What particularly appealed to me about this film is how grounded it is in deep, human emotion. It’s instructive that we never actually see their marriage or the background to what they criticise about each other – instead, we have to rely on their opinions to form our own judgement of who is right.

But nobody is right. Their opinions are invariably two sides of the same story. The truth is muddled, somewhere in-between. Human. Nicole takes as a cast-iron promise what Charlie views as a discussion. This disagreement – a microcosm of their issues – stems from their differing perspectives and personalities.

Our sympathies, quite deliberately, shift throughout the film. Initially, following Nicole puts us firmly on her side, particularly during Scarlett Johansson’s moving monologue to Laura Dern’s Nora. But as we are exposed more to Charlie, watching him blinkingly discover the legal weight that’s being brought to bear on him, our sympathies switch. As in real life, our proximity to somebody informs our sympathy for them. We judge ourselves on our intentions but others on their actions. Marriage Story is a dramatisation of that.

Which makes the inclusion of Charlie’s affair a shame, because it pulls against the animating concept of the film. An affair is concretely, objectively a betrayal, and valid grounds for a divorce. This isn’t an issue of differing opinion – it’s yes or no. So to not make us fully aware of the facts of the affair – Charlie protests that he’d been sleeping on the couch, but it’s unclear whether this is a precursor to their separation or a bad patch in their marriage – is qualitatively different to not making us fully aware of the facts of their marriage. That latter choice reinforces the message; the former muddles it.

This is not a major issue. The film largely remains sincere, emotional, and complex. But it is an unfortunate flaw.

Nora’s final victory over Charlie– a last-minute change to get 55/45 custody in favour of Nicole – demonstrates nicely one of the film’s main themes. It’s an ornamental victory, equating to one extra day every two weeks, and was pursued without Nicole’s permission in order to deny Charlie the ‘bragging rights’ of 50/50 custody. It wasn’t done to benefit Nicole or Henry but as one last, vindictive act pursued for the sake of itself.

We get a larger sense that the divorce industry exists to self-replicate. Nora and Jay’s sparring in court is more gladiatorial than productive, and their clients’ interests are forgotten as they seek to one-up each other. The joint intention of Nicole and Charlie to make this divorce flexible and amicable is lost to a system of legalism, deadlines, and ultimatums, egged on by their expensive lawyers. Only Alan Alda’s Bert views his clients as people – and that he has to say so makes it quite clear that his perspective is an atypical one. But as the war escalates, Bert’s hokey, old-school, personable style is ejected and replaced by Jay’s slick and corporate one. Small errors or oversights – Nicole having had too much to drink, Charlie assuming that the rental company had properly affixed Henry’s car seat – become weaponised and legalised, twisted beyond recognition.

But Charlie and Nicole’s final victory is the return to their original intention – a flexible co-parenting set-up, without lawyers. Nora’s point-scoring 55/45 split is ignored as the two remain loose over who gets Henry when, resolving to text each other to sort things out later. Divorce isn’t necessarily the end of the story, and if it is, it doesn’t have to be an unhappy one. That grey area – between marriage and divorce, between love and separation – can be difficult, and compromises must be made. But it is, ultimately, human.