Some films tug at your heartstrings. The Friend wraps its entire furry weight around them—and doesn’t let go.
Directed by Scott McGehee and David Siegel, The Friend (2024) is a touching film. It explores grief, healing, and the comfort of a dog. This movie features a heartfelt performance by Naomi Watts. It also includes a 150-pound shaggy dog trained by Bill Berloni. This film is a quiet triumph. It is a love letter to anyone who has found comfort through a dog.
Naomi Watts stars as Iris, a solitary writer whose life is upended when her closest confidant and former mentor unexpectedly takes his own life—leaving behind not just emotional wreckage, but his massive, moody Great Dane, Apollo. With her once-quiet New York apartment turned chaotic by the dog’s presence, Iris is forced into a reluctant companionship that’s as challenging as it is transformative. Apollo becomes both a physical burden and a mirror to her grief—a daily reminder of the man she lost and the unfinished chapters of her own emotional life. As days blur into a new kind of coexistence, Iris begins to rediscover pieces of herself through the bond with this unlikely creature.
The story looks at loss and shows how comfort can come from an unexpected friend. This friend is a big, fluffy dog with melancholic eyes. I know you may be thinking of John Wick and how Keanu’s character bonds with Daisy but here there’s no edge of the seat action but a rumination in nods, silent gazes and an acknowledgement of pain shared between two people. Set against the textured backdrop of New York City, The Friend presents not just a portrait of mourning, but a reminder that sometimes, healing walks into our lives on four oversized paws. Grief doesn’t follow a script, and the movie’s screenplay offers a contemplative tone that explores the emotional terrain of loss, loneliness, and unexpected companionship. Adapted from Sigrid Nunez’s award winning novel, the film’s heart lies in the silence between words. It also shines in the steady gaze of a dog named Apollo.
The Friend movie review
Naomi Watts stars as Iris, a creative writing professor and novelist in a rut, living alone in a rent-controlled West Village apartment. Her world is quiet, slightly cluttered, and largely built around books and solitude. After the suicide of her closest friend, Walter (Bill Murray), her already-fragile existence is upended—she inherits his Great Dane, Apollo, a 180-pound creature of melancholy and resistance. Her life has quietly collapsed following personal tragedy but we don’t drop into the disaster but arrive just after it, in the hush of aftermath, where silence speaks louder than screams. Her grief is heavy and isolating.
This isn’t just a woman-and-dog bonding movie. Re-learning how to live when the world has gone quiet involves the quiet rituals that rebuild a broken life: feeding, walking, opening the door. Naomi Watt’s Iris is not a dog person. She prefers cats, silence, and predictability. Apollo is none of those things. He won’t ride the elevator. He takes over her bed. He mourns visibly—eating little, moving less. Played by an expressive Great Dane named Bing, Apollo becomes more than a pet. He serves as the film’s emotional compass, embodying the weight of grief and the confusion of being left behind.
Watts, always strong in roles that require internal nuance, gives one of her most restrained performances. As Iris, she shows her heartbreak not with loud outbursts. Instead, she uses small changes in her expression, tone, and movement. This is especially clear in scenes where she reads Walter’s words to Apollo. Their connection, built through fragments of memory and routine, is where the film truly shines. She brings nuance and quiet grit to the role where she isn’t a cliché widow or damsel in distress but a woman wading through sorrow in real-time, unsure of how to breathe, let alone bond with a dog. But her transformation is believably subtle. She doesn’t “find herself” through the dog but finds enough peace to take the next step which, in grief, is everything.
Jumbo is not just a prop or a plot device. He acts. He listens. He emotes. And in doing so, he carries half the film’s emotional weight. Grief has many victims and not all are humans, Jumbo, remains resigned and aloof to a sadness he can’t express. The rhythm of two beings learning to trust again prevails. The dog doesn’t fix anything. But he offers something rare: unwavering presence and sometimes, that’s enough.
