***This Op-Ed Contains Both Spoilers and a Frank Discussion of Domestic Abuse***
As a domestic abuse survivor, I often ponder the impact of on-screen portrayals of domestic abuse. Media helps shape and reflect how we see ourselves and the world around us; depictions of abuse can perpetuate or challenge myths and stereotypes. Watching It Ends with Us, the film adaptation of the best-selling novel, I couldn’t help but think about my own experiences.
I’ve had three abusive relationships over the years. I felt (and sometimes still feel) a tremendous amount of shame about my abuse for a long time, despite logically knowing that I didn’t do anything wrong. I suffer from PTSD and what I endured still haunts me to this day. I have talked and written about my abuse for many years now, as a way to process what happened to me and as a way to (hopefully) eventually heal. For years, I’ve undergone therapy, including trauma-focused therapy. I feel fairly comfortable opening up about my past and I do so as I know many people who aren’t comfortable talking about their own experiences. I share my own story in part so others know they’re not alone.
I’m drawn to narratives about abuse. Watching depictions of abuse catalyzes a multitude of reactions: feeling triggered, fury, exploitation, numbness, dissociation, validation, catharsis. Sometimes, I simultaneously feel a combination of seemingly contradictory emotions.
No guarantee exists that movies will depict abusive scenes with sensitivity and a trauma-informed lens. And even when done well, seeing scenes of abuse is still often extremely triggering. Although, it should be noted that each person’s experiences are unique. Watching Leigh Whannell’s fantastic horror film The Invisible Man, for instance, was a visceral nightmare for me. It conjured many violent memories and feelings of terror that I endured in abusive romantic relationships. After it ended, I ran to the theater bathroom and suffered a panic attack. Watching It Ends with Us, I felt anxiety and apprehension throughout because I knew it involved a narrative including abuse. While I enjoyed the first half of the film, I got that jaw-dropping pit in my stomach, a wave of panic, a few times throughout.
Based on the novel by Colleen Hoover, It Ends with Us is a melodrama romance starring Blake Lively as protagonist, Lily. Directed by Justin Baldoni, who also stars as Ryle, the film shifts back and forth in time. In the present, Lily fulfills her dream of opening a flower shop in Boston and embarks on an exciting romance with Ryle; in the past, we see Lily’s tender teenage romance with Atlas (Brandon Sklenar) and her controlling father abuse her mother.
When Lily meets Ryle, an attentive neurosurgeon, the beginning of their relationship feels romantic and sexy. They meet on a rooftop, the city lights romantically glittering behind them. I like how the film uses long takes with no musical score to let moments breathe, rather than relying on maudlin musical cues. It’s a choice that also reifies how only Lily and Ryle exist in this moment.
I kept watching thinking maybe this movie isn’t quite about what I think it’s about. I exhaled, letting my guard down a little. When the abuse does eventually occur, it could feel frustrating or like a betrayal in another film (one that doesn’t have a best-selling source material with a plot to google). But it also made emotional and thematic sense to me, since many abusers are initially extremely captivating and charming. However, there are clues right from the start that Ryle is toxic, a harbinger of his abuse. We witness his explosive temper, as he violently kicks a chair in his introduction to Lily and the audience.
For a while, Lily spurs Ryle’s advances, as he admits he’s not a relationship guy. But they keep running into each other, facilitated by Lily inadvertently becoming best friends with his sister (Jenny Slate). Their palpable chemistry is undeniable and they eventually become a happy couple.
At a restaurant, Lily and Atlas, who owns the restaurant, run into each other. They haven’t seen each other for many years and they’re both delighted to discover each has pursued their dream career.
Later into their relationship, when Ryle burns his hand taking a pan out of the oven, he hits Lily. She’s convinced it’s just an accident, merely a reaction to pain, but it’s a violent act that should not be ignored. When Lily and Ryle return to Atlas’s restaurant, he sees her concealed bruised eye. Atlas follows Lily into the bathroom and tells her to leave him.
After finding out about Lily and Atlas talking (something she should be able to divulge without being worried), a furious Ryle runs out of their apartment. When Lily follows, Ryle pushes her down the stairs. After losing consciousness, Lily awakens and Ryle tends to her wounds. Even though he’s a doctor, it’s gross he doesn’t take her to a hospital. He vilely lies and gaslights her into believing it was an accident. Abuse plays tricks with your memory. It’s not uncommon to question your own sanity: Did I really see and experience that?
Ryle’s jealousy over Atlas fits into romance tropes, which often normalize the toxic side of jealousy. His behaviors — telling Lily that she can’t talk to him — speak to his need for control, power, and dominance, which can fuel abuse. Even his initial relentless pursuit of Lily is unsettling as he should respect her boundaries. But the film subtly denounces these insidious toxic tropes. It also conveys how seductive and charming abusers and these tropes can be.
Lily eventually opens up to Ryle and shares her painful childhood of how her father abused her mother. Ryle is incredibly sensitive and supportive, a lovely reaction. Unfortunately, he can’t admit or see his own abusive behavior. But it speaks to the dialectical complexity in people, that contradictory things can simultaneously occur.
I’m not thrilled that the film (and book) includes a tragic backstory for Ryle: He accidentally killed his brother as a child with a handgun. While it’s a tragedy that occurs in real life, it feels like an explanation of his abuse. Sometimes there is no rationale or certainly not one that can be traced so clearly.
