Men are incorrigible Lothario scoundrels, motherhood is full of loneliness and self-doubt, and complicated father/daughter relationships are constantly tested in Sofia Coppola’s “On The Rocks,” her latest dramedy, an effervescent, charming, and soulful affair. It’s a mature, economical effort that harkens back to some of the wistful, warm, airy feelings of “Lost In Translation,” but revisits some of the surrogate father/daughter, mentor/protégé ideas of that film with more grown-up sensibilities and concerns.
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In “Lost In Translation,” Coppola was loosely adapting her own life, a listless, soon-to-be broken marriage prompts a young woman to take introspective stock of her life with an older man as a partner, friend, shoulder to lean on, and easy listener with even some romantic tension. “On The Rocks,” could even be considered a kind of spiritual sequel, only this time it’s a married woman with kids, still longing to be fully seen and heard, disaffected with life, and has an older partner, ear, and comrade in her bon vivant Playboy father.
In “On The Rocks,” Laura (Rashida Jones) believes she is happily married, but when her husband Dean (Marlon Wayans) starts logging long hours at his start-up social media company next to Fiona, an attractive co-worker (Jessica Henwick), the mother of two begins to think something shady is going on. Meanwhile, her larger-than-life sybarite father Felix (uber persuasive Bill Murray) rolls into New York after a jaunt in Paris and she begins to reluctantly tell him her suspicions.
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What transpires is essentially an effervescent comedic adventure around Manhattan as the rapscallion Felix half-heartedly convinces Laura to start following and spying on Dean, as his late-night hours and excuses continue to develop. These sparkling, funny, and endearing New-York-as-playground escapades with her father would probably enough for most audiences. Bill Murray’s charisma and magnetism are simply off the charts and anyone who’s ever heard his legendary stories of unpredictable, spontaneous partying with strangers and dreamt of being entertained by the comedic icon, will be more than thrilled.
It’s almost as if Coppola, in part, made a movie to tap into that specific allure of Bill Murry in the wild, and by god, the smooth appeal cracks the Richter scale of captivating star quality. He is unquestionably the MVP who steals the movie, you are putty in this man’s hands and surely this will be the quality most audiences (and critics) focus on.
It’s an exuberant film and part affectionate love letter to New York and old Manhattan bars and haunts. Fortunately, though, “On The Rocks” has much more on its mind to contemplate and it’s this affecting contemplation about lonesomeness, disconnection, motherhood, daughterhood, and more that gives the movie a meaningful aftertaste that’s more than just its delightful cocktail sheen.
Coppola crafts a story of an incurable, dyed-in-the-wool womanizer who you just have to learn to love. To a point. While Felix is a cosmopolitan and notorious, enchanter and raconteur, and the film has a decidedly light touch, “On The Rocks” thankfully doesn’t shy away from emotional honesty and the dark side of such superficial and destructively self-absorbed tendencies. Their exploits, while fun, don’t come at the expense of exploring the complexities of loaded father/daughter dynamics.
And it’s perhaps the most agile trick Coppola pulls off. “On The Rocks,” is implicitly full of wealth, privilege, and frothy luster. Laura lives in a posh Tribeca flat (the kind most filmmakers believe audiences will suspend their disbelief for), she comes from money, Felix is a man of unlimited means, and he’s a borderline sexist, unabashed philanderer who cheated on Laura’s mother and nearly destroyed their family (notably, something that also happened in the Coppola household). And yet, Coppola’s movie is never tone-deaf, and doesn’t let the vivacious gleam of her lovely movie gloss over Felix’s many shortcomings as a father and privileged white cis man. While their carbonated quests around town escalate with bellyful laughs and choice soundtrack cuts (Michael Nyman, Chet Baker, a faintly dreamy original score by Phoenix), so do the inherent, bubbling-under-the-surface tensions between the two of them and Coppola interrogates all of her fictional father’s faults. “You have daughters and granddaughters so you better learn to hear them,” Laura scolds in one particularly biting confrontation about his narcissism and the ridiculous excuses he constantly makes about his philandering and chauvinist tendencies (the irony of an adulterer advising his daughter to spy on her potentially cheating husband is also not lost on the movie).
Those looking for Sofia Coppola putting Francis Ford on blast, however, are probably looking at the wrong place. While some of it is clearly autobiographical, inspired by her parents’ marriage, the affair that nearly broke them, and her relationship with dad, much of the father/daughter conflicts are universal, and with apologies to Francis, he simply could never challenge this amplified-to-11 fictionalized version of Bill Murray that Murray plays.
Conversely, its greatest strengths are its heartbreaking, embedded ideas of motherhood, the isolation, and burden of it, aging, the way men take their spouses for granted when children arrive, and the way sexual desire becomes a complicated thing to grapple with in marriage as children consume and disorient the relationship dynamic. None of this is spoken about stridently, but Rashida Jones’ silent struggles and suffering speak so many volumes about these anxieties and the way women bury their trauma.
Shot by Philippe Le Sourd (“The Beguiled,” “The Grandmaster“), Coppola’s visual aesthetic is unshowy, but still poetic and lovely in the right moments. Coppola doesn’t really linger on stylized moments of music and introspection so much anymore, but when she does, oh man, they still pack the biggest melancholy and emotional wallop, and no one shapes them as dreamily and tenderly as she does.
At a brief 95 minutes, the frothy “On The Rocks” fizzles out a little bit at the end, wrapping up on a nice, neat note that almost feels like a superficial cheat given the way the movie evocatively unearths and disturbs genuine feelings of dissatisfaction, heartache, and desolation. You almost want Coppola to honor the character’s suspicions, these newfound feelings, and take the movie into a more emotionally difficult, but honest territory a la the sad, but poignantly life-affirming ending of “Lost In Translation.” “On The Rocks” won’t bust its union and favors simplicity in the end. That said, this minor misstep can’t unravel all the good things that have led up to it. Underneath its sparkle, it’s a movie the gives serious regard to complex ideas of monogamy, the true nature of men, the alienation of motherhood, and the difficulties of finding yourself beyond the identity of wife, mother, or daughter. “On The Rocks” is almost like a Trojan Horse of intoxicating libations and magical evenings—Murray’s sporty ‘60s candy red Alfa Romeo convertible being the vehicle of these enjoyments— a capricious trick that belies the true nature of its thoughtful and feminine perspective on the difficulties of love, life, marriage, and complex fathers. [B+]
“On The Rocks” premiered this week during the New York Film Festival and opens in a limited theatrical release on October 2, by A24, followed by digital streaming on October 23, 2020, on AppleTV+.
Follow along with the rest of our 2020 New York Film Festival coverage here.