Berlinale Review: Blue Moon is a Sad Melody for Ethan Hawke and Richard Linklater

      Dewey Finn, Ned Schneebly, Willoughby, and Mason Evans Sr.––and now Lorenz (or Larry) Hart. Richard Linklater has a penchant for a particular type of character, which may not be as frequently reflected in his female roles. These characters are charismatic, talkative, enthusiastic as a puppy, and when they do have melancholic moments, it never undermines their core uplifting humanism.

      Blue Moon, which had its world premiere at the Berlinale, represents another deeply personal offering from Linklater, showcasing his distinct style and quirks. However, what sets this film apart from his previous works is that it’s the kind that can only emerge from a seasoned career. It’s not that Linklater lacks something to prove—scripts like Robert Kaplow's set in the exclusive world of mid-WWII New York theater often make financiers hesitate. With a "legacy" career, opportunities and perks become scarce; for Linklater, his next project might be a serious contender for awards, opening up new collaborations with actors and a chance to better articulate his artistic identity at this stage in his life.

      Regarding the timely issue of awards campaigning, as Ethan Hawke matures and gains respect, certain segments of the industry are sure to expect his recognition. Fortunately, Blue Moon steers clear of being an "Oscar film," but Lorenz Hart is undeniably an Oscar role. It contains numerous elements (or syllable emphases, reflecting his background as a librettist): abundant dialogue, a significant emotional range, and a slight physical transformation. Perhaps our awareness of this becomes overwhelmingly evident, particularly with Hawke’s earnest gestures toward his fellow actors (and awards voters beyond the screen), yet the essential charm and loquaciousness characteristic of Linklater ultimately counterbalance this tendency.

      The film navigates the familiar yet impactful realm of wounded artistic egos, backstage tensions, and the subtle yet crucial shifts in popular culture. Hart, attempting to establish a healthier relationship with alcohol, finds himself in a defeated state at Sardi’s Bar in Midtown, waiting for his former partner Richard Rodgers (Andrew Scott) and his group as they celebrate the opening of Oklahoma! The screenplay comprises three significant sections that thankfully do not conform to a strict three-act structure: an introduction detailing Hart's erratic genius and numerous personal struggles; an emotional reunion with Rodgers (who continues to work with him, albeit not as his main collaborator) and a heartfelt congratulatory handshake to his lyricist successor Oscar Hammerstein II (Simon Delaney); and an intimate dialogue with young protégée Elizabeth Weiland (Margaret Qualley), whose radiant charm forces Hart to confront his comfortably established homosexual identity.

      Similar to Peter Hujar's Day, another recent festival entry, Kaplow’s screenplay utilizes published letters between Hart and Weiland as a primary resource. Their interactions are intriguing and certainly impactful, yet questions may remain. If Linklater weren’t such a masterful dialogue director—has any American filmmaker so easily rendered conventional visual storytelling obsolete?—the 20-year-old Weiland’s conversation with Hart about her endeavors to lose her virginity might feel uncomfortable and somewhat inappropriate. Still, it provides the clearest reference to sex in a film where it looms darkly, suppressed until the liberating spirit of the '60s arrives.

      The film does not feature moments where the narrative halts for longer musical segments of iconic numbers like “Everything Happens to Me” or “Isn’t it Romantic?” Instead, a cappella snippets and sparse piano arrangements serve as their means of inclusion. Yet, the film flows with a natural musicality, resonating strongly with the audience at my screening. Hart is quite endearing, and even though we aren’t American Songbook composers in 1943, his relatable human qualities resonate with our universal struggles: pride, vanity, and fears of becoming obsolete—none of which are inherently tied to aging. We gradually fade from the lives of transient loved ones until, as the song poignantly expresses, we are “standing alone.”

      Blue Moon premiered at the 2025 Berlinale and will be distributed by Sony Pictures Classics.