In the grand tradition of Hollywood's habit of exhuming corpses from the 1980s to see if they still twitch, along comes The Roses, a 2025 reimagining of Warren Adler's novel The War of the Roses and Danny DeVito's 1989 cinematic demolition derby. Directed by Jay Roach, who seems to have traded the elastic grotesquery of Austin Powers for something a touch more domestic, and scripted by Tony McNamara—whose ear for venomous dialogue previously poisoned The Favourite—this film stars Benedict Cumberbatch and Olivia Colman as Theo and Ivy Rose, a couple whose union unravels with the inevitability of a poorly tied shoelace on a funicular railway.
Theo, played by Cumberbatch with the furrowed brow of a man who's just realised his blueprints are for the wrong century, is a once-celebrated architect whose career nosedives faster than a lead balloon in a wind tunnel. Ivy, Colman in full Oscar-bait mode, is the ascendant chef whose ambitions bloom like mould in a neglected fridge. Their marriage, initially presented as a Pinterest-perfect idyll—successful careers, adoring children, a house that looks like it was designed by someone who read too much Architectural Digest—begins to fray when Theo's professional tumble exposes the fault lines beneath their smug facade. What follows is a tinderbox of resentment, ignited by petty competitions and erupting into a divorce battle that's less War of the Roses and more Skirmish in the Suburbs.
Roach, ever the crowd-pleaser, opts for a lighter touch than DeVito's gleefully nihilistic original. Where the 1989 version ended in a pile of rubble and mutual annihilation, The Roses pulls its punches, transforming outright carnage into a series of escalating pranks that feel like a marital version of Home Alone scripted by divorce lawyers. The satire here targets the modern bourgeoisie: the performative perfection of Instagram families, the quiet terror of gender-role reversals, and the way ambition turns spouses into rivals faster than you can say 'prenup'. McNamara's dialogue crackles with dry wit—"Sometimes he's got his c*ck in me and I can't even tell," Ivy quips at one point, landing a barb that would make even Dorothy Parker wince—reminding us that nothing humanises hatred like a well-timed zinger.
Cumberbatch and Colman are the film's saving grace, their chemistry a volatile cocktail of affection and animosity. He brings a wounded hauteur to Theo, all elongated vowels and suppressed rage, while she unleashes Colman's trademark blend of warmth and wildness, turning Ivy into a force of nature who could bake a soufflé and sabotage a deposition in the same breath. Supporting turns from Kate McKinnon, Andy Samberg and erstwhile Doctor Who Ncuti Gatwa as their bemused friends add sporadic levity, though one suspects their characters exist mainly to remind us that not everyone in this world is as exquisitely miserable as the leads.
Pacing-wise, the film stumbles occasionally, switching from brisk vigour to slack domestic drudgery like a car with a faulty clutch. The final act rushes toward resolution, leaving some emotional rubble uncleared, but it's hard to mind when the barbs fly so entertainingly. At 105 minutes, The Roses doesn't overstay its welcome, unlike some marriages it lampoons. It's a generally winning affair: satirical enough to skewer the sacred cow of wedded bliss, yet affectionate in its mockery. In an era of reboots that deserve a stake through the heart, this one blooms—thorny, but alive. One leaves the cinema pondering one's own domestic arrangements, which, for a comedy, is no mean feat.