‘Blue Moon’ Review: Without a Love of My Own

Richard Linklater returns with Blue Moon, a character-driven chamber piece that finds its power not in spectacle, but in the rugged poetry of a man confronting the twilight of his own brilliance. Centered almost entirely within the hushed, moody atmosphere of Sardi’s, the legendary Midtown New York haunt, the film unfolds on the night of Oklahoma!’s premiere in 1943. Behind the celebration and applause, however, is Lorenz Hart (played with both ravishing tenderness and fierce ache by Ethan Hawke), feeling sidelined by history, struggling with alcohol, and haunted by what was—and what might never be.

The screenplay, by Robert Kaplow (drawing on real letters and testimonials), avoids grandiose biopic traditions. Hart is not a triumphant figure, but one of contradictions: flamboyant yet fragile, sharp-witted yet deeply insecure, a lyricist capable of incredible beauty who feels increasingly invisible. He’s obsessed with what was lost: his creative partnership with Richard Rodgers, the warmth of human connection, and the unacknowledged desires that still burn under his public exterior.

Margaret Qualley plays Elizabeth Weiland, a much younger Yale student, who becomes Hart’s muse for the night. Their interaction is tender, awkward, full of hope and delusion. It’s here where Blue Moon invests much of its emotional energy—not in scandal or romance, but in longing. Hart allows himself, however briefly, to imagine love might still touch him—but the film never lets that fantasy fully take root. It’s this permission to dream, even when the dream seems unlikely, that gives the film its bittersweet pulse.

Andrew Scott’s Richard Rodgers emerges not as a villain, but as someone caught between loyalty and self-preservation. Their split—professional and personal—casts a long shadow over the evening. Hawke and Scott share scenes that crackle with tension: old friendship, bitter regrets, and the uneasy guilt of someone moving forward while another feels left behind.

Linklater’s direction gloriously embraces stillness. When Hart is alone, the camera lingers on empty chairs, the half-light of the bar, the way glasses catch the glow, giving weight to the spaces between dialogue. He uses smaller moments—Hart’s trembling hand, Hawke’s eyes, the distance between characters—to underscore loneliness more powerfully than any speech could. The pacing is deliberate; the emotional throughline is built in confession, self-mockery, small victories and quieter defeats.

Visually, Blue Moon is lush without being ornate. Shane F. Kelly’s cinematography bathes the scenes in the yellow glow of tungsten, salt-and-peppered shadows, moments of almost theatrical artificiality reminding us of Hart’s public life. Editing by Sandra Adair gives the film a slow burn—dialogue, pause, reflection. Music weaves in at strategic moments, both from Hart’s archive and through the emotional spaces Linklater creates.

If the film has a weakness, it’s in its singular focus: the limitations of setting and tonality mean that viewers expecting a sweeping career retrospective or broad historical context may feel the film is too narrow. Some scenes—especially involving Elizabeth Weiland—drag slightly, as the fantasy of romance stretches under the weight of Hart’s self-awareness. Yet those moments also feel necessary: without them, the portrait would be too cold, too relentless. Linklater wants us to sympathize, not excuse, a man both brilliant and flawed.

By the time Blue Moon reaches its final moments, Hart has acknowledged more than just his public losses. He confronts what it means to create art that belongs to everyone, yet to have it miss you when your voice is quieted by time, by addiction, by the world’s shifting favor. He stands lonely, possibly unloved, but not without dignity. And Hawke’s performance ensures we feel every measure of that truth.

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