Jay Roach’s The Roses is a domestic demolition derby dressed in gourmet frosting and architectural ambition. It’s a comedy of manners turned feral, where Olivia Colman and Benedict Cumberbatch claw through the wreckage of a marriage with the elegance of two people who once loved each other deeply—and now weaponize that love. The film dances between satire and sincerity, never quite settling, but always entertaining. It’s a divorce comedy that remembers the tragedy beneath the punchlines.
The film owes its bones to 1989’s The War of the Roses, but trades the gothic grandeur for smart homes and sourdough starters. Roach’s version is more intimate, modern, and prone to existential detours, whereas the original was operatic in its cruelty. Theo and Ivy Rose are not caricatures—they’re people who once dreamed together, then forgot how to share the dream. Their descent into mutual sabotage is both hilarious and horrifying, and the film never lets us forget that the house they fight over was meant to be a gift, not a grave.
The title, The Roses, blooms in layers. It’s their surname, but also a metaphor for beauty with barbs. The house they built is a rose: cultivated, admired, and ultimately dangerous. Their children, Hattie and Roy, are petals caught in the wind of their parents’ unraveling. Even Ivy’s oven—Julia Child’s relic—symbolizes legacy and destruction. The roses in this film are not fragrant—they’re flammable.
Colman is a marvel. Her Ivy is nurturing and ruthless, a woman who gave up her dream and reclaimed it with fire. She plays Ivy with a chef’s precision—every glance, every insult, every moment of vulnerability is plated with care. Cumberbatch’s Theo is more brittle, wounded, and occasionally too theatrical for the film’s tone. But when he saves a whale and finds God, you believe him. Their chemistry is volatile, and that’s the point.
The supporting cast adds fizz to the acid. Andy Samberg and Kate McKinnon bring comic relief without derailing the emotional core. Allison Janney, as Ivy’s lawyer, delivers lines like scalpels. Belinda Bromilow’s counselor is a tragicomic echo chamber. These characters orbit the Roses, occasionally crashing into their chaos, occasionally offering escape routes.
The plot is a slow burn that explodes in the final act. The pacing wobbles—some scenes linger too long, others rush past—but the structure holds. The storm, the museum collapse, the restaurant’s rise, the whale rescue, the gun, the gas leak—it’s all absurd, but never random. Roach directs with a steady hand, letting the actors lead while keeping the tone shy of farce. He doesn’t reinvent the genre, but he renovates it.
Thematically, the film is rich. It explores ambition, resentment, gender roles, and the myth of the dream house. It asks whether love can survive success, forgiveness can survive betrayal, and whether a raspberry cake can be a weapon. It doesn’t offer easy answers, but it does offer catharsis. The final scene—white screen, gas leak, intimacy—feels earned, even if ambiguous.
Where the film falters is in its tonal shifts. The comedy sometimes undercuts the emotional stakes. The AI house gimmick feels underdeveloped. Ivy’s restaurant empire rises too fast, and Theo’s fall feels too convenient. But these are thorns, not fatal flaws. The film still blossoms, even if some petals are bruised.
As a divorce comedy, The Roses is effective. It’s not as savage as its predecessor but more soulful. It laughs at the absurdity of love and loss, but never mocks the people caught in the middle. It’s a film that understands how memory can become a battleground, architecture can be a love letter, and a marriage can end with fire and grace.
The Roses is not perfect, but it’s memorable. It’s a bouquet of bitterness and beauty, held together by two performances that refuse to wilt. It’s a comedy that cries, a tragedy that giggles, a film that burns and blooms.
Grade: B+.
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