Blue Moon

Image Source: Sony Pictures Classics | Reading Time: 6 minutes

Category	Details
Release Date	October 24, 2025 (USA)
Director	Richard Linklater
Distributed By	Sony Pictures Classics
Writers	Robert Kaplow (Screenplay)
Cast	Ethan Hawke, Andrew Scott, Margaret Qualley, Bobby Cannavale, Jonah Lees, Simon Delaney
Runtime	1 hour 40 minutes
Age Rating	R (Restricted)
Genre	Musical Drama, Biographical
Budget	Estimated $12-15 Million

Review:

What happens when the applause fades, when the songs you wrote become standards sung by others, and when the partner who made your words famous moves on without you? Richard Linklater's Blue Moon answers this devastating question through the lens of one unforgettable night in 1943, capturing the slow-motion tragedy of watching your relevance slip away while you're still standing in the room. This isn't just another musical biopic—it's an intimate character study that examines the fragile ego of the artist, the painful cost of genius, and the loneliness that accompanies being left behind by history.

Based on the true story of legendary Broadway lyricist Lorenz Hart, the film unfolds almost entirely within the iconic walls of Sardi's restaurant on the opening night of Oklahoma!—a musical that would cement his former collaborator Richard Rodgers' place in theater immortality while simultaneously marking Hart's artistic obsolescence. Linklater, reuniting with his longtime collaborator Ethan Hawke, crafts a deeply empathetic portrait of a brilliant man watching his world crumble one conversation at a time, all while trying desperately to maintain the illusion that everything remains under his control.

The film opens with Lorenz Hart arriving at Sardi's well before the Oklahoma! premiere has concluded, having walked out during the performance in bitter protest of what he considers pandering lyrics and sentimental mediocrity. Standing at just four feet ten inches—a detail Linklater emphasizes through clever forced perspective cinematography—Hart commandeers the bar and begins holding court with bartender Eddie, played with warm patience by Bobby Cannavale, and house pianist Morty, nicknamed "Knuckles" by the verbose wordsmith. What follows is a master class in theatrical dialogue as Hart pontificates on everything from Casablanca to the state of modern theater, his razor-sharp wit barely concealing the profound insecurity eating away at him.

Ethan Hawke delivers what may be the finest performance of his already distinguished career, embodying Hart with a dizzying complexity that captures both his intellectual brilliance and his emotional fragility. Hawke doesn't play Hart as a simple drunk or a tragic figure deserving only of pity—instead, he presents a fully realized human being whose flaws are inseparable from his gifts. His Hart is gossipy and crude, intellectually superior yet emotionally desperate, confident in his talent yet painfully aware that talent alone cannot hold back the tide of changing tastes and broken partnerships. The performance walks an impossible tightrope between making Hart sympathetic and showing why people inevitably drift away from him, never asking us to choose between admiration and frustration but rather to hold both feelings simultaneously.

The film's dramatic engine truly ignites with the arrival of Richard Rodgers, portrayed with remarkable subtlety by Andrew Scott. Their reunion crackles with unspoken history, resentment, affection, and regret—the accumulated weight of decades spent creating beautiful things together and the inevitable pain that comes from growing in different directions. Scott masterfully conveys a man torn between gratitude for what Hart gave him and relief at finally being free from the exhausting burden of managing his partner's demons. A staircase conversation between the two men stands as one of the year's finest acted scenes, each exchange loaded with multiple meanings, every glance communicating volumes about what remains unsaid. It's the kind of scene that could only work with actors of this caliber and a director who trusts them to find the emotional truth beneath every word.

As the night progresses and the Oklahoma! cast and crew arrive for their celebration, Hart's isolation becomes increasingly apparent. The party moves upstairs while he remains below, unable or unwilling to join in the triumph of a show he considers unworthy. Into this melancholy enters Elizabeth, a young college student with theatrical ambitions, played by Margaret Qualley with intelligence and surprising depth. What could have been a clichéd May-December romance becomes something far more interesting as Qualley refuses to let Elizabeth become merely an object of desire or a symbol of youth. She's her own person with her own dreams, and the scenes between her and Hawke become unexpectedly moving explorations of connection and its limitations. When Hart finally understands that what he believes they share exists primarily in his own desperate imagination, Hawke's face registers a devastation so complete that it recontextualizes everything we've watched before.

Linklater has always excelled at capturing the texture of conversation and the way relationships evolve through talk, from his Before trilogy to Boyhood. Here, he applies that gift to a single evening, allowing the camera to observe rather than intrude, letting scenes play out in long takes that trust the performances and the words. The recreated Sardi's, brought to meticulous life by production designer Susie Cullen, becomes a character itself—warm and inviting yet also a trap, a place where Hart can feel like he belongs right up until the moment he realizes he doesn't. The decision to confine the story primarily to this single location gives the film an almost theatrical intimacy while cinematographer Par M. Ekberg finds cinematic ways to explore the space, using lighting and framing to externalize Hart's internal emotional landscape.

The film's screenplay by Robert Kaplow demonstrates remarkable restraint, resisting the temptation to explain everything or provide easy answers. We learn about Hart's struggles with alcoholism, his complicated sexuality in an era that demanded concealment, and his lifelong battle with feeling inadequate due to his size, but these revelations emerge organically through conversation rather than through expository speeches. The dialogue crackles with period authenticity without feeling antiquated, filled with the kind of insider Broadway gossip and artistic debate that feels simultaneously specific to its time and universally recognizable to anyone who has ever cared deeply about their craft. There's even a delightful cameo appearance by a young future Broadway legend that serves as both Easter egg for theater enthusiasts and thematic reinforcement of how genius can appear anywhere at any time.

As Blue Moon draws to its inevitable conclusion, Linklater makes the brilliant choice to leave Hart alone in the frame, standing outside Sardi's looking in through the window at a party he can no longer truly join. It's a devastating final image that lingers long after the credits roll—a portrait of someone who created so much joy for others but could never quite find it for himself. The film asks uncomfortable questions about the price of artistic collaboration, the cruel impermanence of fame, and whether being remembered for your work provides any real comfort when you've lost the human connections that made that work meaningful. These aren't questions with simple answers, and Linklater wisely refuses to provide them.

While Blue Moon occasionally stumbles in its opening sections—the forced perspective technique used to communicate Hart's small stature sometimes distracts more than it illuminates, and the early bar conversations can feel overly indulgent—the film ultimately succeeds through the accumulated power of its performances and the emotional honesty of its portrait. This is filmmaking for adults, trusting audiences to find drama in conversation, revelation in subtle facial expressions, and tragedy in the spaces between what people say and what they mean. It's a reminder that Richard Linklater remains one of American cinema's most humanistic directors, someone who understands that our greatest stories aren't always about external action but about internal reckoning.

"Nobody ever loved me that much."

Lorenz Hart's words from Casablanca echo through this entire film—a man desperate to be adored, struggling to be understood. Blue Moon isn't just worth watching; it's essential viewing for anyone who has ever felt their moment slipping away. Experience this beautiful, heartbreaking masterpiece while it's in theaters.