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The Bill Murray we know today has an image – droll, wise, sensitive – that was cemented by his role as a deadpan, world-weary actor in Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation. It was a breakthrough for Coppola and positioned Murray as a serious actor as well as a brilliant comedian. Seventeen years on, he is the shining centre of On the Rocks, Coppola’s lovely, elegant, funny little film with a throwaway plot.
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The film is set in a world of privilege and sophistication. Rashida Jones plays Laura, married with two small daughters, who suspects that her husband, Dean (Marlon Wayans), is cheating on her with a co-worker. She asks her dad for advice, but he is like no other on-screen father. Murray plays Felix as a mischievous, charming womaniser. A semi-retired art dealer, he is a throwback to an earlier era, who turns up outside her Soho building in a car with a driver, and greets her with an unmistakably loving, “Hey, kiddo.” As the car whisks them off, he warbles the theme song to the classic film Laura in his off-kilter Murray style. The scene and the entire performance do not land as self-referential, but as playing to Murray’s unique strengths. Only he could defend caveman behaviour and make it not quite serious. “He’s a man, it’s nature,” Felix says about Dean. “Males are forced to fight, to dominate and to impregnate all females.” He says this during a martini-fuelled lunch. Laura rolls her eyes as he innocently flirts with the waitress.
Jones is a charming foil to Murray, even though Laura’s character tilts toward cliche. A blocked writer who got a book contract without having written a word (writers everywhere will howl with laughter at the very idea), she is harried by raising two small daughters, and feels abandoned while Dean travels around starting up a flourishing company. She is a bit of a sad sack, and one step away from wearing mom jeans. Murray arrives almost 20 minutes into the film and brings it to life.
Felix’s outlandish idea is to spy on Dean, trailing him around New York. As the story becomes more madcap, he picks up Laura while driving a little red Alfa Romeo convertible, wearing a racing cap and bringing a picnic of caviar so they can lurk and see where Dean goes after his business dinner.
Despite that intrigue, On the Rocks is practically a distillation of Coppola’s Lost in Translation style. Each scene is compact and feels lived in, without any urgent narrative drive. That elegant surface makes it seem like a trifle, but there are layers beneath. The deepest and most emotional theme is not about Laura’s listless marriage. She worries that Dean doesn’t find her sexy anymore, and tells Felix, “I’m just the buzzkill waiting to schedule things.” There’s a tinge of self-pity there, along with some self-awareness, but the marriage scenes are on the nose and familiar.