You can say this: Michael Angelo Covino and Kyle Marvin know how to start a movie.
Their 2020 breakout film, “The Climb,” begins with two best friends on a bike ride just before Kyle (Marvin) is to be wed. Mid-climb, Mike (Covino) confesses he slept with the bride-to-be. In one long take, an argument on two wheels ensues, with huffing and puffing in between.
Their new follow-up to that film, “Splitsville,” likewise kicks off with heartbreak on the open road. This time, Carey (Marvin), a gym teacher, is driving along a highway with his life coach wife, Ashley (Adria Arjona). They seem happy enough, though there are hints of trouble. When Ashley says she wants to have new experiences, Carey suggests pottery. Ashley corrects him: “I meant sexual.”
When an erratic driver careens off the road, they run to check on the passengers. Finding the woman thrown clear of the car, Ashley — faced with her own mortality — decides then and there to get a divorce.
In both “The Climb” and “Splitsville,” these are just the first sharp turns in relationship roller coasters that unfold in clattering one-take set pieces mixed with nakedly frank heart-to-hearts. Their movies — Covino directs; they write together — are a little like Wile E. Coyote versions of a rom-com. And part of their considerable appeal is in how much Marvin and Covino are willing to put themselves through the ringer.
Like “The Climb,” “Splitsville” is a relationship farce that keeps amplifying and recycling. From the scene of the accident, as the credits unspool, Carey trudges seemingly aimless across the countryside. (Splitsville is Nowheresville.) Eventually, though, he arrives at the handsome lakeside home of his childhood best friend, Paul (Covino), who lives there with his wife Julie (Dakota Johnson) and young son Russ (Simon Webster).
Paul and Carey have a close enough relationship that Paul comes right into the shower to check for ticks on Carey. Later that night, he and Julie casually acknowledge that they have an open marriage. Julie, for instance, could sleep with anyone. Even Carey, they note.
Much of the fun of “Splitsville” is seeing how things topple from here, but it’s obvious enough that Julie and Paul’s agreement will get tested, very quickly. From there, the four central characters of the film — Carey, Paul, Julie and Ashley — will take various turns in less of a romantic triangle than an adult game of musical chairs.
Though there are elaborately choreographed long takes that smack of contemporary moviemaking, “Splitsville” belongs more to a screwball tradition stretching back to the 1930s. This is — even here in the low ebb of late summer — an uncommonly adult farce of infidelity that Cary Grant and Irene Dunne might have chuckled at, even if they didn’t get the “Vanilla Sky” reference, the digs about New Balance sneakers or the delight of seeing Nicholas Braun turn up, late in the film, as a mentalist.
I’m convinced, though, that the performer here who would have been most at home in that bygone comedy heyday is Johnson. For the second time this year, following “Materalists,” she finds herself caught between the affections of two men. Here, just her watchful poise brings a welcome perspective on the mostly male mayhem around her.
The twists and turns of “Splitsville” can grow a little tiresome. Reversals pile on top of each other. But in a movie about infidelity where everyone is lying more to themselves than to their partners, those patterns effectively lead back to where everyone started.
“Splitsville,” a Neon release is rated R by the Motion Picture Association for language throughout, sexual content and graphic nudity. Running time: 100 minutes. Three stars out of four.
