Frontmezzjunkies reports on Day One at TIFF
By Ross
It’s the first day at the Toronto International Film Festival, and the rain poured down on me as I made my way to the TIFF Lightbox Theatre on King Street West in Toronto, echoing that first scene of the first film that I had the absolute pleasure of attending. And most appropriately for this theatre junkie, that cinematic treat was all about the world of theatre, and those legends who shaped it. But it’s also about the psychology of envy, jealousy, abandonment, betrayal, and, most importantly, intense heartbreak. And not just the most basic earthbound kind, of course. That would never do for the famed lyricist Lorenz Hart, captivatingly well played by Ethan Hawke. Irrational adoration, as he labeled it, had to be a living, breathing poem, because being inoffensive or pedestrian was pretty much the gravest offense to his satirical sensibilities. And he would never forgive you for something like that.
Etched within director Richard Linklater‘s sharp and clever “Blue Moon“, we watch a legend unravel. But what truly elevates this film, like a melody crafted by Hart’s former collaborator, Richard Rodgers, portrayed dynamically by Andrew Scott, is the transparency of Hart’s pain. Even when he masks it with witty remarks, sharp asides, and delusional poetry about forever love and adoration. For this theatre junkie, there’s the added bonus of continual, heartfelt nods to the art and history of theatre, particularly musical theatre. There’s even a monumental, tip of the hat to a young, Sheldon-like Stephen Sondheim (Cillian Sullivan) standing next to his mentor, Oscar Hammerstein II (Simon Delaney), offering a critique of Lorenz Hart—the short-statured figure at the film’s center.
The film is a finely-tuned, close-quarters exploration of the lost and lonely Hart, set on the opening night of the musical Oklahoma!, with an emphasis on the exclamation point. We sit with the semi-closeted Hart, in real time, at the legendary Sardi’s, after he slips out before the applause can overtake both the theatre and his ego. “Am I bitter?” he asks. “Yes“, holding court at the bar like only Hart can. It’s an intoxicating moment to slip into, as we witness him engaging in sharp banter with the wise and straightforward bartender (a perfect Bobby Cannavale), a young aspiring composer and military officer (Jonah Lees) forever playing piano on request, and the elegant essayist, E.B. White (a fascinating Patrick Kennedy), trading words and slices of wisdom with Hart. Wearing a balding wig and delivering his lesser stature somewhat awkwardly, Hart speaks with the fervor of a young man, claiming love for his current adoration, a 20-year-old Yale student, Elizabeth Weiland (Margaret Qualley), while fully acknowledging his tendency towards homosexuality and balancing that idea as if it were reasonable and honest.
“We write together for a quarter of a century, and the first show he writes with someone else is gonna be the biggest hit he ever had,” bemoans Hawke’s broken Hart, before his fantastical heart is actually cracked. Yet, it’s the whole cast that completely captivates, even when the scenario lingers —sometimes too long —in difficult or uncomfortable conversations. They interestingly suggest sordid complications, while never fully unpacking the underlying emotionality. Scott is heroic in his discomfort, vibrating with love and friendship, yet holding distrust and disgust in his eyes and distracted smile. But it’s Hawke’s interpretation of the man that holds “Blue Moon” together, and keeps us leaning in as he lingers and wanders through a series of emotionally stilted engagements that are tinted with the same complex responses seen in Rodgers’ face and demeanor. We can’t help but feel strongly for Lorenz Hart, as we tag along with this alcoholic and marginally closeted artist, dreaming of finding his own enchanted melody, while watching Rodgers being celebrated for what will become his greatest success, all outside the partnership that Hart held so close to his own.
It’s a beautiful tragedy, wisely written by Robert Kaplow, of the highest musical order. We stay, engaged and watching his own version of dismissal and debasement, all with the “modesty of a true lunatic“, as the wise Cannavale barkeep remarks, as the man walks out into the night “without a dream in my heart. Without a love of my own.”
