Folks love to speculate about what Bill Murray’s character whispered to Scarlett Johansson’s neglected young wife, at the end of writer/director Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation.
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Coppola gives us an answer, of sorts, in On the Rocks, an Apple TV+ exclusive.
This time, Murray’s Felix is father to Rashida Jones’ Laura, although we don’t meet him right away. Coppola spends a lengthy prologue depicting Laura’s routine: devoted wife to husband Dean (Marlon Wayans); full-time mother to young daughters Maya and Theo; a practical, down-to-earth approach to things.
It’s easy to mock certain aspects of the New York City lifestyle, and Coppola occasionally succumbs: notably when Laura bundles Theo into a stroller each morning, and then walks Maya to a tony private school, where they join a queue of similarly posh parents waiting for the teacher to show up. (Laura wears Vans sneakers while carrying a Chanel bag.)
In a running gag that gets funnier with each fresh exposure, Jenny Slate is a hoot as Vanessa, a self-absorbed chatterbox waiting in the same line; she discusses her personal life in hilariously tedious detail, oblivious to the fact that Laura isn’t paying attention.
But this is mere background gloss. Coppola’s focus is more relationship-oriented, as was the case with Lost in Translation. Dean has been working longer hours of late, trying to get a start-up business off the ground; he’s therefore not around as much, to handle his share of home chores. Laura is tired — indeed, Jones often looks wan and exhausted — and feels taken for granted. Disconnected.
She’s an author — who made the mistake of selling a book she hasn’t even started — and is crippled by a severe case of writer’s block. No surprise, since she spends so much time picking up actual blocks, toys and clothes that the girls abandon throughout their apartment.
Coppola is astutely gifted at recognizing the little gestures, comments and expressions that characterize a given thought, moment or desire; Jones deftly conveys this wealth of nuance.
The crisis hits as a result of an equally small thing … except that, maybe, it’s not so small. Dean returns home late one evening, stumbles into bed with Laura, and briefly pauses with what seems like surprise … as if she isn’t the person he expected to see. At least, that’s the way she reads it, when she thinks about it later.
Wanting “a man’s take” on the incident, she contacts her father, knowing — since he has been an unapologetic playboy his entire adult life — that he’ll have an opinion.
Enter Murray, in a delightful role that Coppola obviously designed to his strengths.
Felix is a larger-than-life holdover from the old-school, Rat Pack era of impeccably tailored suits, martini lunches, brazen charm and sophisticated tastes. He’s an upper-level art dealer, and obviously quite successful, as it finances an expensive lifestyle. He seems to know everybody worth knowing, and everybody he needs to know, no matter how unexpected or outré the circumstances.
He’s a font of obscure and arcane knowledge, which he shares spontaneously (always delivered with Murray’s signature, to-die-for deadpan expression). And, yes, he’s also full of advice, appropriate or not.
Felix’s analysis of Dean’s “odd little moment” is instantaneous: The man is having an affair.
Although Laura’s emotional, trusting side finds this ridiculous — she knows they’re happily married — her apprehensive lizard brain can’t help assembling the tell-tale clues. All those late nights, many of them unplanned. Phone calls from odd places. And, worst of all, considerable time spent with a gorgeous new co-worker, Fiona (Jessica Henwick).
Could it be?
Only one way to find out, Felix insists. Surveil the guy.
And so begins an unlikely adventure, as Laura and Felix become amateur sleuths on a quest that takes them throughout New York City by day and night. Cinematographer Philippe Le Sourd turns these excursions into a giddy, partially romanticized haze, with visits to classic Big Apple hot spots such as Midtown’s 21 Club, and Soho’s Prince Street bistro, Raoul’s.
Insisting that being conspicuous is the best way to remain inconspicuous, one such outing is conducted via Felix’s bright red — and not entirely reliable — Alfa Romeo.
We gradually realize that Felix has embraced — and embellished — this role of amateur gumshoe as a means of spending quality time with a daughter who, we suspect, hasn’t had much use for him. And it seems to be working; despite the frequently rolled eyes and occasional snark with which Laura greets some of Felix’s non-sequiturs, the cautiously blossoming bond is detectable.
Their banter becomes less contentious, more playful: less superficial, more intimate. But it comes at a cost: As Laura begins to realize that her father has a kind, thoughtful side — despite being a cad — her anxiety mounts, as the signs of Dean’s infidelity become blindingly obvious.
Murray and Jones are marvelous together, both adept at impeccably timed slow takes and dry remarks. It’s a mistake to claim that Murray remains completely stoic; Felix’s apparent detachment has degrees of emotional subtlety. At times there’s a playful spark in his gaze; alternatively, he looks wary, as if worried that this sojourn with his daughter can’t possibly last for long.
And regret. Plenty of regret. But not enough — never enough — for Felix to change his nature.
At first blush, Wayans makes Dean an amiable, loving husband and father. But once suspicion sets in, we — and Laura — view these qualities through a different lens. Is he too jovial? Trying too hard to appear “normal”? And aren’t the reasons for all those late nights starting to sound thin, and contrived? Wayans — and Coppola — keep us guessing.
This playful tone is augmented by a delightfully eclectic score by the French indie pop band Phoenix. (Lead vocalist Thomas Mars and Coppola are married.) They describe the score as “40 percent cool Rat-Pack jazz, 40 percent melancholic synthesizers, 18 percent Mozart revisited by Michael Nyman, one percent 1960s Italian pop, and one percent mariachi music.”
Ultimately, though, I’m not sure this film’s destination is worthy of the journey. Lost in Translation cleverly gained additional emotional heft by placing its romantically angst-ridden characters in a setting (Tokyo) that amplified their cultural displacement. That film is a full meal; On the Rocks is lighter, less solemn, and — as a result — feels like an appetizer.
Mind you, it’s a tasty appetizer.
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