Paul (Michael Angelo Covino), who casually reveal that the key to their own happy marriage is maintaining an open relationship. Carey, desperate and a bit naive, proposes the same to Ashley—a decision that opens the door to more problems than answers.
Having the same people write, direct, and star in the film makes a few things clear. On the plus side, Covino and Marvin know their comedic voice. The film’s best scene—a domestic fight that spirals into fish-rescuing chaos after an aquarium shatters—feels like their brand of humor firing on all cylinders. But there are two noticeable downsides: first, their closeness to the material leads to an overstuffed script full of side plots and lingering gags that kill the rhythm. Characters disappear for long stretches, and the narrative momentum sputters. Second, there’s a palpable overconfidence in their acting. While Covino and Marvin are likable, their performances never match the emotional depth or charisma of Arjona and Johnson, who consistently outshine them. The script even acknowledges the imbalance—but simply saying, “Why are these women with us?” doesn’t make the lack of chemistry any more believable. Also, it’s hard to ignore how often the film circles back to Kyle Marvin’s nudity. He clearly wants you to know he’s packing, and the film obliges.
As the film goes on, we’re introduced to a rotating set of minor characters and one-off scenarios. Nicholas Braun steals his cameo as a mentalist, but most others feel like filler. Characters often make baffling decisions or take sudden emotional turns. One moment, Ashley can’t stand being around Carey—frustrated by how his overly comfortable lifestyle has drained their relationship—then suddenly, she’s fine with him moving back in and crashing on the couch. The film tries to mask these inconsistencies by having characters say one thing while doing another, but what we see on screen rarely aligns with what they claim to feel. That same dissonance extends to the film’s own indecisiveness about what it’s trying to say.
At its best, Splitsville is occasionally funny, especially in its chaotic set pieces and offbeat dialogue. But more often, it’s uneven—tonally, narratively, and structurally. It plays like three seasons of Friends condensed into a raunchier feature-length movie: the women are far more compelling than the men, there’s no breathing room, characters make illogical choices, and genuine emotional beats are often traded for punchlines or sitcom-style reversals.
If you’re fine with a few solid laughs and don’t mind when a comedy doesn’t fully come together, Splitsville might still hit the spot. Just don’t expect it to offer anything new—or even consistent—about love, relationships, or commitment.