On the Rocks is Sofia Coppola’s idea of a midlife crisis—just don’t expect any real crisis, or, God forbid, life. What you get instead is a tepid cocktail of privilege, paranoia, and faux whimsy served lukewarm in a Tiffany-blue tumbler. It’s a movie that desperately wants to be a Manhattan screwball comedy with a heart, but instead plays like an awkward brunch with a divorced couple trying too hard to prove they’re still friends.
This 2020 film stars Rashida Jones as Laura, a New York writer who’s so listless she makes a coma look like Cirque du Soleil. Her husband, Dean (Marlon Wayans), is a tech bro who might be cheating—or might just be too boring to be interesting either way. Jones spends most of the movie suspicious, but never suspicious enough to raise the stakes, and certainly not curious enough to actually confront anything head-on. You’d get more tension from a damp sponge.
Enter Bill Murray as Felix, Laura’s father—a retired art dealer, serial philanderer, and full-time cocktail philosopher. He’s here to crack wise, order caviar at the drop of a hat, and explain the world’s problems via vintage Jag rides and quips lifted from a Playboy interview circa 1978. He’s charming, sure—but it’s the kind of charm that wears thin after the fourth drink and the tenth story about how women’s wrists are the true windows to the soul.
Felix is supposed to be the engine of this movie, but he’s really just a high-mileage boomer on cruise control. He flirts with waitresses, talks about women like they’re jazz vinyl, and has an opinion about everything—especially things he’s wrong about. The movie wants you to love him despite his sexism, and that’s fine. Problem is, it doesn’t give you much else to chew on. Felix is Murray playing Murray, and by now, it feels like cosplay.
As for Laura? She follows her dad’s paranoia on a low-speed emotional chase through Manhattan’s most overpriced restaurants. Suspecting Dean of infidelity, the duo embark on a private-eye adventure that includes tailing him, breaking into his luggage, and driving to Mexico like a pair of neurotic influencers in search of a plot. It’s a film that tries to unravel the knots of trust and aging relationships, but does so with the emotional urgency of someone waiting for their Uber Eats order.
Coppola, as always, excels at capturing the ennui of the upper crust. She knows how to shoot luxury with melancholy. Marble countertops. Cashmere throws. Velvet booths at restaurants where no one eats, just talks about “launches” and “installs.” Her characters drift, and that’s fine when the drift is existential (Lost in Translation) or ironic (Marie Antoinette). But On the Rocks wants to be funny and wise at the same time—and it lands neither.
The film’s biggest problem is that it pretends it has stakes. Laura is vaguely unhappy, vaguely suspicious, vaguely tired of motherhood, vaguely unsure of her own success. But none of this ever crystallizes into real conflict. Even when she questions Dean’s fidelity, it feels like she’s doing it more out of narrative obligation than any actual emotion. Wayans, for his part, plays Dean like a man who’s been asked to wear a polo shirt to church and resents it.
There’s a scene in the back of a police car, after Felix’s antics have finally gone too far, and you think—finally, something resembling tension. But it fizzles out in a puff of privilege and a knowing chuckle. No real consequences. No catharsis. Just another quirky misadventure to chuckle about over oysters.
The dialogue has that signature Coppola airiness—lots of space between lines, like everyone’s waiting for a more interesting movie to show up. Jones does what she can, and she’s a solid actress, but her character is a black hole of indecision. She’s not funny enough to carry a comedy, not tragic enough to lead a drama, and not unhinged enough to make it interesting. She’s just… there. Watching. Thinking. Probably texting herself reminders to smile.
The pacing is glacial. The comedy, when it arrives, is tepid. Bill Murray riffing about monogamy? We’ve seen that movie. Bill Murray ordering a martini in a bespoke suit? We’ve lived that meme. There’s no edge, no teeth, no sense that anything in this world matters beyond brunch reservations and whether a husband packed his shaving kit suspiciously.
And the ending? Predictable and soft. The husband isn’t cheating. The dad learns maybe not all men are pigs. The daughter realizes she should talk to her partner instead of hiring her aging playboy dad as a detective. Wow. Enlightenment achieved. It’s like a Hallmark movie that wandered into SoHo and got a blowout.
On the Rocks wants to be Woody Allen without the scandal, Before Sunset without the poetry, and Nancy Meyers without the kitchens. What it ends up being is an expensive nap—pretty, whispery, and utterly inconsequential.
The soundtrack is jazzy in that “upper Manhattan divorcee” kind of way. The cinematography is clean and elegant. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a boutique hotel lobby: stylish, sterile, and vaguely overpriced. You don’t hate it, but you also can’t remember why you’re there. You check your phone. Twice.
By the time the credits roll, the only real mystery is how a movie about infidelity, midlife crises, and generational gender divides could end up feeling like a mildly awkward dinner party where no one drinks enough to say something interesting.
In short, On the Rocks is a film that thinks it’s being clever and whimsical, but mostly it just exists—soft, slow, and polished like a river stone. It doesn’t make you laugh, doesn’t make you think, doesn’t even make you angry. It just gently drifts by, sipping champagne and telling you that everything is fine.
And maybe that’s the cruelest joke of all.
