The Roses // Film Review

“Why are you mad at her?"

“Cos I’m a dick.”

Tony McNamara’s deeply funny, but excruciatingly bitter script for The Roses posits that every broken marriage is the result of a thousand little arguments and apologies, rather than any one arbitrary blow-out. To put it in terms of the historical conflict from which the story is ostensibly inspired; divorce is not a battle, but a war. 

It is unfortunate then, that McNamara’s words are required to work overtime against the perfunctory, sitcom-like eye of director Jay Roach (Bombshell, Dinner For Schmucks), who does little to elevate a story wherein locations and spaces are so vitally important. One egregious CGI backdrop in the film’s first act makes for a particularly rough early impression. We can only thank some divine power (or perhaps the writer) for electing to set the remainder of the film largely indoors.

This is not to say that The Roses is a weak film - far from it. Where Roach fails to meet McNamara on his level, the same cannot be said for Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman in the roles of the titular couple. Whereas Colman is known for her comedic roots, Cumberbatch quickly matches her as the pair clearly relish firing witticisms across bedrooms and dinner tables alike, almost competing to make their ensemble scene players squirm. 

The fine balance here, which I do think is to the film’s immense credit, is how despite the nasty barbs and cleverly cruel scenarios that the Roses are forced to endure, one never doubts the sense that this is a pair with a deep admiration, if not always love for one another.

Time passes quickly between scenes, with markers of three or ten years orienting us as we skip through major career and life milestones. Their relationship is neither a sudden disintegration nor a clean slope, rather an ebbing and flowing beast which never fails to feel organic. Any one of their skirmishes could be the spark which sets the whole thing ablaze, or similarly reignite their love. 

On paper, the result of this thesis should make for a terribly depressing affair altogether, but the sheer joy of seeing two of the UK’s finest working actors gorging themselves on pages of McNamara’s most devious wordplay is enough to keep this one on the right side of tragicomic. It’s a terrible, twisted delight with a certified banger of a final image. I’d be hesitant to call it fun for all the family, but any couples out there with a slightly macabre sense of humour will find plenty to love here.