Two of the film’s most harrowing scenes continue to haunt me. As a teenager, Lily’s abusive father beats Atlas so badly that he almost dies and goes to the hospital. It’s visceral and brutal. The other triggering scene is the attempted rape scene. After Lily’s flower shop is featured in a Boston magazine’s best-of-list, Ryle sees Atlas’s restaurant is also featured. In an interview, Atlas alludes to his love for Lily, which enrages Ryle. Lily begs Ryle to stop, desperately pleading with him. She tries de-escalating the terrifying situation and to ground him, telling him to look at her. The scene cuts and we see Lily going to Atlas for consolation. He accompanies her to a hospital. Lily talks to a doctor who wants to do a rape kit, but she insists it isn’t necessary. During the examination, the camera focuses on a bite wound over her heart tattoo, which she got years earlier to commemorate Atlas. Vile and sickening, Ryle inflicted brutal pain, a controlling and territorial violation and desecration of her body.
We also learn that Lily is pregnant. After this, she leaves Ryle, which I’m glad the film included. Many narratives about intimate partner violence erroneously act as if once a woman leaves an abusive relationship, that’s it, it’s over. Leaving is the most dangerous time, when abusive partners often kill women. Films like The Invisible Man, Enough, and Sleeping with the Enemy show that abuse and stalking continue even after someone leaves. One of my abusive exes stalked me after I ended the relationship and moved out of our apartment.
We don’t know much about Lily besides the things that happen to her. We know things about her: Her dream of opening a flower shop, her abusive childhood, eclectic fashion (ahem, or rather Blake Lively’s bold style). We learn about her generosity as a teen through Atlas: She brings him food when he was homeless and she defends him from taunting by kissing him on the school bus. But I still don’t feel that I have much of a sense of Lily as a character as an adult. Perhaps that’s due to the limitations of the writing or Blake Lively’s limitations as an actor. Don’t get me wrong, I like her in Gossip Girl and A Simple Favor and she’s likable here. But a character who is a domestic abuse survivor needs an actor who can imbue their role with more interiority.
I appreciate how Lily has supportive women in her life: her best friend (although she’s also Ryle’s sister) and her mother. But we don’t see many other people in her life. Isolation is something many abusers do in order to more easily gaslight and control their partner. Unfortunately, Atlas feels somewhat like a male savior. Although, it is so helpful to leave an abusive partner when you have support.
Once an abuser is out of your life, you’re not automatically healed. Flashbacks, triggers, and nightmares can linger long afterwards. While everyone is different, it can be a long road to recovery. Not enough films depict or explore the ramifications of abuse.
The ending conflicted me. It feels a bit too tidy, as Lily effortlessly convinces Ryle that he’s abusive after the birth of their daughter. Confronting Ryle about his abuse could have gone horribly wrong, as he could have violently lashed out. Lily asks him what he would do if their daughter came to him and shared that her partner was hitting her. Ryle tearfully says he would tell her to leave. In that crystalline moment, he finally realizes why Lily wants a divorce, why she refuses to stay. But something missing here is that abusive people don’t always just abuse their spouse or romantic partner; they can go on to physically or emotionally abuse their children too, or at the very least have toxic and controlling behaviors, something visible with Lily’s father. While having children is life-altering, this scene also reminds me of how some men talk about realizing the value of women’s rights after they have a daughter. But what about all the other women in their lives?
But including Ryle’s charm with his compassion and empathy — alongside his toxicity, controlling behavior, and explosively violent temper — paints not only a complex character portrait, but a realistic example of an abuser. People are complicated and contradictory. This thorny combination contributes to why it’s so difficult to leave an abusive partner. Many reasons exist and asking someone why they stay is never the right question. Instead, the onus should be placed on abusers. Yet Lily gently asks her mother why she stayed with her father, who is now deceased. To the film’s credit, this scene feels organic and somewhat understandable, considering Lily just left her own abusive relationship, realizing the cycle of abuse and the parallels between herself and her mother.
But the ending also provides a moment of relief; when Lily says she wants a divorce, the audience at my screening clapped and cheered.
While numerous films confront misogyny, the objectification of women’s bodies, and violence against women, not enough films tackle the complex power dynamics of abuse in a nuanced way from the perspective of abuse victims and survivors.
Some criticize the novel “It Ends with Us” for romanticizing domestic violence. While I haven’t read the book, author Colleen Hoover based the novel on her parents. Looking at the press tour for the film, some writers and those on social media have observed the different perspectives in discussing the film between Blake Lively, who took a more lighthearted approach, and director/actor Justin Baldoni, who talked sensitively and passionately about the film’s intense portrayal of abuse and the responsibility of men. To me, the film tried to be sensitive and thoughtful in its approach.
Roger Ebert famously called movies the “empathy machine,” for their ability to foster empathy and understanding, enabling audiences to get a better sense of other people’s lives, experiences you may never have lived before. I hope people watching depictions of abuse will have a better understanding of abuse survivors, which might help facilitate vital conversations. I hope those watching who are in or have been in abusive relationships might feel some catharsis.
So why do I continually subject myself to watching depictions of abuse? I yearn for validation of the horrors I endured. These scenes make me feel seen, that I didn’t imagine, exaggerate, or hallucinate my abuse. They make me feel that I’m not alone. Simultaneously, it breaks my heart that myriad others have undergone the same pain. Perhaps in watching these films and viscerally feeling the protagonists’ trauma while reliving my own, I’m seeking recovery. I’m seeking my own salvation.
