Directed by Richard Linklater. Written by Robert Kaplow
Imagine the start a movie shows a middle-aged man mumbling to himself while stumbling down a dark and rain-soaked alley before he clutches his chest, collapses on the bricks via some trashcans, and lays still, dying in an inch of rainwater while a brief radio eulogy plays. Now imagine that’s not the worst thing that happens to him for the rest of the movie.
What did musical comedy lyricist Lorenz “Larry” Hart ever do to Richard Linklater? is the question you’ll be left with at the end of Blue Moon, Linklater’s fictional account of one fateful night during which Hart dies a thousand small deaths, yet Linklater keeps him coming back for more.
Hart’s stock is at an all-time low: the industry knows he’s an alcoholic, which wouldn’t be much of a problem in the 1940s, except his alcoholism is deemed to be non-functional. His longtime partner, composer Richard Rodgers, is working with a new lyricist that Hart believes is far inferior to him, and on the night Blue Moon takes place, Rodgers has just premiered Oklahoma! on Broadway, which everyone knows, even at this infant stage, will be an enduring classic.
The theatre world is clamoring to heap praise on Rodgers, and for some reason Hart has slunk into the same bar where the celebrations are taking place, only he’s in the sidebar chewing on the ear of a sympathetic barkeep (is there any other kind?) about the state of musical theatre, old anecdotes, and the 20-year old college student he has pedestaled as some kind of potential redemption. Hoo, boy.
Blue Moon is the sad sack hour. As you can tell from the above, there’s not much going in the favor of Hart, but Linklater seems intent on kicking a man while he’s down. Ethan Hawke plays Hart, and in an unconvincing wig and by cutting himself (digitally) off at the knees to match Hart’s height, Hawke’s portrayal of Hart has the mocking tenor of Rizzo doing “Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee” in Grease.
Things improve slightly when Hawke is shot chest up and Robert Kaplow has written a punchy cartwheel of a script that Hawke is 95% responsible for delivering. Linklater’s filmography has many hall of fame gabbers in it, but Larry Hart might stand above the rest as the most loquacious. Blue Moon is wall-to-wall text and Hawke’s verbal gymnastics routine is amusing at first, but as he continues unopposed, you feel trapped at this bar with him.
Things do improve with the arrival of other characters. As Rodgers, Andrew Scott brings things back to earth as Hart’s oldest friend who has had enough of his partner’s antics but can’t shake the underlying concern for his well-being. The warmth and sensitivity Scott summons is essential in this regard. Margaret Qualley is more anonymous as Elizabeth, Hart’s obsession, but does manage the uneasy manners of a woman who must endure men’s unwanted advances.
The dialogues that Rodgers and Elizabeth provide are welcome breaks from the monologic monotony that Kaplow’s script is dense with, but they’re also another of Linklater’s bullying tactics. Hart’s short stature is constantly emphasized, either being made to sit next to his much taller conversation partners, or simply put at the bottom of the frame. Visually, Blue Moon is very by the numbers, and would’ve done well to not surrender all initiative to the script.
The overall effect is that Hart figuratively spends the entirety of Blue Moon on his knees, and when he finally climbs back onto his barstool, the way he clings to the bar, one arm not leaning, but hooked over the wooden edge, gives the impression of a man hanging off the precipice, grip slowly slipping.
Hart, in Linklater and Hawke’s hands, is a fascinating character and Blue Moon is a plunging character study. Only it doesn’t have much of a story to go with it, and for all its words and witty exchanges, it doesn’t have much to say. Hart, surrounded by characters who admire him or pity him, or something in between, ultimately stands alone, and regardless of his intent, Linklater has helmed something that reads like the meanest eulogy put on film.
Mikkel Frederiksen 