Blue Moon

TIFF REVIEW: BY EDEN PROSSER

October 19, 2025

3.5 OUT OF 5 STARS

March 31st, 1943. A scene is set; a curtain, rising. Welcome to the eve of one of Broadway’s biggest nights: the premiere of Oklahoma!, birth of the diegetic song-and-dance, usher to a golden age of classic theatre. It seems much of the town is present at the St. James: critics, producers, laureled songwriters alike. Few roam the streets, all save one: Lorenz Hart (Ethan Hawke), acclaimed lyricist, nursing a deep ache at a local bar. It is, you see, his former writing partner, Richard Rodgers, whose show is premiering—and as much as Hart would like to wish for its success, his friend’s abandonment does quite sting. Clinging to the glory days, all-too-aware of the vices tempting him around each bend, Hart takes up residence at Broadway tentpole Sardi’s, eager to drown his sorrows in a pint of gleaming amber. The knowledge that Rodgers—and new partner Hammerstein—will soon arrive, flanked by press, their growing posse: well, that simply elevates the drama.

Throughout its hundred minutes, Blue Moon seldom slips from its singular locale. Though barely two stories, nooks, corners, visible in each wide shot, the 44th Street staple, dressed in vivid reds, deep mahogany, invites Hart into its intimate embrace. It is cozy, this location, and it is stifling; such dichotomy permits the locale to present as animate all its own, deepening the narrative as, for Hart, it is both prison, refuge. Such gorgeous simplicity thus opens the way for dialogue, performance, to take centre stage—and showcase, it certainly becomes. The occasional lilt of piano, diegetic in its own distinct manner, provides accompaniment: gentle, muted, entirely non-invasive.

It is in this cleared space through which Hart, the larger-than-life figure, can emerge. Hawke—well-known for stellar character work—displays exceptional control over the effervescent figure, bringing the brash, tortured soul to the spotlight. Despite Hart’s every flaw—and yes, there are so many—Hawke remains commanding, singular, with each sentence he strings. One hangs onto the actor’s every word; the charismatic draw to every syllable demands absolute compulsion. It’s fascinating, for Hart, throughout the narrative, remains insufferable: the man is incorrigible, irreverent, inelegant—though there’s a scrap of pity, wrenched for the tortured soul. There’s a flicker of humanity, obscured behind pitiful desperation. A hope, which sputters as Hart brings thought to reconciling ‘past glory days’ with ‘present.’ Collegiate beau Elizabeth (Margaret Qualley) and roguish bartender Eddie (Bobby Cannavale) similarly compel—the film is, in part, as much an acting showcase as it is a biopic—though it is Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott) who comes closest to holding a candle to the Hawke-wrought masterclass, rueful sentiment underlain with charisma. Still, one cannot glance away from Hawke. It is he who anchors every moment of the story; he, whose actions may disgust, disappoint, and yet inevitably compel. Grease-combed hair; well-structured blocking, providing the illusion of short stature; the hopeless caricature of a languishing artist, wrenched beyond his prime: Hawke humanizes it all, coalescing years of dramatic training into one singular cinematic masterclass.

That said, the film’s greatest strength lies in the marriage of Hawke’s turn alongside the ineffably stunning words he’s to recite. A stellar script from Robert Kaplow—longtime novelist; debut screenwriter—immortalizes the historic figure, spoken word ascribing meaning to the vignette. Kaplow is no stranger to the Linklater canon: an earlier publication, Me and Orson Wells, had been adapted by the auteur two decades prior, sharing various thematic elements, no less: a mid-20th century setting, a theatrically-centered locale, obsession with an ingenue. Still, the sheer knowledge that this script is a debut evokes such awe. Every word is poetry in motion: a ballad of elation, evocation, hearkening to some of the biopic genre’s most exquisite. Each spoken word conveys a cadence of compulsion, lyrical in a manner not unlike Hart’s own songs. It is remarkable, that such compulsion could be wrought of a character of such contempt: Hart is, for lack of a better word, insufferable. Aided by the dialogue from Kaplow, however, Hawke-as-Hart somehow shines. The words he whines, though petulant, remain so sharp; the jealous jabs, whip-smart. This is, of course, accredited to Kaplow, whose script permits Hawke to indulge in such a star-affirming performance; the two, together, elevate the material from ‘simple’ to ‘unforgettable.’

At the film’s helm, Linklater—no stranger to the Toronto International Film Festival stage—commands with confidence. In Blue Moon, quiet simplicity, reminiscent of the auteur’s celebrated Before trilogy, makes its long-awaited return. So, too, does it mark, in its own unique manner, a poetic juxtaposition to the carefree hangout vibes of Linklater’s sister project of the year, Nouvelle Vague: while Vague is playful, Moon is wrought, tense; where Value drips with style, Moon belies such heft, gravitas, substance. It is fascinating, truly, that such a singular mind could conceive two such separate stories, and execute both within a single annum.

Yes, the film may, as the beats go on, begin to overstay its welcome. There is, after all, only so long that one can muse within a single room before redundancy becomes apparent. Though Qualley, Cannavale, Scott do hold their own, Hawke consistently outshines them all, shifting the focus continually back to himself—a disparity in focus that, though excellent for his arc, somewhat languishes the pacing. As if that weren’t enough, it’s difficult to commend a tragic arc. It’s tough to follow Hart as his star dims, dwindling from ’storied legend’ to ‘fallen desperation.’ Flashes of imposed pursuit, exaggerated longing, between Hart and his much-younger beau come off as not endearing, but pitiful, predatory; discomfort reigns as Hart struggles to restore his reputation with those who once had loved him most. Though well-composed, cleverly scribed, moodily atmospheric, seldom is the film a pleasant watch—and no, this is not necessarily a knell, though it is a minor feature of which one should be aware.

Still, the culmination of such gorgeous technicalities, the taut captivation wrought through masterclass performance, scripted splendour, do ensure that there is much to love. Linklater, maestro of the independent feature, reaffirms the veracity of his longstanding laurel, while Kaplow’s script elevates the debut writer to one of the genre’s most exciting new voices. It’s another gleaming gem in the crown of the auteur, a brilliant cut well-worthy of ovation—and, come year’s end, should it find itself contending for critical recognition, be it for script, or, perhaps, a never-better Hawke, it would certainly be a worthy lauding.