At Berlinale Film Festival: Blue Moon
By Leah Matthews, Third Year Classical Studies
10am. Sunday, 23 February 2025
With a heavy heart, I take my final steps down the red carpet leading again to Cinema Mecca—the Berlinale Palast. Since Hot Milk (2025), I’ve been crisscrossing Berlin, sampling European cinema in scattered arthouse theatres. But none possess the delicate grandeur of the Palast. With an oat flat white in hand and a caffeinated spring in my step, I slip into my seat, giddy with anticipation for my most awaited film of the festival: Richard Linklater’s Blue Moon.
Like many, Before Sunrise (1995) permanently reshaped my understanding of cinema—how it can transport a spectator across continents and into profound philosophical depths, all without leaving the embrace of a red velour seat. I first watched it during lockdown, phone pressed to my ear until 7 AM as a friend and I, viewing in tandem on our respective Covid-era screens, unpacked the world Linklater had conjured—a world of love, transience, and raw human connection. A film of two people, one city, and 100 minutes of fragile, fleeting magic.
Since then, I hadn’t encountered a film with such mature dialogue, such wry self-awareness, such poetry, such existential wisdom—until now. Blue Moon, Linklater’s 25th cinematic offspring, has finally broken the spell.
The film follows the enigmatic and effortlessly witty Lorenz (Larry) Hart, all five feet of him, as he sulks from the theatre to the bar midway through the opening night of Oklahoma!—his lifelong songwriting collaborator Richard Rodgers’ first production without him. It is March 31, 1943. Shot in real time, without leaving the dimly lit bar that hosts the post-Oklahoma! revelry, Blue Moon explores Larry’s complexities through sharp-witted dialogue, relentless self-examination, and, crucially, a truly abysmal hair situation.
This is the work of a storytelling veteran. The entirely diegetic jazz piano score, featuring a rendition of the eponymous song at its most whimsical, swathes the film in a dreamy, melancholic haze, immersing us in Linklater and Hart’s existential dance. The theatricality of the dialogue and single-room setting suggests the narrative might feel more at home on stage—perhaps an intentional tribute to the Rodgers and Hart legacy. Some may find the dialogue, in both quality and sheer quantity, overwhelming, but for the curious, existential romantic, this script is a goldmine.
The screenplay, written by Robert Kaplow, is delivered through a star-studded cast. At the bottom (uncharacteristically) of the hierarchy sits Andrew Scott, who plays Richard Rodgers—an iconic name built up in the audience’s imagination throughout the first act, only for his eventual entrance to be disappointingly flat. His performance is competent yet forgettable, a reality made even starker by the brilliance surrounding him. Margaret Qualley, as the young and luminous Elizabeth Weiland—the object of Larry’s admiration—is wide-eyed, dazzling, and delicate.
And then, of course, there is Ethan Hawke, who doesn’t just play Lorenz Hart; but becomes him. His performance is magnetic—simultaneously sharp, sorrowful, and irreverently funny. He moves me to laughter, thoughtfulness, and profound sympathy, perfectly portraying the contradictions of a man who is both revered and deeply troubled. The film opens with two remarks about Hart: one from Oscar Hammerstein, calling him “alert and dynamic and fun to be around,” and another from Mabel Mercer, who described him as “the saddest man I ever knew.” This all-too-familiar duality of the human condition is woven into every line Hawke delivers—a truly award-worthy performance.
Blue Moon is a film of elegant self-awareness, where cyclical narrative threads and naturalistic conclusions blur the line between realism and whimsical fantasy. This duality cements it as an advanced piece of storytelling—bittersweet, profound, and intoxicating in its quiet beauty. Adapted from letters exchanged between Hart and his young muse, it captures 100 heart-wrenching minutes in the final year of his life. Intellectual conversation is its lifeblood, making it less suited to those seeking action and spectacle. Instead, it takes the mind, heart, and soul on a journey through existentialism, love, and loneliness—the three great inevitabilities of the human condition.
This humble masterpiece arrives in the UK at some point in 2025. Keep your eyes peeled and your tissues at the ready!