The Roses

The Architecture of Resentment

In the vast, messy catalogue of human relationships, few things are as cinematically rich as the spectacle of a marriage collapsing in real-time. We are drawn to it not just for the schadenfreude, but for the terrifying recognition that the person sleeping next to you could, with the right combination of disappointments, become your mortal enemy. Jay Roach’s *The Roses* (2025) enters this arena carrying heavy baggage: it is a reimagining of Warren Adler’s 1981 novel and Danny DeVito’s iconic 1989 satire. Yet, under the pen of Tony McNamara (*The Favourite*, *Poor Things*), this is less a remake and more a modern renovation—stripping the original down to its studs to investigate how professional jealousy, rather than just material greed, rots the foundation of a contemporary partnership.

Roach, a director best known for broad comedies (*Austin Powers*, *Meet the Parents*) and political docudramas (*Bombshell*), attempts a difficult balancing act here. He aims for the acidic, baroque wit of McNamara’s script while maintaining a visual polish that feels almost too pristine for the carnage unfolding. The film introduces us to Theo (Benedict Cumberbatch) and Ivy (Olivia Colman) not as combatants, but as a unit of infectious, neurotic energy. Theo is a visionary architect whose career implodes in a viral moment of failure; Ivy is a chef whose star suddenly, meteoricallly rises.



The film’s visual language mirrors this shift in power. In the early scenes, the camera moves with a fluidity that connects the couple, capturing the rhythm of their banter. But as the dynamic inverts—Theo becoming the resentful house-husband while Ivy conquers the culinary world—the framing grows rigid. The house itself, a modernist marvel designed by Theo, transforms from a sanctuary into a sleek, claustrophobic cage. Roach uses the cold, hard lines of the architecture to isolate the characters; they are frequently shot through glass partitions or separated by the vast, empty spaces of their own success. It is a visual metaphor for their emotional distance: they are living in a monument to a life that no longer exists.

The heart of the film, however, beats in the chest of its performers. Olivia Colman is a marvel of passive-aggressive restraint, her Ivy oscillating between genuine guilt and intoxicating ambition. She plays Ivy not as a villain, but as a woman finally exhaling after holding her breath for decades. Cumberbatch matches her with a performance of brittle fragility. His Theo is a study in wounded male ego—pathetic, yes, but terrifyingly human. The "Conversation" around this film has rightly focused on their chemistry; unlike the vitriolic hatred of the Douglas-Turner pairing in the 1989 film, Colman and Cumberbatch maintain a pilot light of affection that makes their descent into violence all the more tragic. We believe they love each other, which makes it unbearable to watch them destroy one another.



There is a specific scene that crystallizes the film’s thesis. It isn't one of the slapstick set pieces involving destroyed cars or falling chandeliers, but a quiet moment involving a raspberry dessert. Theo, knowing Ivy’s allergy, weaponizes food—her own domain—against her. It is a moment of cruelty so precise and intimate that it sucks the air out of the room. Here, the film sheds its comedic skin and reveals the horror underneath: the person who knows how to love you best also knows exactly where to slide the knife.

However, the film ultimately stumbles in its resolve. Where the 1989 original committed to a nihilistic, Wagnerian finale, Roach’s version softens the blow. The ending, involving a gas leak and a final, reconciled embrace before the screen fades to white, feels like a concession to audience comfort—a "likability" dial turned up at the last second. It attempts to find grace in the rubble, suggesting that love can survive even its own destruction.



*The Roses* is a sharp, often vicious satire that doesn't quite have the courage of its own darkness. It is saved by two titans of acting who manage to find the pulse in a corpse. It serves as a reminder that in the architecture of marriage, the most dangerous structural flaws are the ones we cannot see until the roof comes crashing down.