Blue Moon

Blue Moon is exactly what every music biopic should be. Instead of summarizing an artist’s life, it aims to capture what it feels to be one. The film follows Broadway lyricist Lorenz “Larry” Hart over a single night, offering an intimate look into his psyche. By the end, we come away with a complete understanding of who he was, impressed by his brilliance but never asked to worship him. It works as both a character study and an honest love letter to the man himself. It also proves something Tarantino once said: one day in an artist’s life can be far more interesting and revealing than a summary of their entire career.

The artist in question is Broadway lyricist Lorenz “Larry” Hart. Between the mid-1920s and early 1940s, he was considered a lyrical genius. In partnership with composer Richard Rodgers, as the duo Rodgers and Hart, he set the gold standard for musical theater. Their songs My Funny Valentine, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, The Lady Is a Tramp, and of course Blue Moon have been covered by hundreds of artists and still sound fresh nearly a century later. But in the 1940s, Hart’s alcoholism began to overshadow his work. Rodgers eventually turned to a new collaborator, Oscar Hammerstein II, for his next musical, Oklahoma!, which became the biggest success of Rodgers’s career. The film focuses on the night of that premiere, as Hart attends the afterparty and faces the painful contrast between his former partner’s triumph and his own decline.

Elegantly written by Robert Kaplow and portrayed by Ethan Hawke in what might be the best performance of his career, Hart emerges as an incredibly complex figure, witty, self-destructive, and deeply insecure about his height and sexuality. The script reportedly waited twelve years until Hawke was the right age to play him, and once again, Linklater’s patience paid off. The actor brings wit and cruelty in equal measure, letting us see both the charm and the ache beneath it. The film never asks us to like Hart, only to try to understand him.

Most of Blue Moon unfolds through conversation. As new people arrive at the bar, Hart’s interactions, which start with the bartender and the pianist, turn into interactions with guests, and eventually with Rodgers and Hammerstein themselves, we watch Hart’s mood shift from confidence to despair. The setup sounds theatrical, but Linklater and cinematographer Shane F. Kelly keep it cinematic. The camera moves subtly, creeping closer as the night deepens. The colors shift from deep reds to sickly greens, visually tracing Hart’s emotional descent. Hawke carries all of this in his face, the exhaustion and hopelessness growing as the night goes on, giving an arc more complete than many characters get across years.

Every exchange has a clear purpose, each one peeling away another layer of the man. That is, until a late extended scene with Margaret Qualley’s fictional character, Elizabeth Weiland. Her role works thematically since she recognizes Hart’s genius but also his damage, being in a way a summary of the whole film. Yet the long dialogue slightly undercuts the film’s pacing and steals momentum from the pivotal encounters with Rodgers.

Portrayed by Andrew Scott in an honest and conflicted performance, Rodgers comes across as a man clearly putting on an act for Hart, fully aware of the lyricist’s brilliance yet knowing their collaboration will never be the same after that night. The scenes between them are the film’s strongest, raw and deeply felt, and where we sense Hart’s tragedy most clearly.

Hart left a permanent mark on Broadway and popular culture. He could express more truth in one couplet than most lyricists fit into an entire song. His work remains witty and timeless, while Hammerstein’s can feel of its era. But Broadway needed that change, Hammerstein’s optimism for a postwar generation. Watching Hart come to terms with that shift is deeply moving, and Blue Moon captures it with grace, making it one of the finest portraits of an artist ever put on film.

Still courtesy of TIFF and Mongreal Media