SPLITSVILLE. In the period of relatively blissful ignorance before the plague years and the insurrection and all of that, there was a little movie called The Climb (2019), which was much buzzed about in certain movie nerd sectors. Sadly, it became one of many casualties of the closure of theaters and the rush to transition to streaming platforms. As such, I missed it and subsequently forgot to seek it out.
Cut to the present day, interior darkened theater, and a riotously funny story about a couple of misguided doofuses and their struggles to maintain romantic relationships is unspooling before us — well, me, since nobody else bought a ticket. At some point, it occurred to me that the doofuses in question could well be the creators and stars of The Climb; I wasn’t wrong.
Michael Angelo Covino and Kyle Marvin are indeed the parties responsible for both and could be the superheroes who save movie comedy.
Splitsville opens, idyllically enough, with a couple singing along to their car radio, en route to a weekend beach-house getaway. Things get romantic and then overtly sexual before taking a rather calamitous turn. This precipitates a life-changing announcement from Ashley (Adria Arjona) that Carey (Marvin) copes with by literally running away. As in, bolting from the still-running Grand Wagoneer into the coastal Northeastern countryside. Eventually, he arrives at the aforementioned house, the second home of his affluent douchebag best-friend Paul (Covino), his wife Julie (Dakota Johnson) and their young son Russ (Simon Webster). Seeking solace and counsel, Carey learns that Paul and Julie have opened their marriage, and that Julie suspects Paul of various and sundry sexual assignations. One thing leads to another (read: sexual intercourse) and we’re off on a wine-dark slapstick adventure of coital exploration and sad-bro lamentation punctuated by what may very well be the single funniest fight sequence I have ever seen.
There is a sort of satirical magic at work here, with Covino and Marvin’s writing balancing caustic snark, emotional intelligence and satirical absurdity with perfect comic timing and jokes within jokes. As actors, they commit to the bit with such tenacity, fully embodying each character’s ridiculous foibles and cruelties, that we come to love, loathe and laugh at them in equal measure. And then, on top of that formidable foundation, Covino directs with the verve and passion of a true cineaste, placing and moving the camera with the care and specificity borne of mastery of the form.
This praise might sound overly effusive, but I’m prepared to defend it. Having entered Splitsville with no preconceptions but guarded skepticism and appreciation for the work of its female leads, I was first surprised to learn that it debuted at the Cannes Film Festival. This may seem like obsequious pedigree worship, but that festival, despite its occasional misses and misreads, has established a vigorous set of standards founded in reverence for film-art and artists. To have an American sex comedy rubbing elbows with the guiding lights of world cinema, pretentious as it is, indicates a certain level of craft and care. Cannes is a shorthand, and an imperfect one, but it helps to highlight work that transcends (even disrupts, much as I hate the overuse of the word) the norm.
Having now gone back to The Climb, it is even more heartening to think of Splitsville as part of a body of work still very much in progress. The fact that “serious” filmmakers choose to pursue comedy with the same degree of personal and professional investment as those whose output is generally more lauded is and should be a source of hope in a world that, for one thing, needs comedy more than ever before (at least in my little lifetime) and, for another, should be celebrating anybody with the passion and wherewithal to see a major work of art through from conception to completion. And, perhaps even more to the point, these movies are funny as hell; I may have buried that lede. But they are, for all their absurdity, still grounded in the vagaries and inscrutable truths of the real world. The fact that our two protagonists would find themselves married to the women they are is alone beyond ridiculous but entirely plausible, and that joke is not lost on the characters or the people playing them. The humor and horror of the piece are so delicately and hilariously intertwined, and played with such deadpan perfection, that the over-the-top interactions and explosions throb with explosive vivacity. It’s down and dirty comedy carried off with elevated intent and art. It’s got Buñuel and Lloyd in its DNA, but it can also share space with the National Lampoon movies and the top-shelf Saturday Night Live spin-offs.
Referring to art as “high and low” can be diminishing, but the language is what we have to work with and in this case it fits. There is, after all, a serious analysis of love and sexuality in the same movie that has one best friend insistent on checking another for ticks in the shower. R. 104M. l
John J. Bennett (he/him) is a movie nerd who loves a good car chase.
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For showtimes, call Broadway Cinema (707) 443-3456, Minor Theatre (707) 822-3456.
This article appears in Double the Drama.