Iris (Naomi Watts), a novelist and creative writing teacher, has been asked to take in the dog owned by her best friend, Walter (Bill Murray), who died of suicide.

“This is what Walter wanted,” insists Barbara (Noma Dumezweni), Walter’s third (and last) wife.

There’s no proof of this and, to be honest, it’s slightly sus that Barbara doesn’t like dogs, but Iris reluctantly agrees.

She heads to the shelter to collect Apollo. We already know from Walter’s colorful description of stumbling across Apollo in the park after a run that the dog is “giant.” But we don’t realize just how giant. The camera pans briefly to a cute pittie curled in the back of a pen. Nope. Not Apollo. Then out he comes—a magnificent, massive Great Dane. And not just any Great Dane, an absolute unit, weighing more than 150 pounds.

Did I mention that Iris lives in a small, rent-controlled Greenwich Village apartment?

A story like this could’ve gone many ways, including broad comedy, but that’s not the kind of movie The Friend is.

You see, Apollo is grieving, much like Iris is. He stares at her—or more accurately, beyond her—with big, mournful eyes that, frankly, resemble Bill Murray’s. (Although in Apollo’s case, one eye is blue and one is brown—the David Bowie of dogs.)

Although Barbara assured Iris that Apollo was well-trained and knew to stay off the furniture, he makes a beeline for the bed, where he splays out dejectedly. He won’t eat. He won’t play. He won’t use the elevator (at least Iris is getting her cardio). And he won’t let Iris on her own bed.

The only things that seem to give him comfort are Walter’s old Columbia University sweatshirt and having someone read to him, which Walter apparently did a lot.

Watching The Friend I couldn’t help but to notice that, although it’s mostly populated with women, it doesn’t pass The Bechdel Test, as all these women are always discussing Walter.

The film is a bit retro in that regard—Walter was supposed to have been a literary giant, and he’s constantly quoted, celebrated, and forgiven for his many sins, which include affairs and a grown daughter, Val (Sarah Pidgeon), that he just recently introduced to the world.

And get this, Val and Iris are writing a book together called Letters which is, you guessed it, a collection of Walter’s letters. Although the film is based on Sigrid Nunez’s acclaimed novel of the same name, which came out in 2018, the whole feels very 20th century.

Hell, even Apollo is male. (I kid, I kid.)

Despite my concern with its Great Man Theory approach to storytelling, I did like The Friend quite a bit. It’s an example of my favorite genre—Manhattan intellectuals in life and love, dressed in lots of wool blends and tweed, as seen in the films of Woody Allen, Nicole Holofcener, and Noah Baumbach.

The film is very self-consciously literary—everyone’s working on a novel; they have a flashback to Walter giving a reading; and Samuel Beckett is quoted liberally.

Another tiny gripe: Walter is supposed to have been a genius, always dicey to pull off in a film, and we can mostly believe it. Murray, who is mostly seen in flashbacks as Walter, has that wise, rumpled, larger-than-life way about him that allows you to believe he was both a revered writer and notorious lady’s man. But some of the passages read from his books don’t pass the literary smell test. Would a literary giant truly say that someone was “sadly bereft”? (As an editor, I’d stet the word sadly and write REDUNDANT in red caps.)

But enough about Walter. This movie really is about Iris and Apollo, who slowly come to rely on each other. And kudos to Bing, who plays Apollo (and his trainers, I suppose—although clearly this dog is a natural). This is one of the best dog performances I’ve ever seen. The dog truly seems sad, then less so as he and Iris get closer, and then, in the final scenes, he limps! (Daniel Dog Lewis anyone?)

The central conflict of the film is that Iris isn’t allowed to have Apollo, or any dog, in her apartment. It’s hard enough to stow away a Chihuahua or a Yorkie. Try sneaking a Great Dane into your apartment. And since her apartment is rent controlled, her landlord is itching to get her out of there so he can jack up the rent.

There’s a cute subplot involving a kindly superintendent (Felix Solis) who keeps firmly telling Iris she needs to get rid of Apollo, even though he secretly loves dogs, too.

