I Really Love My Husband Review: Desire in Paradise

Madison Lanesey’s Teresa steps off the seaplane into sun-dappled palms, clutching her new marriage like a talisman against an unseen unease. The film unfurls in Bocas del Toro, Panamá—an island paradise that doubles as a crucible for a relationship stretched thin. At first glance, Teresa and Drew (Travis Quentin Young) seem scripted for marital bliss: he offers gallant rescues and soothing smiles, she recites mantras of devotion with unwavering precision. Yet the camera lingers on Teresa’s restless pacing, hinting at a restless interior world that clashes with Drew’s steady warmth.

Director G.G. Hawkins frames their honeymoon as a psychological chess match. Every sunlit shot carries a shadow of doubt; every breezy conversation conceals veiled demands. When the enigmatic Paz (Arta Gee) arrives, the script shifts gears—what promised to be a love story takes on notes of seduction and power swap. Lanesey’s performance anchors this shift, her expressions flickering between faux contentment and raw longing. Young’s portrayal of Drew balances charm with a quiet vulnerability that invites empathy even when his kindness feels performative.

This sultry drama tinged with humor aligns with recent films that question commitment’s currency. Through tight pacing and shifting perspectives, Hawkins underlines a simple question: can outward devotion disguise deeper yearnings? This opening gambit sets the stage for a story that thrills in its uneven tension.

Story Mechanics and Structural Rhythm

From the opening frames, the film anchors us in a marriage already one year old yet only now reaching its honeymoon. That delay hints at unsaid tensions: Teresa’s frantic phone call during her reception signals a mind wrestling with commitment, while her repeated affirmations of love read like a script she’s desperate to memorize. Early on, Drew’s swift intervention in an inflight allergy scare casts him as protector—but the gesture also lays the groundwork for questions about authenticity. Is his heroism genuine kindness, or a performative act designed to maintain harmony?

Paz’s entrance as the couple’s rental host jolts the narrative. Their serene island guide carries an undercurrent of challenge—invoking both comfort and disruption. When Teresa proposes a threesome in the name of “adventure,” the plot pivots from marital introspection to boundary-testing experiment. Finally, the late-film monologue—where Teresa and Drew exchange razor-sharp barbs—serves as the story’s emotional fulcrum, exposing long-harbored resentments and reshaping our understanding of their bond.

Act I unfolds with sunlit optimism: the newlyweds arriving at a lush villa, buoyed by expectation. Act II introduces fissures: awkward silences, whispered doubts, and Paz’s magnetic neutrality that both soothes and provokes. By Act III, these tensions converge in that stripped-down argument, leaving the audience suspended—no tidy resolution, only the lingering question of what comes next.

Clocking in at just under 80 minutes, the film wields its brevity to maintain urgency, though it occasionally feels too lean for full character immersion. Repeated callbacks—Teresa’s mantras, the peanut-allergy incident—function as narrative hooks, amplifying undercurrents of anxiety. Dialogue-heavy exchanges alternate with quieter, observational beats; this contrast underscores the widening gap between external calm and internal turmoil.

Faces Behind the Facade

Lanesey anchors the film with a performance that flirts with volatility. She paces like a coiled spring, her voice shifting from rehearsed declarations of love to simmering doubt. Those repeated refrains—“I really love my husband”—become a mantra, revealing cracks in Teresa’s resolve. In one scene, she traces the edge of a pool, each measured step echoing her internal tug-of-war between societal expectations and untamed desire. Watching her wrestle with self-improvement compulsions feels authentic, even when the script risks leaning into melodrama.

Young embodies the kindly spouse with an almost uncomfortably earnest smile. His physical stillness in tense moments suggests patience—but we also sense restraint, as if he’s cataloging every slight. That tension between generosity and quiet frustration gives him depth. In scenes where Teresa tests his limits, his silence speaks louder than any retort. He becomes our guide through this emotional terrain: we root for him, suspecting that his kindness could buckle under relentless self-doubt.

In their first feature role, Gee brings an effortless blend of mystery and warmth. Their relaxed posture—leaning into doorframes, draped across sun-bleached chairs—underscores Paz’s “speed of nature” ethos. When they laugh, it feels like an invitation; when they listen, it feels deliberate. As a catalyst, Paz isn’t merely a plot device. Their vulnerability in quiet moments hints at untold backstory, while their charisma fuels the film’s most daring impulses.

Starrett’s Kiki arrives like a splash of neon in muted pastels. With reality-TV bravado, she punctures tension, quipping reminders of the trio’s absurd predicament. Her reactions—eyebrow arches, clipped asides—mirror our own incredulity. She may not shift the narrative’s direction, but she steers our emotional compass, ensuring the drama never drifts into aimless angst.

Crafting Atmosphere Through Vision and Space

Hawkins steers the film along a knife’s edge between idyllic romance and quiet unease. He stages the villa like a living organism—its open floor plan offering freedom while its shadowed corners whisper of hidden tensions. In daytime scenes, he lets horizons stretch wide, suggesting possibility; after dusk, he tightens framing around faces, turning familiar rooms into psychological traps.

Sun-drenched exteriors glow with tropical allure, yet the glare often feels harsh, almost interrogative. Interior shots plunge into cooler hues, the crisp digital capture revealing every tremor of doubt on Teresa’s face. This contrast underscores the couple’s emotional divide: light that should soothe instead exposes vulnerability. Occasionally, the image flattens, sacrificing depth for a pristine look—a minor misstep in an otherwise atmospheric design.

