A bestseller hits the screen

 

  I guess I'm behind the times. Or maybe it's because I don't hang out in bars anymore.  I probably don't read the right magazines, either. Whatever the reasons, I'm new to the idea that some men -- as in grown men -- wear onesies, one-piece garments once associated with toddlers. 

  I learned about this fashion statement while watching It Ends With Us, a big-screen adaptation of a best-selling novel by Colleen Hoover. In a scene that caught my eye, two men are wearing onesies in a bar. 

   If there's an implied meaning in this -- something about men stuck in childhood -- it eluded me. No matter. I'm not a member of the target audience for the movie, which stars Blake Lively as Lily Bloom, a Boston florist who falls for a neurosurgeon named Ryle Kincaid (Justin Baldoni).  

    No offense to younger generations but if I ever need neurosurgery, I'm going to insist that it's administered by a physician who doesn't wear onesies.

  Directed by Baldoni, It Ends with Us dresses itself in the trappings of romance. Lily's stylish wardrobe sure as hell didn't come from a bargain basement. The characters dine in upscale restaurants, and no one's wallet seems pinched.

   After traveling to Maine for her father's funeral, Lily heads to Boston, where she tries to stake out a new life. Having quit an apparently good job, she's ready to fulfill her flower shop dreams.

   Lily soon meets Allysa (Jenny Slate), the character who assumes the story's best-friend duties. Lily hires Allysa, who evidently doesn't need a job to pay the rent but wants to help Lily upgrade the abandoned shop she'll soon turn into a trendy Boston retail spot.

    At this point, the story begins to trip over its contrivances. As it turns out, Allysa is also the sister of neurosurgeon Ryle and the wife of Marshall (Hasan Minhaj), a character I mention because he's also seen wearing onesies.

     We learn two things early on: Lily's father physically abused her mother (Amy Morton), and Ryle has a temper.  

     When Lily and Ryle first meet on the rooftop patio of a Boston apartment, Ryle smashes a chair in a fit of rage. He doesn't realize Lily is watching. 

     Lily's sitting on a wall, looking as if she might topple off the building's edge. She's probably contemplating her father's funeral. She was supposed to deliver the eulogy but couldn't find five good things to say about the man.

     To add more complication, Christy Hall's screenplay contrasts Lily's life in the present with her high school days. As a teenager, she developed a relationship with homeless kid Atlas (Alex Neustaedter). He's her first love, and, damn, if he doesn't turn up later as the owner of a trendy Boston eatery. 

      Does a love triangle loom?

      Brandon Skelnar plays the grown Atlas. For the record, Isabela Ferrer portrays the younger Lily

      Bear with me while I try to climb out from under the woods of the entanglements woven into the plot.

       Unless you're familiar with Hoover's 2016 novel, you might think I'm writing about a routine romance, one full of eye candy and gloss. But Hoover's book and its big-screen version give romantic fantasy a serious edge by shifting the story's tone to focus on domestic violence -- albeit without entirely abandoning the movie's earlier vibe.

      The mixture gives Lively, who holds the movie's center, a role that relies both on surface and depth. Lily slowly accepts the idea of entering a relationship with Ryle, a guy who has given off warning signals that his interest in women seldom gets beyond sex. 

     Baldoni's performance relies on his character's carefully cultivated charm, encouraging belief that he wants to shed his roving ways and find a lasting relationship. 

      I'll stop here because the rest involves the ways in which the story resolves.

      It Ends with Us may not have an audience beyond fans of the novel, although there may be enough of them to make for success. The book, after all, was on the New York Times bestseller list for 164 weeks and probably will get another boost from the movie's release.

      On the plus side of the melodramatic ledger, Baldoni deserves credit for showing how signs of impending violence often are ignored. Scenes involving physical abuse have undeniable impact, and, as the title suggests, the ending tries for hopeful assertion.

     At the same time, the movie's seductive slickness allows its seriousness to slide away too easily. So, I'll vacillate, as I think the movie does: It Ends with Us could have been better, but it also could have been a whole lot worse. 

An intriguing cab ride in New York

   If you've ever hopped into a New York City taxi, you might have encountered a particular type of driver, the guy who seems to know everything and wastes no time telling you so.

   Director Christy Hall capitalizes on a cabbie cliche in Daddio, a two-hander starring Sean Penn and Dakota Johnson. That's not to say, though, that the movie is dominated by cliches.

    As the movie's cab ride progresses from JFK to midtown Manhattan, Clark reveals his vulnerability, along with an ability to empathize with a passenger who seems to be facing a pivotal decision in her life.

   It's not always easy to believe that Johnson's

character, listed in the credits as Girlie, would reveal as much as she does, but the movie is based on the idea that it can be easier to be honest with strangers than with those who know us well. There's less at stake.

    For a two-character drama that's limited to the claustrophobic confines of a taxi, Daddio travels further than you'd expect.

     Daddio also reminds us of how good an actor Penn can be. He packs a lot into the character of Clark, revealing touches of misogyny, street savvy, humor, and even tenderness. By the end, it's clear that Clark knows he's not as smart as he pretends to be, even though he reads people pretty well after 20 years of dealing with strangers.

      And then there's Penn's face. As he ages, Penn convincingly suggests that Clark has spent too many long days behind the wheel. Life has required that he not only to collect fares but that he pay some himself.

    Returning from a trip to visit her half-sister in Oklahoma, Johnson's character initially exchanges banter with Clark, who correctly guesses that she's mired in an affair with a married man. He's only in it for sex, Clark insists.

     A third conversation, unheard by Clark, emerges in the background as Johnson's character exchanges texts with her horny lover. The texts demonstrate that Clark is right. The man can't wait to meet for sex. Short of that, he wants Johnson’s character to send him a risqué photo of herself to which he'll happily masturbate. 

     It takes time for Clark to let go of the reins that drive the conversation. At first, he talks about himself in ways that are intended to reveal the background from which he draws his conclusion. He’s been married three times; he’s had his share of sexual conquests. Take it from him: He understands what goes on between men and women.

     Eventually, walls topple and the two communicate honestly -- or at least as honestly as they can. Wisely Hall, who wrote the screenplay, doesn't overdo what such a short-lived bond can accomplish.

      Hall was lucky to find actors who could pull this off, and cinematographer Phedan Papamichael dispels the visual inertia that could have come from spending so much time inside a taxi.

     I don't want to oversell Daddio; at times, the story required the suspension of more disbelief than I was willing to surrender, but Johnson and Penn play a duet that makes it well worth tagging along for the ride.