Blake Lively’s ‘It Ends With Us’ Is a Dangerous Domestic Violence Fairy Tale

Domestic violence is terrible and so too is It Ends with Us, a squishy drama that treats its serious subject with all the gravity and realism of a Hallmark Channel movie.

Director Justin Baldoni’s adaptation of Colleen Hoover’s 2016 best-selling novel (which became a phenomenon thanks to BookTok) strands Blake Lively in a story whose clichés and contrivances are as cheesy as its perspective is distorted and dangerous. Devoid of plausible characterizations, decision-making, and plotting, it’s a dud of epic proportions—literally, as its 130-minute runtime makes it feel like it’ll never end.

Lily Bloom (Lively) is a woman who loves flowers and dreams of owning a flower shop in Boston, and the fact that It Ends with Us has her talk about this ludicrous situation makes it no less silly. It is, however, emblematic of the subtlety of Baldoni’s film, which is filled with one groan-worthy and/or hoary element after another.

From lovers falling into bed and rolling around beneath sparkling white sheets, to one man stating, “Necessity is the mother of invention,” Christy Hall’s script is a hodgepodge of banalities, all of which are presented with a dewy-eyed earnestness that exacerbates their direness. Even for a romantic melodrama, there’s little spark to these proceedings, and that’s an escalating problem as it strains to drum up swoon-worthy energy.

Though asked to list five things that she loved about her father at his funeral, Lily can’t come up with a single item and ditches her eulogy, and home, for Boston, where she’s purchased a vacant space for her flower business. Every particular about this operation is glossed over by It Ends with Us, such that when Allysa (Jenny Slate) appears on her doorstep and promptly asks for a job—and instantly becomes Lily’s best friend—it resonates as merely an extension of the material’s fantasy.

Speaking of which, this fortuitous encounter with Allysa is preceded by Lily sitting on the rooftop ledge of an apartment building (to which she’s just broken in?), where she meets Ryle Kincaid (Baldoni), a handsome neurosurgeon who puts the aggressive Don Juan moves on her and more or less succeeds in getting her hot under the collar, even if she successfully fights her one-night-stand urges.

Wouldn’t you know, Ryle turns out to be Allysa’s brother, and thus is perpetually around the shop, which Lily and Allysa single-handedly turn into a floral wonderland. Despite agreeing to just be friends, Lily and Ryle are destined to hook up, and perpetual cad Ryle really wins her over when he agrees to date her.

Romance, ahem, blooms, all as It Ends with Us indulges in flashbacks to teenage Lily (Isabela Ferrer) and her budding relationship with Atlas Corrigan (Alex Neustaedter), a homeless classmate who’s living in the abandoned building across the street from her home, where she resides with her mom (Amy Morton) and abusive town-mayor dad (Kevin McKidd). Atlas is the poor, shy, sweet flip side to Ryle, and since it’s revealed early on that Lily lost her virginity to the kid (hence her clavicle heart tattoo), the film uses this interlude to set up Lily’s Twilight-esque romantic dilemma to come.

(Warning: Minor spoilers follow.)

That arrives when, out to dinner with Ryle and her mom, Lily runs into the now-grown Atlas (Brandon Sklenar), who owns a restaurant in Boston and who’s such a hunk that a woman behind me at the press screening couldn’t help but exclaim, “He is so cute, oh my gawd!”

Atlas’ appearance at this precise moment in Lily’s life is laughably convenient, especially because, regardless of the first hour’s overlong focus on Ryle’s dreamy courtship of Lily, It Ends with Us is really a wannabe-uplifting version of Sleeping with the Enemy or Enough, minus the thrills.

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At first, Ryle smacks Lily in the face while grabbing a hot frittata out of the oven. Later, he’s by her side when she falls down the stairs during an argument about Atlas. In both instances, the film presents these as harmless accidents because that’s how delusional Lily sees (or wants to see) them. Yet anyone paying attention to the clues hiding in plain sight will know that Ryle is a violent lout and that Atlas—whose own mom was abused!— is the very savior Lily needs.

As implied by its title (which Lily eventually states aloud), It Ends with Us is a tale about breaking the cycle of domestic violence. Unfortunately, it delivers that message through one dubious absurdity after another. Even setting aside both the amazing good fortune of Lily (who always has someone to turn to, and the strength to persevere), and the ridiculous twists of fate and stupid behavior that keep exacerbating her problems, the film ultimately engages in magical thinking.

Confronting, and severing ties with, violent men is an arduous and terrifying process that requires clear thinking, courage, and a plan to ensure one’s safety. However, in Lily’s case, it proves insanely easy, not simply because Lily is amazingly adept at dealing with her own dad-fostered PTSD and has valiant Atlas at the ready, but because Ryle is a make-believe type of monster who’s kinda-sorta sympathetic (because of his own past tragedy) and, in the end, respectfully agrees that he’s a bad dude who should take a hike.

By concluding in fairy tale fashion, It Ends with Us utterly undermines its heroine, whose struggle to overcome her plight—aided by an ideal support group—is barely a struggle at all. This isn’t heartening hopefulness; it’s misleading B.S. dressed up in typical romance-novel trappings, complete with plentiful sex scenes that are shot in breathless (if chaste) close-ups.

Lively does her best to imbue Lily with a flicker of real emotion, but she’s not capable of squeezing blood from a stone; the character is far too happy-go-lucky, confident, and sexy to resonate as deeply scarred. It’s all just a lot of phoniness masquerading as a somber lesson about resilience, healing, and standing up for oneself, and it’s all the more frustrating for capturing the initial amorous rush that sometimes blinds women to their beau’s malevolence. Content to comfort rather than rattle, it does a disservice to the very scourge about which it purports to care.

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