Richard Linklater has always been a filmmaker of intimacy and observation, and Blue Moon feels like the purest distillation of what he does best. This is the kind of Linklater that hurts so good. It is talky, confined, almost claustrophobic in its setting, and yet it pulses with life, wit, and devastating humanity. Set on the evening of March 31, 1943, the film follows the legendary lyricist Lorenz Hart during an after-party at Sardi’s bar, just hours after Richard Rodgers’ musical Oklahoma! opens. The narrative is largely anchored in one location, yet within those walls, Linklater constructs a universe so vivid that it feels expansive, timeless, and heartbreakingly real.
Ethan Hawke delivers a performance for the ages as Hart, a man teetering on the edge of self-destruction, desperate for affirmation and meaning in the twilight of his career. He embodies Hart with a fierce, exhilarating energy, speaking nearly nonstop, oscillating between hilarious self-deprecation and moments of tender vulnerability. There is one scene where Hart mostly listens to Margaret Qualley, pining in her own way, and it is in that stillness that Hawke’s virtuosity truly shines. He is erratic, fragile, flamboyant, and devastating all at once, making him not just the center of the film but its emotional heartbeat. Hawke inhabits this character with such depth and precision that it is difficult to imagine anyone else carrying this role with the same mixture of charm, wit, and profound sadness.
Margaret Qualley, brief but magnetic, elevates every scene she touches. Her presence alters the rhythm of the film, bringing a quiet urgency and a sense of possibility into Hart’s spiraling world. Andrew Scott, in a rare "normal mode," is a quietly remarkable complement to Hawke, particularly in scenes where Hart attempts to be kind to someone he cares about while simultaneously hoping for that kindness to be returned. The subtlety in Scott’s performance makes him indispensable, even in limited screen time, and his interactions with Hawke crackle with both humor and emotional resonance. Patrick Kennedy as E.B. White deserves special mention. His performance is unheralded but quietly indispensable. In a film dominated by Hart’s larger-than-life personality, White’s calm, attentive presence offers a counterbalance, reminding the audience of the power of truly listening. Kennedy’s ability to land emotional beats in the brief spaces allowed to White is a masterclass in supporting work.
Blue Moon is talky, almost theatrical, and yet it never feels self-indulgent. It is a chamber piece, a single-night portrait of a man grappling with his own obsolescence and longing. Linklater returns to his roots in the vein of the Before trilogy and Tape, proving once again that dialogue-driven storytelling can be spellbinding when the characters are fully realized and the performances are inspired. Robert Kaplow’s screenplay is witty, poetic, and carefully calibrated, full of moments that feel improvised yet are precisely structured. Linklater allows the camera to linger on Hawke, giving the actor space to perform a monologue that is equal parts excessive, vulnerable, and brilliant. The control of time is exquisite; every pause, gesture, and sideways glance carries the weight of a lifetime.
There is something almost musical in the film’s rhythm, a reflection of Hart’s own genius. The confined setting, with its jazzy after-party atmosphere, feels deliberate, composed, and at once ephemeral. The story is anchored in the mundane, yet it reveals extraordinary beauty in ordinary gestures. Every word spoken by Hart is a mix of charm, bitterness, desperation, and grace. He teeters between being insufferable and profoundly moving, a man drowning in his own talent and insecurities, yet somehow still capable of inspiring others. Linklater never allows sentimentality to overwhelm the narrative. Instead, he embraces melancholy with a delicate, precise touch, creating a film that is extremely funny, tender, and deeply human.
The evening unfolds as Hart interacts with old friends, protégés, and colleagues, wrestling with jealousy, lost love, and the passage of time. One of the most striking sequences involves a young George Roy Hill, who receives a lesson from Hart about the enduring power of stories of friendship over romantic tales. It is a quiet but profound moment, emblematic of the film’s emotional core: Hart may be a sadsack, a man drinking himself toward the end, but he remains fully invested in the lives and art of those around him. Blue Moon is not just about romantic longing; it is about friendship, loyalty, and the bittersweet residue of creative collaboration.
The film is dazzling in its subtlety. Hawke’s monologue occasionally overwhelms, but it is never less than mesmerizing. His Hart is a man who gives endlessly to the world and asks for little in return, who tries to find grace and meaning even as he spirals. The brief moments when he inspires fictional works or recalls the genesis of ideas are magical and reveal the playful, inventive mind behind the melancholy exterior. These glimpses of Hart’s genius elevate the narrative, reminding the audience that even in decline, brilliance persists.
Linklater’s direction is understated yet masterful. He creates a sense of space that feels alive, allowing the actors to inhabit it fully without overwhelming them with visual spectacle. The cinematography and production design, though subtle, communicate the texture of 1940s New York, the smoky air, the tactile details of a bar full of life and memory. The sound design is similarly meticulous, with tiny touches, like the faint sound of a distant siren, that enrich the environment without ever drawing attention away from the story. It is this kind of invisible craftsmanship that distinguishes a director operating at the height of his powers.
The supporting cast, while smaller in scope, provides critical counterpoints to Hart’s relentless presence. Andrew Scott, as Richard Rodgers, is a nuanced portrait of a man balancing nostalgia, admiration, and the quiet necessity of moving forward. Patrick Kennedy’s E.B. White, quietly listening and responding with grace, provides the emotional ballast against Hart’s tempest. Margaret Qualley, as a fleeting muse and object of affection, illuminates Hart’s vulnerability without ever diminishing his complexity. Every interaction feels specific and alive, each line of dialogue contributing to the sense that the audience is witnessing life as it happens, raw and unfiltered.
The film is not an easy watch. Hart’s struggles are painful and often ugly, yet there is joy, wit, and intelligence throughout. It is a portrait of a man confronting his own limitations, the passage of time, and the loss of creative and personal relationships. Yet despite the sadness, there is vitality in every frame, humor in every exchange, and a profound sense of humanity that makes the experience both cathartic and exhilarating.
Blue Moon is a gift for lovers of theater, lovers of dialogue, and anyone who appreciates the art of performance. It is a film about legacy, creativity, and the small yet potent ways we shape the lives of those around us. It is a testament to Hawke’s extraordinary talent and a reminder that Richard Linklater, even after decades of acclaimed work, remains a master at capturing the pulse of human experience.
The film lingers long after the credits, a quiet echo of music, wit, and melancholy that refuses to leave. It is as specific as it is universal, a study of one man and a love letter to the art and life that defined him. Hawke is transformative, Linklater is subtle and brilliant, and together they create a cinematic experience that is intimate, devastating, funny, and uplifting. Blue Moon is a chamber piece in the finest sense, a work that celebrates dialogue, character, and the extraordinary complexity of human emotion. It is a rare film, one that will remain with its audience for years, perhaps decades.
Ethan Hawke is remarkable in every sense, and Blue Moon may be the single best showcase of his career yet. This is a film that understands the fragility of genius, the cost of brilliance, and the tenderness that can persist even in a life lived in pain. It is a conversation, a confession, a lament, and a celebration. It is Richard Linklater at his most lyrical and Hawke at his most devastating.
Blue Moon is now in Theaters.