Instead of a sweeping score, Hawkins leans on ambient island sounds: cicadas, distant surf, wind rustling through palms. These natural cues build a simmering tension. Moments of silence arrive like shutters closing—Teresa’s held breath, Drew’s watchful pause—forcing the viewer to confront unspoken fears. It’s a lean approach that trusts space over melody.

The villa’s décor feels curated to tease and ensnare: breezy linens draped over dark-wood furniture, sun-bleached hammocks swaying beside heavy stone columns. That contrast mirrors the narrative’s push and pull. Costume choices reinforce the dynamic—Teresa’s vibrant sundresses catch the eye, hinting at her restless spirit, while Drew’s muted shirts echo his steady calm. Even in paradise, every detail seems charged with intent.

Underlying Currents of Yearning and Control

Teresa’s recurring mantra—“I really love my husband”—echoes like a mantra of self-reassurance. Each iteration peels back a layer, revealing how repetition can become armor against doubt. The honeymoon’s sunlit veneer serves as a mask: behind every postcard-worthy vista lies a mind racing with what-ifs. Paradise, in Hawkins’s hands, becomes a stage set for inner conflict rather than bliss.

When Teresa suggests inviting Paz into the marriage, the moment reads like a declaration of personal liberty. Yet it also hints at desperation—a frantic attempt to ignite a spark. Paz’s easy acceptance, grounded in a “speed of nature” ethos, contrasts sharply with Teresa’s rehearsed self-improvement rituals. Here, desire wears two faces: one driven by curiosity, the other by the fear that marital passion is slipping away.

Drew’s people-pleasing tendencies tip the balance of emotional labor. His kindness feels genuine, but it risks enabling Teresa’s restlessness. Kiki’s offhand quips pierce this dynamic, offering a viewer’s eye on the imbalance. Her outsider status exposes the strain of codependency, reminding us that healthy relationships require more give-and-take than this trio often delivers.

The script bristles with digital-age signifiers: a Craigslist origin story, wellness rituals bordering on obsession. These elements root the film in a generation defined by curated identities and endless self-help chatter. Dialogue cracks open modern anxieties about commitment, exploring how today’s couples wrestle with high expectations in a world that sells self-actualization as a click away.

Momentum and Mood Shifts

The film unfolds with measured slowness, allowing tension to simmer in every sunlit pause. In scenes where Teresa’s doubts surface, the camera lingers on shifting shadows, stretching moments just long enough to unsettle. Elsewhere, brief time jumps keep the story from stalling, propelling us toward each new emotional gambit.

Hawkins cross-cuts between Teresa’s whispered self-affirmations and her interactions with Drew, highlighting the gap between thought and speech. Lingering close-ups capture micro-expressions—Teresa’s tightening jaw, Drew’s silent sigh—drawing us into their private turmoil. These edits emphasize fractures in trust without resorting to expository dialogue.

Comic relief arrives in Kiki’s sharp one-liners, puncturing tension just when it threatens to grow oppressive. Then, without warning, the tone snaps back to dread: a sudden argument or a silent stare that feels loaded with unspoken threats. These abrupt shifts maintain engagement, though they can jar if you prefer a more even cadence.

At 79 minutes, the film’s brevity keeps focus tight on the central trio. Every scene matters. But this economy leaves supporting characters—especially Kiki—briefly flickering at the edges, their potential underexplored. It’s a streamlined approach that gains urgency but sacrifices a bit of depth.

Lingering Questions and Echoes

Even after the credits roll, the film’s tension settles in the mind like warm sand clinging to skin. Scenes of Teresa’s restless pacing replay in memory, each silent glance carrying a weight that resists easy dismissal. You find yourself wondering whether devotion can ever fully mask unspoken cravings—and if paradise, real or imagined, reveals more than it conceals.

Teresa emerges as a portrait of modern relational unrest. Her attempts at self-assurance—repeating affirmations, chasing new experiences—feel painfully familiar. In her uneasy balance between desire and doubt, she reflects a generation wrestling with commitment and curiosity in equal measure.

In a landscape where erotic drama often leans into spectacle, this film carves out space for subtle moral complexity. It refuses tidy judgments, inviting viewers into a story that challenges black-and-white notions of fidelity and freedom. That measured ambiguity gives the picture a distinct voice among recent explorations of intimacy on screen.

G.G. Hawkins shows promising command of tone and structure. His efficient use of setting and performance hints at a director who understands how small gestures can resonate far beyond their screen time. This debut suggests he’ll continue to probe the hidden corners of desire in provocative ways. Above all, the film remains an invitation: question the narratives you’ve accepted about love, and listen closely to the silences where truth often hides.

Full Credits

Director: GG Hawkins

Writers: GG Hawkins, Madison Lanesey, Scott Monahan

Producers: Elle Roth-Brunet

Executive Producers: Janek Ambros, Diane Brunet, Andrea Kent, Peter Kent

Cast: Madison Lanesey (Teresa), Travis Quentin Young (Drew), Arta Gee (Paz), Lisa Jacqueline Starrett (Kiki)

Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Ryan Thomas

Editor: Christina O’Sullivan

Composer: Hollie Buhagiar