‘Blue Moon’ Review

If Richard Linklater has proven anything over his 35+ year filmmaking career, it’s that he knows a good person to hang out with. His latest film, Blue Moon, happens to star one of the director’s most frequent collaborators, Ethan Hawke, both of whose careers cannot be spoken about without volumes dedicated to the other. Since 1995’s Before Sunrise, the two have crafted a working relationship that has seen them go their separate ways, but when they connect, it’s almost always a work of passion that results in interesting projects that invite audiences into heartfelt conversations about art, time, and identity, among a myriad of other topics. Their relationship is not unlike many other creative relationships that have generated some of the best art, where comfort in each other allows for greater freedom to explore the nuances of expression.

Linklater’s Blue Moon is a fitting collaboration for himself and Hawke as they navigate the tumultuous life of Lorenz “Larry” Hart (Hawke), months before he passes away, and on the night his long-time collaborator, composer Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott), premieres his most successful musical, ‘Oklahoma!’—his first venture without Hart’s lyricism. Set on the night of the premiere, Larry prematurely situates himself at the corner of the bar where the ‘Oklahoma!’ afterparty will initiate and begins commanding the room before Rodgers and his new partner, Oscar Hammerstein (Simon Delaney), come to celebrate their successful night. Trading Casablanca quotes with Eddie the bartender (Bobby Cannavale), quizzing a young pianist (Jonah Lees) on any thought that crosses his mind, and finding an intellectual equal in writer E.B. White (Patrick Kennedy), Lorenz Hart defies his short stature to become the center of the universe and larger than life in all of his interactions.

Blue Moon is all about the gravitational pull of its protagonist—a man who is introduced to audiences as both the most fun person to be around and one of the saddest people. He’s not exactly a man of mystery, as his private life—including his extravagant parties that have fueled his alcoholism—is on full display at all times. However, he bears the weight of a genius desperately searching for connection. He flaunts an obituary written for himself to his fellow bar patrons, reminding anyone who will listen of his accolades and his well of interactions with the famous and the elite. The punchline? “I wrote that,” Larry remarks in an almost sullen tone. Hawke’s portrayal of the famed lyricist is so deliciously nuanced that it makes you feel for him just as much as you hate his ego.

Everything is contained within Hawke’s triumphant performance, as if the entirety of Hart’s life can be distilled down to a single night. There’s a constant thread in Robert Kaplow’s screenplay that prods those assumptions: Elizabeth (Margaret Qualley). Frequently brought into conversation, Elizabeth is a hope and a prayer in a life being drowned by liquor and sorrow. Significantly younger than him, he entertains the bartender and other patrons and staff with his unbridled adoration for the woman and has clearly fallen head-over-heels for her—a fact that Eddie can’t seem to wrap his head around as he, like many others, presumed Larry was gay. Elizabeth remains a talking point that Larry returns to whenever he’s feeling down or wants to entrance his audience. Once she’s finally revealed to be both real and everything Larry has described, the script tightens from its floaty pontifications on the commercialism of art and its enduring qualities to a tense Hail Mary that Larry may finally find joy in his despair.

It becomes a night of multiple attempts to pull himself back up from a perceived stupor, as he also propositions Rodgers with potential new works the moment he arrives and lurks around every corner, hoping for a chance back in the spotlight. The sad realization is that Larry is no longer on the same wavelength as Richard Rodgers. He puts down Rodgers’ ambitions if they mean catering to a mainstream audience, and the spiral in professionalism that Hart’s drinking has created elicits a lack of trust between the two, from Rodgers’ perspective. Even when handed a bone, Larry wants to turn it into his magnum opus, even though he can barely manage to show up to work on time. It’s a searing indictment of the ego’s role in collaborative work that requires compromise and mutual trust for that genius to flourish.

The most surprising revelation when watching Blue Moon is that, as much as it is a backstage pass to musical theatre history, it’s also got that broader appeal that Rodgers and Hammerstein’s work maintained. It touches on the value of mainstream art and on how playing to the audience can create enduring works. Cinephiles often complain that directors like Greta Gerwig, David Lowery, Taika Waititi, Chloé Zhao, Rian Johnson, and David Gordon Green, among many others, are compromising their artistic integrity by making commercialized art when they take on projects like Barbie, a Disney project, or a franchise reboot. Linklater himself is sometimes forgotten to be the director of the mainstream hit—and arguably Jack Black’s best movie—School of Rock. Lorenz Hart embodies this snobbery to a tee throughout the night we spend with him in Blue Moon. As the reviews start dropping for ‘Oklahoma!’ and our own recollection of the musical is triggered, it’s clear that Larry is not thinking about anyone other than himself. Kaplow’s screenplay resonates because it doesn’t just show a man being left behind—it shows a man unwilling to change his ways to keep up.

Blue Moon is the kind of film that Linklater has hung his hat on for decades now. It’s easy to throw on just to be transported to a time and place—the bar setting certainly provides the film with a satisfying reference point, and Hart embodies that one guy in the room that seems to be as much of a fixture as the bar itself. Hawke’s incredibly nuanced performance walks the thinnest line between captivating and depressing, much like that one guy in the bar might radiate. It’s an ensemble movie as much as it is a character study, something which Linklater has found massive success in. Every little character around Lorenz Hart is intriguing in their own way, and the performances from everyone—especially Scott—provide a gateway into who Hart is as a person. How they bounce off such a grandiose figure is nothing short of mesmerizing. As the night winds down at the New York bar, Blue Moon suggests something hopeful while underlining an understood sadness that may never be shed.