Andrew Scott is an extraordinary modern actor. From Sherlock to Fleabag to All of Us Strangers and Ripley, he mesmerizes audiences on screen. His dark eyes can express murderous intensity or deep longing, or — in Ripley’s case — both. It’s no wonder that Scott’s role in Blue Moon earned him the Silver Bear for Best Supporting Performance at the 75th Berlin International Film Festival earlier this year. It’s regrettable that it’s for a supporting part in Richard Linklater’s latest project.
The lead in this tedious biopic about American lyricist Lorenz Hart is Ethan Hawke, who has previously gained recognition for his roles in Linklater films like the Before trilogy (Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight) and Boyhood. Perhaps Hawke merits praise for stepping into the role of Hart, as this depiction is not only far from the cool yet flawed characters Hawke usually portrays, but also light-years away. Penned by Robert Kaplow, the novelist behind Me and Orson Welles, which Linklater adapted in 2008, Blue Moon is filled with sentimental maudlin overtones about this lost artist but lacks substance.
While Scott’s representation of Hart’s creative partner, composer Richard Rodgers, is intense and genuine, Hawke’s portrayal comes off as a farce, mocking a musical genius tragically overwhelmed by his darkest impulses.
Blue Moon resembles a clumsy adaptation of a one-man off-off-off Broadway production.
Most of the film takes place on March 31, 1943, the opening night of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma! on Broadway. Brooding in box seats as cowboys and farm gals sing merrily is Hart, a middle-aged man with a comb-over that has long surrendered the battle. As the crowded house cheers, he leaves prematurely, eager to reach Sardi’s, the legendary bar where the afterparty is set to occur.
There, Larry (as he’s generally referred to) hopes to reconnect with Rodgers, with whom he collaborated for 25 years, crafting beloved songs such as “The Lady Is a Tramp,” “My Funny Valentine,” and “Blue Moon.” But Hart observes from the audience’s enthusiasm that Oklahoma! (“with an exclamation point,” he laments) might signal the end of his partnership with Rodgers, as Hammerstein’s lyrics are garnering significant attention.
However, before this setup, Kaplow starts the film with Hart’s conclusion. Intoxicated, soaked, and perishing in a dark, rainy alley in New York City, Hart collapses beside a dumpster, pitiful and isolated. This image looms over the entire film like a dark cloud, making it challenging to find humor in Hart’s desperate attempts at charm and dialogue.
During an unbearable first act, he speaks incessantly to a beleaguered bartender (Bobby Cannavale), an eager pianist (Jonah Lees), and a patient patron (Patrick Kennedy). Kaplow infuses biographical backstory into these interactions, ensuring that even those unfamiliar with Hart won’t be at a disadvantage. Yet for all those details, Blue Moon focuses heavily on three aspects: Hart was drunk, gay, and short.
Ethan Hawke and Richard Linklater depict Lorenz Hart as a queer clown.
Although historians today acknowledge Hart as queer, he didn’t openly share his sexual orientation during his lifetime. Nonetheless, Kaplow portrays him making gay jokes that include slurs and happily calling himself a “cocksucker” to the dismayed straight bartender. When questioned about his preference for boys or girls, Larry claims to be “omnisexual,” appreciating beauty in men, women, and horses as it feeds his artistry. So here we find ourselves in 2025, confusing homosexuality and bestiality in a film intended to bring back to life a tormented artist, showcasing his pain and brilliance.
Just as Linklater did with Jack Black in Bernie, he casts a straight American movie star to play a gay antihero, resulting in an exaggerated portrayal that is less nuanced than anything hanging on the walls of Sardi’s. Even before Larry takes a drink, Hawke adopts a bouncy demeanor that borders on buffoonery. His performance feels aimed at the cheap seats, with raised eyebrows and a perpetually winking attitude more suited to Hollywood Squares. Heightening the absurdity are Linklater’s efforts to emphasize Hart’s short stature, standing at most 5 feet tall.
The Sardi’s set is designed so that Cannavale utterly overshadows Hawke, who, at 5 feet 10 inches tall, is dwarfed by the surrounding furniture. Sitting at the bar, he struggles to reach the ledge for a shot glass. Wide shots evoke further hilarity, reminiscent of Peter Jackson’s attempts to make hobbits believably small next to Gandalf. Perhaps this visual effect aimed to illustrate how Hart’s physical height may have contributed to his feelings of insignificance in the presence of those he admired.