The Roses Movie Review: Roses Are Red, This Script Is Beige

Marriage as a battlefield has always been fertile cinematic territory, but Jay Roach‘s The Roses feels like it showed up to war wielding foam swords. When news broke that Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman would reimagine Danny DeVito’s savage 1989 masterpiece, The War of the Roses, expectations naturally soared. Tony McNamara‘s previous work on Poor Things and The Favourite suggested we’d witness another deliciously venomous dissection of human nature. Instead, we’re served a disappointingly sanitized domestic drama that’s afraid of its own shadow.

Life seems effortless for picture-perfect couple Ivy (Colman, Wonka) and Theo (Cumberbatch, Doctor Strange): successful careers, great kids, an enviable relationship. But underneath lurks a tinderbox of competition and resentment that ignites when Theo’s professional dreams come crashing down. What should unfold as a pitch-black comedy of marital destruction instead stumbles through moments of genuine humor while consistently pulling its punches when the story demands genuine cruelty.

The fundamental problem isn’t just inevitable comparisons to its predecessor, though Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas’s volcanic chemistry remains unmatched. It’s McNamara’s curious reluctance to embrace the story’s inherently dark nature. If you’re crafting a tale about marriage escalating into mutual annihilation, why not push toward emotional DEFCON 1? The script hints at deeper thematic explorations of gender roles and modern masculinity, but never jumps fully in. Everything feels sanded down for mass appeal.

Colman and Cumberbatch are predictably excellent on paper but never quite click on screen. Their dynamic generates zero romantic spark—we never understand their initial attraction, making their eventual hatred feel arbitrary rather than inevitable. She’s playing another woman bursting out of polite conformity, this time with a culinary empire (similar to her role in The Bear), while he’s doing his version of affable-turned-petulant. The result is a couple who seem more like mismatched roommates than lovers-turned-enemies. Neither actor bothers aging across the film’s decade-plus timeline, a stark contrast to the original’s three-decade character journey.

The supporting cast floats in and out with mixed results. Andy Samberg (Palm Springs) and Kate McKinnon (Barbie) provide chaotic energy as friends in an “open” marriage, but their subplot feels half-hearted. Sunita Mani and Ncuti Gatwa appear at Ivy’s restaurant but get no meaningful arcs. The standout is Allison Janney (I, Tonya) as Ivy’s divorce lawyer. She shows up for five minutes and absolutely demolishes the screen with acid-tongued precision. Watching Janney go full scorched-earth makes you long for her to anchor this entire film. She understands exactly what tone the movie should have had all along.

Cinematographer Florian Hoffmeister (Oppenheimer) captures both the airy coastal perfection of the couple’s lean years and the suffocating opulence of their prosperity. His work is gorgeous but counterproductive—the soft, coastal glow undercuts the emotional decay that should drive the story. Theodore Shapiro’s (Another Simple Favor) bouncy score creates deliberate contrast with the couple’s increasingly bumpy journey, though it bounces along like a rom-com when it should be building dread.

The film’s greatest sin lies in its desperate need for audience approval. Roach and McNamara refuse to present tough choices, leaving an empty space where the story’s dark pulse should throb. Even the infamous finale gets softened to spare viewers any lingering bitterness—a decision that fundamentally misunderstands why the original resonated so powerfully. Modern audiences deserve credit for handling complex moral terrain, yet The Roses treats viewers like children who can’t stomach genuine darkness.

What this story needed was a willingness to get ugly. Real ugly. Divorce isn’t tidy, and when done right, this narrative explores what happens when two people lose not just love but their humanity. McNamara’s script and Roach’s direction seem too concerned with keeping the characters likable. If no one is willing to be the villain, you don’t have a battle—you have a passive disagreement with artfully arranged lighting.

There’s a smarter version waiting to be made, one that truly updates the narrative rather than just retelling it with different accents and better production values. What if the gender dynamics were genuinely skewered? What if someone cared less about looking good and more about emotional truth?

McNamara occasionally lands sharp observations about how couples weaponize minor grievances into major warfare, and the leads remain inherently watchable. But those familiar with what this material can achieve will leave frustrated by its timid execution. We’re left stranded in cinema’s most dangerous territory—not good enough to recommend, not bad enough to mock, just thorny enough to remind us what might have been.

The Roses wants to be bitter but can’t stop sweetening the edges. It’s a dark comedy afraid of the dark. A war where no one bleeds.