Art by Erin Ibrahim
The ‘Dog Movie’ has largely become a dormant genre over the last ten years, with few films attempting to shift a space on the shelf with Turner & Hooch, Red Dog, and the certified classic: Beverly Hills Chihuahua. The Friend seeks to smush itself alongside them, if only hanging on by its front paws.
After the suicide of her best friend, former teacher and former lover, Walter (Bill Murray), Iris (Naomi Watts) finds herself sharing a glorified studio apartment with Apollo, Walter’s Great Dane (Bing). Apollo is a lousy housemate, forcing Iris to a blow-up mattress on her floor and trashing her perfectly curated mid-century lounge suite whenever left alone. Spoiler alert: she learns to love the dog, and fights for her tenancy in a ‘No Pet’ building to keep custody of the noble steed.
The film occupies a timescape that my screenwriting tutor has dubbed the “timeless 2009 nothingness”, which I think is incredibly essential for viewers looking to escape the current day and its horrors. When we don’t want a period piece, but we want an uncomplicated romp through Central Park, we come to the world that The Friend offers: few iPhones, no AI, neighbours that actually talk to one another, winters that are still frosty and crisp. Ah, bliss.
New York City is bloody gorgeous. The autumn light brings to life the emotion of the film, the solidarity solidifying between (wo)man and beast. Burnt oranges and reds splash over falling leaves, knitted sweaters and the quaint lights of Iris’s apartment as the season shifts into a bright winter. Plus, Scott McGehee and David Siegel have thrown the “frazzled English woman” canon a bone with Iris’s character—despite her New Yorker status. Her propensities for coloured scarves, berets and schlepping ginormous tote bags around wintry New York are modelled straight from the Meg Ryan Manual and Bridget Jones Playbook.
The most impactful scene is a complete diversion from the film’s previous structure, taking on an imagined conversation between Iris and Walter post-death. Iris lays everything out on the table, scolding Walter for his selfishness and being more honest than she would have been while he was alive. This is the best dialogue we get, the most nuanced reflections on grief, and the main points of comedy. Watts and Murray play off each other brilliantly in Walter’s unimaginably large brownstone and it felt like a glimmer of what could have been. Alas, the glint was fleeting.
The Friend’s overall arc is sweet and heartfelt, yet the final third suffers from several false endings; all of which left me wondering: “How is there still more to go?” The last ten minutes of the film are narrated by Iris as she writes her novel, equally about Apollo and about Walter, and that was quite painful to slog through. I’m convinced that when people write movies about writers, they do not hire actual writers to write the faux writing published within the narrative. If they did, it would sound better than this earnest metaphor soup I was subjected to throughout The Friend. The film itself isn’t poorly written, but the excerpts of writing—supposedly written by the many “writer” characters—are akin to the over-intellectualised, indulgent ramblings of a self-help guru.
I knew, as with almost all dog movies, that Apollo was a symbol for something bigger. A vessel for Iris’s character to pour in her grief and the love left over from Walter. I did not need to have that dropped on my head like a purple-prose anvil in the last ten minutes.
One thing is for sure though, that dog would not fit in a New York City elevator.