On the Rocks (2020)

Sofia Coppola's On the Rocks arrives as a study in restraint, which is a polite way of saying it declines to make demands of anyone. Laura (Rashida Jones) suspects her husband Dean (Marlon Wayans) of straying, and she enlists her wealthy playboy father Felix (Bill Murray) to tail him through Manhattan and, eventually, a Mexican resort. The premise is a caper. The execution is a shrug. Coppola films the whole thing with the soft, unhurried glow of a luxury hotel brochure, and the result is pleasant in the way a well-appointed lobby is pleasant.

The cast is more diverse than Coppola's earlier ensembles, with Jones in the lead and Wayans as her husband, though the film never pauses to announce this. Race simply is not a subject here, and neither is much else. This is a story about marriage and money, and it treats money the way a fish treats water. Jacobin's reviewer called it oblivious to its own wealth, which is fair. The film has no interest in capital, no interest in the climate, no interest in bodies or brains or history. What it does have is a mild critique of Felix's playboy misogyny, delivered through argument and hurt feeling instead of a thesis. Laura tells him his expectations of women are unattainable. He sulks. The scene works because it is a scene, not a pamphlet.

Coppola directs with a woman's eye on a woman's interior life, and that counts for something. It just does not count for much. There is no sermon here, no lesson, no finger wagged at the audience. The film wants to be a boozy hang-out caper, and it mostly succeeds at being one. We are left with Murray's charm, Jones's weariness, and the distinct impression that no one involved felt the need to say anything at all.