The Threesome Review: Multiple Positions, No Protection

Ahead of a SXSW screening of The Threesome, director Chad Hartigan warned the audience to finish their food before the titular scene kicked in. It was part crowd-warming quip, part practical PSA for a theater serving sliders and fries. But it also hinted at what The Threesome really is: a film more thoughtful than its naughty title suggests, using a seemingly outrageous premise to explore adulthood’s quieter, tougher truths.

Lately, romantic comedies have rediscovered their sparkle, but they still tend to lean into fantasy. Hartigan’s The Threesome wants something different. It wants to make you laugh, then make you wince at how close the pain hits.

Connor (Jonah Hauer-King, The Little Mermaid), a perpetually friend-zoned nice guy, finally gets his shot when longtime crush Olivia (Zoey Deutch, Not Okay) orchestrates a spontaneous threesome with Jenny (Ruby Cruz), a younger woman they’ve just met. What begins as Connor’s fantasy quickly morphs into a logistical nightmare when both women discover they’re pregnant from the same night.

If this sounds like setup for cringe-comedy about awkward pregnancies, Hartigan and screenwriter Ethan Ogilby have developed something more sophisticated. This isn’t a raunch-fest with a soft center—it’s the opposite: a smart, emotionally literate dramedy. It uses comedy not to distract from discomfort, but to walk directly into it. Ogilby’s debut feature script sidesteps clichés in favor of specificity and emotional realism, delivering characters who feel like people you actually know.

That scene—yes, the titular one—happens early, and not with the giddy buildup you might expect. It’s more of a spark than a climax, the match that lights a much slower burn. That’s the film’s first clever trick. Rather than dwell on the kink, it uses it as a launchpad for questions about consequence, responsibility, and the messy gray zones of modern love. The jokes land, but they never come at the expense of character. The laughter bubbles up from people trying to make sense of their worst decisions, not from mocking those decisions outright.

Deutch, long overdue for the kind of leading role that showcases her full range, delivers some of her best work yet. She’s wry, vulnerable, and rarely interested in being likable—which makes her all the more real. Her Olivia could easily become the stock “cool girl” too afraid to commit, but Deutch layers in self-awareness that transforms familiar beats into genuine revelation.

Hauer-King, whose previous roles sometimes left him too polished to root for, dials into a beleaguered energy that feels right for Connor. He was a bland cardboard cutout in July’s I Know What You Did Last Summer reboot so it’s nice to see him bounce back. He’s confused and passive, but the script doesn’t let him off the hook.

Cruz makes Jenny a quiet standout: younger, scared, and much less free-spirited than her entrance suggests. She might not be the center of this triangle, but she gives the film its gut punch because she’s the one with the most to lose. The moment we realize she’s the only one asking real questions—about parenthood, support, and stability—The Threesome gains its spine. Cruz easily steals the second half of the film with a character whose religious upbringing and emotional isolation add a layer of weight no one—not the characters, not even the audience—fully anticipates.

The supporting ensemble adds texture without grandstanding. Jaboukie Young-White (Companion) provides calibrated comic relief as Connor’s wedding-obsessed best friend, while Josh Segarra (Scream VI) and Arden Myrin (Bachelorette) ground the family dynamics in recognizable emotion.

Visually, cinematographer Sing Howe Yam crafts an aesthetic that feels true to life rather than Hollywood aspirational. This isn’t the Instagram-ready world of glossy rom-coms; it’s Arkansas suburbia where people have decent jobs but reasonable apartments. Conversations happen during walks rather than in art-directed cafes. Production designer Clarisa Garcia-Fresco creates spaces that feel authentically inhabited, supporting the film’s commitment to emotional realism.

There’s a sharp, awkward rhythm to Hartigan’s direction—moments stretch a beat too long, conversations veer from funny to painful without warning. His previous work on Morris from America and Little Fish showcased an ability to find humanity in high-concept premises, and The Threesome continues that tradition. When the film confronts thorny issues—reproductive choice in conservative states, the economics of unexpected parenthood, the ethics of blended families—it does so with intelligence rather than preaching.

The film’s cultural timing feels particularly resonant. At a moment when reproductive rights dominate headlines and traditional family structures continue evolving, The Threesome presents alternative solutions without political grandstanding. It suggests that families might be defined by choice and commitment rather than conventional arrangements, a quietly radical notion wrapped in accessible entertainment. What’s most striking about The Threesome is its refusal to pigeonhole its characters—or to idealize them. Olivia could be painted as reckless, Connor as a victim of circumstance, Jenny as a tragic outsider. Instead, all three are just trying to figure it out. Isn’t that more interesting? Isn’t that more honest?

Where the film occasionally stumbles is in its final act, when genre expectations threaten to overwhelm its more ambitious instincts. The resolution, while emotionally satisfying, feels slightly too tidy for the complex questions the story raises. Even then, you sense the filmmakers are aware of the compromise. It’s not a betrayal; it’s an acknowledgment that real life doesn’t always pay off the way a script demands.

The Threesome proves that romantic comedies can evolve beyond wish fulfillment into something more substantial. By treating its characters as adults capable of growth rather than archetypes destined to repeat familiar patterns, Hartigan has produced a comedy for the current generation with genuine emotional stakes. It doesn’t reinvent the genre, but it reclaims something vital: that love is often chaotic, inconvenient, and deeply human. Maybe Hartigan was right—this is a film better watched without distractions, not because of the sex scene, but because you won’t want to miss what comes after.