Blue Moon

The air in Sardi’s must have felt like a funeral shroud on March 31, 1943, even as the rest of Broadway was throwing a parade. While the "theatrical event of the century" was erupting just down the street—the premiere of Oklahoma!—Lorenz Hart was sitting at a bar, watching his own legacy get steamrolled by a singing cowboy. Richard Linklater’s Blue Moon captures this specific, agonizing pivot point in American culture with the kind of lived-in, conversational grace that has become his trademark.

I caught this at a nearly empty matinee where the person three rows behind me was aggressively unwrapping what sounded like a family-sized bag of sun-dried tomatoes, and honestly, the sharp, acidic scent actually weirdly complemented the bitter-sweet vibe on screen.

The Poet of the Pavement vs. The New Sincerity

At the heart of the film is the disintegration of the most sophisticated partnership in musical history. Ethan Hawke, reuniting with Linklater for the first time in what feels like an age, delivers a performance as Lorenz Hart that is essentially a 90-minute masterclass in falling apart with style. Hart was the man who put the "wit" in "urbanity," the lyricist who gave us "My Funny Valentine" and "The Lady is a Tramp." But by 1943, his brand of cynical, intricate wordplay was being replaced by the wide-eyed, corn-fed sincerity of Oscar Hammerstein II.

Ethan Hawke plays Hart like a man trying to outrun his own ghost in a pair of lead shoes. He’s diminutive, vibrating with a mix of genius and self-loathing, constantly seeking refuge in a bottle or a quip. Opposite him, Andrew Scott plays Richard Rodgers with a chilling, detached professionalism. Scott is brilliant here; he doesn’t play Rodgers as a villain, but as a man who has simply reached his limit. He’s the first person in history to effectively 'quiet quit' a toxic creative marriage, and the scenes where he tries to navigate Hart’s downward spiral are excruciatingly tense.

A Single Night in a Changing World

Linklater has always been obsessed with the clock. Whether it’s the ticking seconds of the Before trilogy or the twelve-year marathon of Boyhood, he understands that time is the only true antagonist. In Blue Moon, the 100-minute runtime feels almost real-time. We are trapped in that bar with Hart, feeling the weight of the "New Broadway" pressing in from the outside.

The cinematography by Shane F. Kelly (who worked with Linklater on A Scanner Darkly) uses a warm, amber palette that makes Sardi’s look like a sanctuary, but also a cage. The camera lingers on the caricatures on the walls—the faces of stars past and present—reminding Hart that he’s rapidly becoming one of the drawings rather than the man holding the pen.

What’s fascinating is how the film handles the "contemporary" weight of this story. In an era of franchise dominance and algorithmic storytelling, Linklater is making a movie about the death of a specific kind of art. Hart’s tragedy wasn’t just his alcoholism; it was that the world stopped wanting what he was selling. Watching this in 2025, it’s hard not to draw parallels to our own cultural shifts, where the nuanced and the difficult are often sacrificed at the altar of the broadly accessible.

Stuff You Didn't Notice

One of the best things about Linklater is his commitment to the "vibe" over the "history lesson." Apparently, the production spent a ridiculous amount of time recreating the exact menu at Sardi's from that night. If you look closely at the background, the prices on the chalkboard are historically accurate, which is the kind of nerd-level detail I live for.

Also, keep an eye out for Jonah Lees as Morty Rifkin. He provides a frantic, youthful energy that highlights just how much of a relic Hart has become. The film also features a brief but haunting appearance by Margaret Qualley as Elizabeth Weiland, representing the bridge between Hart’s fading world and the reality he can no longer face.

It’s worth noting that Blue Moon had a shockingly quiet theatrical run, pulling in just under $2 million. In a landscape where streaming services dump prestige dramas into a digital abyss with zero fanfare, this feels like a "hidden gem" that’s already being polished by those of us who still care about 100 minutes of pure, character-driven cinema. It’s a film that demands you sit still and listen, much like Hart’s lyrics did.

Ultimately, Blue Moon is a beautiful, jagged pill of a movie. It doesn't offer the easy catharsis of a standard biopic; it doesn't end with a triumphant curtain call. Instead, it gives us a portrait of an artist realizing he is no longer necessary. It’s funny, deeply sad, and features a career-best performance from Ethan Hawke. If you’ve ever felt like the world was moving on without you, this is your movie. Just maybe skip the sun-dried tomatoes if you’re watching with company.