On the Rocks

So slight it collapses against itself, Sofia Coppola's On the Rocks evaporates in pat craftmanship. Rashida Jones plays a young mother of two who suspects her husband (Marlon Wayans) of straying with a business associate. Her Dad (Bill Murray), an eccentric millionaire, goads her into surveilling her hubby. Since Murray's character is an unrepentant philanderer, it is a case of using a thief to catch a thief. Murray takes Jones on a wild goose chase with many moments reminiscent of Coppola's Lost in Translation. Murray gets to croon a couple of standards, show off his whistling skills, and indulge in a gag with binoculars that dates from the silent film era. Murray's entrance comes twenty minutes into the film and it feels tardy because Jones and Wayans' characters have proven to be insipid. 

On the Rocks stumbles because Coppola's script wallows in cliches. The film feels like a post-feminist extension of Woody Allen's paeans to New York City. (or Coppola pere's New York Stories episode). There are beautiful shots of the Gotham skyline, talk of its fine architecture, and gobs of pre-bop jazz. Jenny Slade's clingy friend is a characterization reminiscent, in its one dimensionality, of Shelley Duvall's turn in Annie Hall. Murray is miscast as an elitist, ogling a Monet and gobbling caviar. Murray is an everyman, Irish stew variety. On the Rocks is somewhat redeemed by its visual style, but is ultimately unsatisfying.