Aspiring florist Lily Bloom (Blake Lively) falls in love with handsome brain surgeon Rael Kincaid (Justin Baldoni). But when Lily’s teenage love interest, Atlas Corrigan (Brandon Sklenar), reappears, Lily is forced to confront her past and confront new traumas.
This is a film that, for many people, arrives with the burden of expectations. The six-million-selling Ends with Us is among Colleen Hoover’s most popular novels: romantic, emotional, and shocking, a novel suitable for a beach read. And now it’s getting a film adaptation, one that has been long-awaited by its built-in audience. Others may view it with more skepticism.
This is, after all, the kind of material that could easily veer into Lifetime-esque movie schmaltz. It does not always avoid those echoes. There’s the high-gloss, sun-kissed direction from Justin Baldoni (who also stars); The soundtrack choices are very clear (expect an abundance of sad songs, including a sweet piano cover of Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love”); Some ambitious, expensive kitchens straight from a Nancy Meyers joint; And a soapy love triangle.
When the threat of violence for Lily really starts to mount, the film goes to really tense places.
But although “It Ends with Us” does not lack for clichés, it manages to exceed the usual expectations. Sure, there’s a meet-cute on the swamp surface between Blake Lively’s outlandishly dressed flower seller Lily Bloom and Baldoni’s hunky neurosurgeon Rail Kincaid (both characters with ridiculous names) — but the pair share some real, intense chemistry; They are both very charming and charismatic actors when they need to be.
The blossoming relationship between Lily and Ryle seems a bit superficial – what does she see in this man, other than a desperate love bombing and a pronounced angular jawline? — but the narrative soon digs a little deeper, offering flashbacks to Lily’s first love with Brandon Sklenar’s Atlas Corrigan — another absolutely ridiculous name — along with her history of witnessing domestic violence, and her fear of continuing the cycle of abuse in her own relationships.
When the threat of violence for Lily really starts to mount, the film goes to really tense places. Lively’s film is excellent in these moments, illustrating the calculations women have to make to protect themselves when faced with potential threats. It’s suspicious and painful material, but the film handles it sensitively and without sensationalism, and respects its characters, even those who cause harm.
There’s a particularly well-played scene toward the end with Lily’s best friend, Alyssa, played by Jenny Slate — mostly relegated to the role of comedic biz — that emphasizes female solidarity, support, and friendship above all else. It’s surprisingly sweet and touching. And so is this movie. Readers of the book should be happy.
This isn’t a perfect film, but it handles the important stuff—abuse, trauma, and recovery—unexpectedly well. If its reception is similar to the book’s reception, it will serve as a powerful vessel for people with similar stories of their own.