And that’s pretty much it. The film has pleasingly low stakes. Will Iris be able to reclaim her own bed? Will she start her novel again? Will she be forced out of her apartment? Will Walter’s second wife (Carla Gugino) come to accept Val, who was conceived very shortly after they split?

And since I’m whacking the film for its male-centric plot, let me give it credit for something borderline radical. Iris is in her late 40s, or so. Lives alone. Has no husband. And the film is okay with that. I’m loath to admit that, at one point, when she visits the office of a therapist (Tom McCarthy), I thought, “Could he be a love interest?”

Shame on me. This is not that kind of film. Iris has one love interest in The Friend: a big, beautiful, sad-eyed dog.

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The film is also a love letter to that kind of man, the kind they don’t make any longer—mostly with good reason. Felix, an art dealer, gets chauffeured around in limousines (or when he’s really feeling feisty, he drives a cherry red vintage Alfa Romeo), he flirts with waitresses and charms everyone else, he passably speaks several languages, he drinks martinis at lunch, he knows the maître-d’ at every dimly-lit private club in New York. He’s a man who lives the good life. But he’s also a man who cheated on his wife, left his family in tatters, always in pursuit of the next woman who would make him feel irresistible. He has two adult daughters, one who apparently doesn’t speak to him. He, too, has regrets.

Lastly, it’s a love letter to New York. Both the cobblestoned Soho neighborhood where our hero, Laura (Rashida Jones) lives with her husband, Dean (Marlon Wayans), and their two adorable daughters, and Felix’s New York—the New York of places like The Knickerbocker and 21, where a man like Felix can boast that the Plaza is the best place to take your mistress because it has the most exits. Coppola romanticizes both Felix and this last gasp of 20th century New York—and recognizes that its time has passed.

The story is slight. Laura suspects that Dean, who has a new start-up business (a website of some sort; the film is vague) is cheating on her. It starts one night when Dean, returning from a business trip, zonked out on Xanax, climbs into bed and begins to kiss her quite passionately. “Hi,” she says, surprised. He jolts away, as though he thought she was someone else. Later, she finds a woman’s toiletry bag in his suitcase. He has a valid explanation—his (suspiciously gorgeous) co-worker Fiona couldn’t carry liquids on the plane, so he stashed it in his luggage for her. But still, with all his travel and a certain inertia that has set into their marriage, she worries.

She makes the mistake of confiding in her father, and he’s immediately convinced that Dean is cheating on her.

“He’s a man,” Felix says. “It’s his nature.”

Felix proposes that they spy on Dean, and Laura, at her wit’s end, reluctantly agrees. Somehow, spying on Dean involves lots of time in Felix’s limo and the aforementioned Alfa Romeo (he brings a tub of caviar for their “stakeout”), plus martinis at private clubs, a trip to Mexico, and luxe parties where Felix is stalking a particular piece of art (or woman) he has his eye on.

What becomes clear to us, and eventually Laura as well, is that Felix may indeed believe that Dean is cheating, but he is really just relishing the time spent with his adult daughter. There’s an absolutely beautiful piece of writing by Coppola where Felix describes to Laura the first time he recognized her as a real person. She was nine months old. I want to share the anecdote, but I’ll let it play out for you in the film. Suffice it to say, father and daughter share a sly sense of humor and mischief. Despite it all, they get each other.

I can quibble with a few things about the film: Despite the fact that Laura is a struggling writer and Dean has that start-up company, they are obscenely rich, living in a loft-like space with soaring ceilings, sun-drenched exposure, and wall-length windows (I guess it’s supposed to be her dad’s money?). Also, and this is my biggest issue with the film: I never really believed in Dean and Laura’s marriage. It’s a tricky thing—the whole film is based on the rift between them, the puzzle of whether or not he’s cheating on her. But still, something about their rhythms together felt too forced and stiff, even for an emotionally estranged couple. (Wayans does convincingly play a great roll-on-the-floor with silliness dad, though.)

Still, these are minor concerns. On the Rocks is a delight from beginning to end. Gorgeously acted, deeply felt, but remarkably light on its feet. Consider this review my love letter to Sofia Coppola.

On the Rocks will be playing in theaters, including the Senator Theatre, on October 9th and will be available to stream on Apple TV+ starting October 23.

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