A Visual Poem on Grief, Healing, and Messy Love
Cinematographer Giles Nuttgens (of Montana Story) brings an intimate lens to the story. The warm, handheld shots feel almost like memories. The dog, often shot from low angles or through doorways, becomes a visual metaphor for presence—always nearby, even when unwanted. The soundtrack is minimalist, letting small sounds—panting, footsteps, bowls clinking—carry the emotional beat.
It reminded me of Truman (2015), where the titular character isn’t the human protagonist but a dog who becomes a silent anchor in the emotional storm of an impending death. As his human prepares for the end of his life, his greatest concern isn’t himself—it’s finding a loving home for Truman. This quiet quest becomes a tender exploration of loyalty, love, and letting go.
The Ensemble Cast: A Tangle of Grief and Legacy
Walter Bill Murray is largely present through flashbacks and secondhand stories—snippets shared at dinner parties, remembered anecdotes, and a legacy of literary emails and unfinished work. His death leaves behind more than Apollo. It also reveals a layered network of relationships, tangled by time and resentment. Enter Barbara, his current wife, played by Barbara Noma Dumezweni with guarded grace; two ex-wives (Carla Gugino and Constance Wu) still wrestling with emotional loose ends; and his estranged adult daughter Val (Sarah Pidgeon), now reconnecting with Iris as they attempt to assemble a posthumous book from Walter’s vast email archive.
Each character offers a unique lens on Walter’s life—and death. Some are bitter, others nostalgic. All are searching for meaning, even if what they find are contradictions. Pidgeon’s Val adds generational contrast and emotional sincerity, particularly as she and Iris bond over shared memories and unanswered questions. This isn’t just a film about loss but the unexpected lifelines we find when we stop looking for answers and just start noticing who’s still there. It reminds us how fragile and temporal life is.
Sometimes, the friend we need doesn’t say a word.
Directors Scott McGehee and David Siegel are known for introspective character work (What Maisie Knew, Bee Season), and here they double down on tone over plot. The Friend moves slowly but purposefully, mirroring the way real people wade through grief—not in stages, but in cycles. Their adaptation softens some of the more acidic edges from the novel (notably, Iris’s criticisms of Walter’s romantic relationships with younger students), opting instead for a more universal emotional language. What remains is a deeply human story, delivered with restraint, empathy, and visual poetry.
Scenes unfold in cozy, lived-in spaces—brownstone apartments, bookstores, dog parks. The cinematography complements Iris’s internal state: muted, enclosed, and then slowly, subtly, expansive.
One of the film’s triumphs is how it treats Apollo as a fully formed character. Not just a cute pet, not comic relief—but a vessel for grief. Played by Bing, Apollo is deeply expressive: his resistance to routine, his quiet stares, his physical presence beside Iris at night. Their bond grows not through overt training montages, but through shared silence.
Apollo comes to life when Iris reads to him. Walter’s emails, letters, essays—fragments of who he was—become the connective tissue between past and present. An emotionally resonant choice pays tribute to the novel’s literary roots while grounding the film in authentic dog-human companionship. In a smaller yet vital role, Ann Dowd plays Marjorie, Iris’s neighbor. Her scenes—simple conversations, small gestures of concern—underscore the idea that healing often comes not from major revelations, but from being witnessed in our grief. Dowd brings warmth and grounding, providing Iris (and viewers) a break from the emotionally fraught relationships surrounding Walter’s legacy.
Despite its emotional warmth, The Friend doesn’t let Walter off the hook. There are subtle hints—comments from Iris, questions from Val—that challenge the idolized image of a literary genius. His pattern of dating much younger women, his emotional distance, his professional power dynamic with Iris—all raise quiet but pressing questions about who gets mourned, and how.
And yet, the film’s genius lies in not needing to answer every question. Just like grief itself, The Friend is messy, unresolved, and strangely beautiful.
Early in the film, one of Iris’s students cynically suggests that no one wants to read about an ordinary woman. The Friend disagrees—gently but firmly. Iris may not be flashy, and Apollo may not be easy. But together, their story is a testament to the quiet strength found in caring, remembering, and appearing day after day. As far as movies go, The Friend, doesn’t pander or perform. It simply sits with you like a dog—and waits to be felt.
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