The Friend

New York City real estate is built on a foundation of strictly enforced boundaries and precarious social contracts. When Naomi Watts, playing a reserved writer named Iris, inherits a Great Dane named Apollo from her late mentor, those boundaries don't just blur—they are systematically dismantled by a creature that weighs as much as a Vespa and possesses the spatial awareness of a freight train. I watched this while wearing a pair of wool socks that had a hole in the left toe, and that tiny, nagging sense of being slightly "undone" felt like the perfect headspace for a film that treats grief not as a soaring monologue, but as a series of expensive logistical headaches.

The Ghost in the Writing Room

At its heart, The Friend is an exploration of the vacuum left behind by a charismatic, slightly problematic giant of the literary world. Bill Murray plays Walter, the deceased mentor, in a series of flashbacks that remind me why he’s the undisputed king of the "Sad Clown" sunset years. He’s wry, academic, and just pretentious enough to make you understand why Iris loved him, even as his suicide leaves her holding the leash of a dog she never asked for and an emotional tab she can't quite settle.

Bill Murray has reached a point in his career where he can communicate more existential weariness with a single twitch of a corner-office eyebrow than most actors can with a three-page monologue. His chemistry with Naomi Watts is delicate; it’s a platonic love story that feels more intimate than most cinematic romances. Iris isn't just mourning a man; she’s mourning the person she was when she was his protégé. Watts is spectacular here, leaning into a quiet, internal performance that forces you to lean in. She doesn’t "do" grief for the back row; she wears it like a coat that’s two sizes too big.

Paws, Prose, and Practicality

The real star, of course, is Apollo. In an era where even the household pets in movies are often uncanny-valley CGI creations, seeing a massive, breathing, drooling Harlequin Great Dane occupy physical space is a revelation. Directors David Siegel and Scott McGehee—who previously showed their knack for navigating complex domestic dynamics in What Maisie Knew (2012)—let the camera linger on the dog’s massive presence. There is a specific kind of comedy that comes from a 150-pound animal trying to be invisible in a Manhattan apartment, and the film mines it without ever tipping into Marley & Me slapstick.

It’s essentially a romantic comedy where the leading man happens to be a canine who smells like wet corn chips. The way Iris begins to narrate her life to Apollo reflects the specific madness of living alone in New York. We see her navigate the threat of eviction—delivered with a sharp, bureaucratic chill by Ann Dowd—and the well-meaning but suffocating "help" from Walter’s ex-wives, played by a stellar ensemble including Carla Gugino. The film captures that specific contemporary anxiety: the feeling that one "irregular" life choice (like keeping a forbidden dog) could cause your entire middle-class existence to unravel.

The Mid-Budget Vanishing Act

It’s frustrating to look at the $4 million box office and realize how easily a gem like this gets buried. Released in 2025, The Friend arrived at a moment when the theatrical "squeeze" was at its tightest. If a movie doesn't involve a cape or a multi-generational franchise legacy, it’s often relegated to the "New Releases" row of a streaming app within three weeks. This film feels like a defiant stand against that trend. It’s a "small" movie about big things—loneliness, the ethics of artistic mentorship, and the way animals ground us in the present when our brains are stuck in the past.

The script, adapted by the directors from Sigrid Nunez’s National Book Award-winning novel, keeps the literary DNA intact without feeling like a staged reading. It understands that writers are often the least articulate people when it comes to their own pain. I loved the way the film used the NYC backdrop—not as a sparkling postcard, but as a cramped, noisy obstacle course that mirrors Iris’s internal state. It’s a movie that asks what we owe to the people who shaped us, and whether a dog’s silent companionship is a better tribute than any eulogy could ever be.

The Friend is a rare breed of adult drama that trusts its audience to sit with silence and subtext. It avoids the easy tear-jerker tropes of the "pet movie" genre, opting instead for a bittersweet look at how we survive the people we love. Whether you’re a dog lover or just someone who’s ever felt like a stranger in your own apartment, this one is worth seeking out. Just be prepared for the urge to go out and adopt the biggest animal you can find immediately afterward.