‘Blue Moon’ review: Hawke digs deep, playing a self-deceived Lorenz Hart

Many actors talk about process, but Ethan Hawke made the process of creation central to his work. He played musicians and writers, and when he went behind the camera, he focused on the stories of famous and forgotten composers, novelists, movie stars and country singers. At times, it feels like the unofficial patron of art’s suffering, focusing on the glory and pain of putting yourself out there in the world.

So Hawke’s portrayal of Lorenz Hart, the genius but troubled lyricist responsible for beloved tunes like “My Funny Valentine,” in a story set shortly before his death, might seem like just the final chapter in a lifelong obsession. But “Blue Moon,” Hawke’s ninth collaboration with director Richard Linklater, goes deeper than any of his previous explorations. Imagine Hart on the night of his former assistant Richard Rodgers’ greatest triumph — launching “Oklahoma!” – Linklater offers a wistful look at the songwriter shortly after his appearance. But the film wouldn’t have as much resonance without Hawke’s clearly weak portrayal.

It’s March 31, 1943, eight months before Hart died at age 48 of pneumonia, and Hart had just left the Broadway premiere of “Oklahoma!” Arriving early at Sardi’s for the after-party, he settles into the bar and complains to bartender Eddie (Bobby Cannavale) that the show is going to be a huge hit — and that it’s garbage. Eddie nods in a way that suggests he often listened to Hart’s rant, allowing him to unpack the show’s hackneyed lyrics, hackneyed premise, and, worst of all, the fact that Rodgers will have his biggest success the moment he stops working with Hart after nearly 25 years. “This is not talking about jealousy,” Hart insists, not fooling anyone.

As played by Hawke, Hart loves to sit in the ballpark, entertaining his captive audience with witty insults and tales of Broadway gossip. Begging Eddie not to serve him because of his drinking problem, which contributed to the breakup of his partnership with Rodgers, this impudent exhibitionist would be too much for him if he wasn’t also such pleasant company. But eventually, Rodgers (Andrew Scott) and his new lyricist Oscar Hammerstein II (Simon Delaney) will walk through that door and Hart will have to swallow his pride and pretend to be happy for them. On the one hand, “Blue Moon” is about the beginning of “Oklahoma!” As one of the pillars of American theatre. On the other hand, it’s Hart’s funeral.

Set almost exclusively inside Sardi’s, “Blue Moon” has the feel of a one-man theatrical show. After Hart speaks of “Oklahoma!”, he braces himself for the arrival of Elizabeth (Margaret Qualley), a brilliant Yale student whom he considers his protégé. (He also claims to love her, which confuses Eddie, who rightfully assumes otherwise.) If the universal acclaim of “Oklahoma!” Hart will be forced to confront his professional irrelevance, and perhaps Elizabeth’s cheerful presence—and the promise of consummation of their affections—will be compensation enough.

Linklater, the man who directed “School of Rock” and “Me and Orson Welles,” has made several films about creativity. (In a few weeks, he will premiere another film, Nouvelle Vague, which focuses on the making of Jean-Luc Godard’s landmark film Breathless.) But what’s special about Blue Moon is that, for once, it’s about someone else’s achievement — not the main character. Fearing that Hart is going bald, he slowly succumbs to self-loathing. He can still spitefully quote negative reviews of his 1940 musical “Pal Joey.” He espouses the paranoid pet theory that Rodgers decided to collaborate with Hammerstein because he was much taller than Hart. (“Blue Moon” includes old-fashioned camera tricks to help Hawke resemble Hart’s less-than-five-foot-tall frame.) Linklater’s films have often featured bland underdogs, but “Blue Moon” by contrast is an elegy for a bitter, insecure man whose view of himself as a failure has become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Of the many artists Hawke has honored on screen, never has he portrayed one so poignantly—one steeped in envy yet unable to lie to himself about the beauty of the art around him. Hawke turns 55 next month, and shares Hart’s passion for indelible work, but perhaps also a nagging anxiety about the end of its creative usefulness. If he had been younger, Hawkeye would have seemed interested in himself. Here, there is only poignant, selfless transparency, exposing the lyricist’s personal flaws—his drunkenness and arrogance—while capturing the fragile emotional spirit that made Rodgers and Hart’s tunes sing.

Given his relaxed approach, Linklater shoots “Blue Moon” with a minimum of fuss, but one can sense the sadness that envelops it, especially when the next generation of artists stick their heads into the narrative. (Sondheim purists will immediately recognize the brash young composer identified only as “Stevie.”) But neither Linklater nor Hawke is sentimental about this changing of the guard.

That’s why Hawkeye breaks your heart. We’re all only here for a short time: we leave our mark and then the ocean comes along and sweeps it away. In an often fascinating career, Hawke has never embraced that fact as fully as he does here. Ultimately, it may not be the works artists leave behind that are their most important contributions – perhaps it is the love they had for art itself, a passion that will inspire them after they are gone. This is true for Lorenz Hart, and hopefully it will prove true for Hawke and this simple yet profound film for years to come.